Cultural Exchange Between the Low Countries and Italy (1400-1600) (Museums at the Crossroads) 9782503518381, 2503518389

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CULTURAL EXCHANGE BETWEEN THE LOW COUNTRIES AND ITALY (1400-1600)

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CULTURAL EXCHANGE BETWEEN THE LOW COUNTRIES AND ITALY (1400-1600)

edited by INGRID ALEXANDER-SKIPNES

H F

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© 2007, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. D/2007/0095/137 ISBN 978-2-503-51838-1 Printed in the E.U. on acid-free paper

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Contents Preface Diane Wolfthal Florentine Bankers, Flemish Friars, and the Patronage of the Portinari Altarpiece

VII 1

Michael Rohlmann The Annunciation by Joos Ammann in Genoa: Context, Function and Metapictorial Quality

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Creighton Gilbert Piero and Bouts

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Francis Ames-Lewis Sources and Documents for the Use of the Oil Medium in Fifteenth-Century Italian Painting

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Maria Clelia Galassi Aspects of Antonello da Messina’s Technique and Working Method in the 1470s: Between Italian and Flemish Tradition

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Colin Eisler Flying Pictorial Carpets: Tapestries’ Transalpine Agendas

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Ingrid D. Rowland Agostino Chigi’s Flemish Connection

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Elizabeth Ross Mainz at the Crossroads of Utrecht and Venice: Erhard Reuwich and the Peregrinatio in terram sanctam (1486)

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Ingrid Alexander-Skipnes Northern Realism and Carthusian Devotion: Bergognone’s Christ Carrying the Cross for the Certosa of Pavia

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Marina Belozerskaya Critical Mass: Importing Luxury Industries Across the Alps

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Barbara G. Lane Memling’s Impact on the Early Raphael

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Laura D. Gelfand Regional Styles and Political Ambitions: Margaret of Austria’s Monastic Foundation at Brou

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Yona Pinson Moralised Triumphal Chariots - Metamorphosis of Petrarch’s Trionfi in Northern Art (c. 1530- c. 1560)

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Frits Scholten Spiriti veramente divini: Sculptors from the Low Countries in Italy, 1500-1600

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Nello Forti Grazzini Brussels Tapestries for Italian Customers: Cardinal Montalto’s Landscapes with Animals made by Jan II Raes and Catherine van den Eynde

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Selected Bibliography

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Colour Plates

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CONTENTS

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Preface This volume has its origins in a session I organized, ‘Cultural Exchange between the Netherlands and Italy, 1400-1530’, for the College Art Association Annual Conference in Seattle in February 2004. I am pleased that all the session participants, Diane Wolfthal, Barbara Lane, Ingrid Rowland, Elizabeth Ross and Laura Gelfand, agreed to revise and expand their papers for this project. I am grateful to them and the other contributors who generously accepted my invitation to participate in this volume. The original period of focus of the CAA session has been extended to 1600 in order to broaden the perspectives of the book. The period of 1400 to 1600 is an exciting one in which cultural contacts were particularly robust. Although the visual arts of these two regions are rarely examined together in textbooks, recent research, exhibitions and symposia have contributed to a flowering in studies on North/South exchanges. The range and complexity of the contacts between these regions and how they impact cultural production are fascinating topics that continue to stimulate exciting research, some of which are included in this volume. It is interesting to examine the flow of ideas, theories and artistic production assisted by the presence of Netherlandish communities in Italy and Italian communities in the North that nourished these reciprocal exchanges. The Pan-European emphasis that is so much in focus today energizes these types of studies, and this momentum is welcomed. Through a broad range of perspectives, the essays in this volume examine many types of contacts and creative results, through paintings, armour, manuscripts, sculpture, incunabula, tapestries, art theory, painting techniques, architecture, and the international business trade as it intersects with cultural production. A selected bibliography accompanies the essays to serve a wide range of scholarly interests. I would like to acknowledge the support of this project from the Faculty of Social Sciences of the University of Stavanger. I am also grateful to Johan Van der Beke of Brepols Publishers for his advice and support for this book. Ingrid Alexander-Skipnes University of Stavanger April, 2006

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Florentine Bankers, Flemish Friars, and the Patronage of the Portinari Altarpiece Diane Wolfthal Arizona State University Aesthetic choice is the reason that is usually offered to explain why Tommaso Portinari hired Hugo van der Goes to paint the altarpiece for the Portinari family chapel in Sant’ Egidio in the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova in Florence (Plate 1). Martin Evans declared that Italian merchants living abroad, like Portinari, were ‘simply […] buying pictures from the best available artists in their host countries’.1 And Paula Nuttall concurred, declaring that Hugo was the ‘only painter then active capable of producing an imposing work in a vast scale’.2 Competition with Angelo Tani, his former supervisor at the Medici bank, is also often cited to explain Portinari’s reasons for commissioning the triptych. In this scenario, when Tani ordered a huge Flemish altarpiece to send back to Tuscany, Portinari, wishing to outshine him, commissioned an even more magnificent one.3 But these presumed motivations do not adequately explain why one of the wealthiest bankers in Europe chose a painter whose work is characterised by a profound sympathy for the poor. This essay seeks to understand this issue more fully by examining Portinari’s identity as a Medici banker, on the one hand, and as a patron of the Reform movement in Bruges, on the other. Portinari as Medici Banker Dale Kent, in her recent study of Cosimo de’ Medici, convincingly argued that there was a commonality of culture and concerns among the Medici and their circle.4 This certainly seems true for Tommaso Portinari whose ties to the Medici and their bank ran deep. His father worked at the bank headquarters in Florence, his uncle Accerito was employed at the bank branches in Florence and Naples, and his uncle Giovanni was manager of the Venetian branch.5 When his father died prematurely in 1431, three-year old Tommaso and

his two older brothers went to live in the home of Cosimo de’ Medici.6 When they were old enough, all three joined the Medici bank, ultimately rising to positions of authority. Pigello became manager of the branch office in Milan, and at his death his brother Accerito succeeded him.7 Tommaso became a junior employee in the Bruges branch office at the age of twelve, and was promoted to partner and manager twenty-five years later, in 1465.8 Tommaso learned from the Medici not only about banking, but also about art. In 1439, when Tommaso was eleven, Cosimo played a major role in commissioning the frescoes, now largely destroyed, for the Portinari family chapel in Sant’ Egidio. Scholars generally agree that Cosimo chose the artists and influenced the portrayal of the holy scenes, which refer to events in his life.9 The Medici were also among the first Florentine patrons of Flemish culture,10 and they fostered this interest in Portinari. In 1467, when he was in Bruges, Portinari arranged for the Flemish tenor Jean Cordier to perform for the Medici in Florence.11 He also satisfied the Medici love for Netherlandish art by acquiring canvases and tapestries for them.12 Furthermore, surviving letters reveal that Portinari discussed a range of artistic issues with the Medici. In 1462, he notified Giovanni de’ Medici that a set of tapestries woven for him in Lille was so beautiful that ‘everyone had to see them, and each agreed that he had never seen any more beautiful or finer work’. He further cautioned Giovanni to have his tapestry cartoons produced in Florence, so that they would be ‘more to your wishes’. Elsewhere, Portinari shared his dissatisfaction with the colour of one figure. Grey, he declared, does not ‘work well in tapestry’.13 Portinari lived in the Beursplein, the neighbourhood that was home to a large community of Italian merchants and bankers (Fig. 1).14 From 1466, he resided in the magnificent hôtel on Naaldenstraat that had formerly belonged PATRONAGE OF THE PORTINARI ALTARPIECE

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Fig. 1. Map of Bruges from L. Dumont-Wilden, Bruges (Paris: Nilsson, 1925), frontispiece. (1) Ezelpoort, (2) Hôtel Bladelin, (3) Braambergstraat

to Pieter Bladelin, but he remodelled it to include not only an inner courtyard in the style of a Florentine palazzo, but also Piero de’ Medici’s emblems, medallions with the Medici arms, and sculpted busts of Lorenzo de’ Medici and his wife (Fig. 2).15 In this way, representations of the Medici were part of his daily existence. Furthermore, Portinari became one of a circle of friends and associates whose art patronage was shaped by their membership in a social network that revolved around the Medici. In 1467, Angelo Tani, Portinari’s former supervisor at the Medici bank in Bruges, commissioned for his family chapel, in a church built by the Medici, a huge altarpiece of the Last Judgement by Hans Memling.16 Three years later, on the occasion of his marriage, Portinari followed suit by ordering a panoramic scene 2

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of the Passion and a portrait triptych of himself and his wife from the same painter.17 Several members of Portinari’s family, including his nephews Benedetto and Lodovico, who worked for him in Bruges, conformed to the pattern by commissioning their own portraits from Memling.18 Likewise, the Medici banker Francesco Sassetti incorporated into his altarpiece a version of the shepherds from Portinari’s triptych.19 The standard view among art historians has been that Portinari was trying to outshine Tani when he commissioned his magnificent altarpiece for Sant’ Egidio. Since Portinari tried – and succeeded – in replacing Tani as manager of the Bruges branch, Raymond de Roover regarded Portinari as ambitious, greedy, egotistical, and competitive, and art historians have

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largely adopted this view.20 Portinari’s motives were undoubtedly complex. He may have ordered his altarpiece to trump Tani, but Portinari’s commission may also have been motivated by a desire to honour his family, to serve the civic good, and to highlight his great wealth, his good taste, and his important role in trade relations between the Netherlands and Italy.21 But what has been overlooked is that Portinari was part of the social network surrounding the Medici that not only favoured portraits and altarpieces painted in Bruges but also expressed, through the art that they commissioned, a set of religious concerns that was particular to Renaissance bankers. The dominant view of the Church, expressed by Thomas Aquinas, among others, was that ‘trade, insofar as it aims at making profits, is most reprehensible’, and bankers in the Trecento and Quattrocento internalised this belief.22 A. D. Fraser Jenkins concluded that a subtext of discussions about art patronage in the Quattrocento was the ‘embarrassing suspicion that the life of the merchant depends upon usury, [which was] explicitly attacked by preachers’.23 Similarly, Margaret Carroll, in her discussion of the Lucchese banker Giovanni Arnolfini, noted the ‘persistent anxiety about whether it was actually possible for a merchant to live a life free from dishonour and sin’.24 Furthermore, Dale Kent demonstrated that ‘normal business activity made merchants morbidly conscious of their sins and the need for expiation’.25 In particular, merchant bankers depended on usury and thereby placed their souls in jeopardy.26 Clergymen had long characterised money as sterile, and for that reason deemed it unnatural when money reproduced money.27 It was partly for this reason that the enormously influential Franciscan preacher San Bernardino of Siena, among other clergymen, followed Aristotle in judging any profits from loans as sinful, and characterised usury as ‘against nature’, in opposition to such natural acts of procreation as the birth of children. 28 By the Quattrocento, bankers tried to evade the prohibition against usury by charging fees for exchanging one type of currency for another. By completing this transaction over time, bankers were able to disguise the fact that they were charging interest for a loan. As Raymond de Roover explained, money

Fig. 2. Hôtel Bladelin, Bruges. Photo © IRPA-KIK, Brussels

exchange ‘was an art which was practised by the merchant-bankers who delivered money on the exchange not because they needed funds elsewhere, but because they were thus able to lend at a profit without violating the ban of the Church against usury’.29 But this practice was recognised as a subterfuge and condemned by such Tuscan moralists as San Bernardino and Sant’ Antoninus, the Archbishop of Florence.30 Bankers’ anxiety about the state of their soul centred on the issue of usury. At first usury was defined as lending money for any level of profit, and bankers were denied a church burial unless they confessed their sin and gave restitution to those that they had harmed.31 But by the Quattrocento, usury was often more narrowly defined as charging interest at exorbitant rates, and bankers were no longer required to make restitution to their victims.32 Beginning in the Trecento, bankers attempted to atone for the sin of usury through what Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona have termed “conPATRONAGE OF THE PORTINARI ALTARPIECE

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spicuous acts of charity,” that is, by donating exceptional works of art or architecture to the Church. 33 These works commissioned by bankers reveal a range of strategies for dealing with the problematic nature of their occupation. Julie Codell demonstrated that Giotto adjusted the subject matter in the frescoes that he painted c. 1320 for the Florentine banker Giovanni Peruzzi in his family chapel in Santa Croce. In particular, the paintings that narrate the lives of Saints John the Baptist and John the Evangelist omit the many themes that depict the saints’ renunciation of wealth, such as the popular subjects of the Baptist as an ascetic in the wilderness and the Evangelist preaching against wealth.34 Peruzzi, who was fined as a usurer, simply eliminated any theme that might imply criticism of his way of life. But most bankers chose instead to combat the negative association between their profession and usury by tackling it head-on. The best known example is the extensive fresco cycle that Giotto painted c. 1305 in the Arena Chapel for Enrico Scrovegni, whose father Dante singled out as a usurer. Following Ursula Schlegel, scholars have demonstrated that Scrovegni built the chapel in large part to expiate for the sin of usury.35 They point to the prominence of such unusual subjects as the payment and damnation of Judas, the hanging of sinners by their moneybags in Hell, and the expulsion of the merchants from the temple. Here Scrovegni adopts the opposite strategy to Peruzzi, by focusing on the pursuit of wealth and criticising it as sinful avarice. Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona refined Schlegel’s ideas by proposing that Scrovegni’s commission arose from the confluence of several factors: his father’s death, the Jubilee year, and the birth of his own children.36 They also noted that the chapel’s visual program repeatedly opposes the sterility of money with themes of fecundity.37 In particular, they demonstrated that Giotto’s frescoes construct the antidote to sinful male usury as female procreation, most notably through the image of the birth of Christ. These ideas continued into the fifteenth century. Margaret Carroll has demonstrated that the portrait that Giovanni Arnolfini commissioned from Jan van Eyck in 1434 served to counteract negative stereotypes about bankers. It not only idealised Arnolfini and his wife as 4

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devout and upstanding, but it also represented the couple as fecund, in opposition to the sterility of money, by including a bed, fruit, a pregnant-looking wife, and a sculpture of St Margaret, patron saint of childbirth.38 Similarly, Ernst Gombrich and Dale Kent have shown that Cosimo de’ Medici began commissioning art to atone for the sin of usury.39 Vespasiano da Bisticci reported that Cosimo confessed to Eugene IV that he ‘felt some of his money was unjustly acquired’ and wanted ‘to lift this weight from his shoulders’.40 The pope advised him to endow the monastery of San Marco as restitution for the sin of usury.41 Nicolai Rubinstein demonstrated that Cosimo became the greatest patron of the Observants, a movement that wanted to reform monasteries by returning them to the strict observance of their original rules, including the rule of poverty.42 He not only rebuilt San Marco for the Dominican Observants, and constructed the church and convent of Bosco ai Frati for the Franciscan Observants, he also generously contributed towards the monks’ living expenses and encouraged others to support the reformed orders.43 Portinari, like many other bankers, had ancestors who were usurers. Folco, the founder of the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova, where the Portinari altarpiece was originally located, is believed to have made restitution for this sin.44 Furthermore, de Roover concluded, after analysing Portinari’s letters, that he ‘had a somewhat guilty conscience’ about his business dealings, which included exchange transactions and other ‘doubtful practices’.45 One letter from Portinari to Cosimo de’ Medici reads in part: ‘The foundation of our business is in merchandise which absorbs most of our capital so there is little left for dealings in exchange. It seems to me that trade today is no more hazardous than exchanges, …nor is trade less profitable. And dealing in commodities is certainly more honourable than dealing in bills of exchange’.46 This statement reveals that Portinari, like so many Italian bankers, was troubled by his usurious practices. We should not be surprised, then, if he donated magnificent art to the Church in part because he feared for his soul and wished to atone for this sin. Furthermore, like other bankers, he may also have wished to dispel the negative stereotypes associated with his profession, especially at his family chapel,

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Fig. 3. Hugo van der Goes, Portinari altarpiece, detail, central panel. Photo © IRPA-KIK, Brussels

which was founded by his usurious ancestor and where Tommaso planned to be buried and therefore remembered. Portinari’s altarpiece employs some of the same strategies that had previously appeared in the art commissioned by other bankers. Like the works painted for Enrico Scrovegni, Giovanni Arnolfini, and Cosimo de’ Medici, Portinari’s triptych, as we shall see, highlights motifs of fecundity, which would have counteracted the widespread notion of the sterility of money. In addition, like Cosimo, Portinari was drawn to the Observants’ ideal of poverty, and this becomes a central theme of his triptych as well. If the Arena Chapel criticised the greedy pursuit of personal wealth, then the Portinari altarpiece goes further by idealising poverty. Portinari was at the height of his career when he commissioned the altarpiece for his family chapel. Manager of the Medici branch office

in Bruges since 1465, he was an extremely wealthy man in the mid-seventies.47 He was married in 1470, and his first son was born in 1472.48 Soon afterwards, he donated 700 florins to endow masses for the salvation of his soul and that of his ancestors at his family chapel of Sant’ Egidio and at Santissima Annunziata, a popular site for the patronage of the Medici and their circle.49 It is in conjunction with this donation that he commissioned the triptych for Sant’ Egidio.50 Thus evidence suggests that Portinari’s altarpiece was in part a response to the birth of his first son. This event could well have caused Portinari, like Scrovegni before him, to think about his legacy, particularly in the context of his family chapel. This is confirmed by the document that endowed the mass at Sant’ Egidio, which states that he did so ‘per l’amor di Dio et per l’anima sua’ (for the love of God and for his soul).51 PATRONAGE OF THE PORTINARI ALTARPIECE

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Fig. 4. Hugo van der Goes, Portinari altarpiece, detail wings. Photo © IRPA-KIK, Brussels

Several unusual aspects of the altarpiece could have served to dispel any negative associations linking Portinari with usury. Margaret L. Koster noted that it was uncommon at this time to include the children of donors in Netherlandish paintings, as Hugo van der Goes does on the wings of the altarpiece.52 In fact, Julia Miller has observed that several elements of the triptych refer to childbirth, not only the central presence of the infant Christ, but also, like the Arnolfini portrait, the prominence of St Margaret, the patron saint of childbirth and pregnant women.53 These motifs suited the hospital setting, as Miller has noted, but they may also have served to visualize natural procreation in order to counteract any possible associations with the unnatural reproduction of usury. Furthermore, the ideal of poverty is a key element of the altarpiece. In the central panel, which shows the Adoration of the Shepherds, Mary, wearing a plain blue dress, 6

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kneels on the bare earth (Fig. 3).54 Three shepherds play a major role and, as Elisabeth Dhanens observed, ‘Never have they participated with such energy […] such dignity in their simplicity, such gravity, sincerity, and warmth’.55 In addition, a scene in the background of the central panel shows the Annunciation to the Shepherds and a vignette in the right wing, behind Portinari’s wife and daughter, suggests that only the peasants know the way to Christ, since an outrider for the Magi must ask them the way (Figs. 4, 4a). Furthermore, as Dhanens observed, the Magi lack sumptuous clothes and a royal bearing, so that they look more like ordinary travellers than like kings.56 Recently Elisabeth Dhanens and Jochen Sander proposed that a mural showing the Nativity with the ducal family, dated 1448, served as a source for the Portinari Adoration (Figs. 3, 5).57 The painting adorned a wall in the chapel of the Groot Vleeshuis in Ghent,

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Fig. 4a. Hugo van der Goes, Portinari altarpiece, detail of right wing, Shepherds showing Magi the Way. Photo © IRPA-KIK, Brussels

where Hugo could easily have seen it. Both works show a circle of figures surrounding the Christ Child who lies alone at the centre. In each, the Madonna kneels on the ground, her hands folded in prayer, pointed downwards towards her Child. In both angels join the ring. But neither Dhanens nor Sander observed a

critical difference: three large shepherds have been inserted into the holy circle of the Portinari altarpiece. The prominence and idealisation of the poor are all the more striking since the latest research suggests that this altarpiece replaced an earlier one by Lorenzo Monaco that had portrayed PATRONAGE OF THE PORTINARI ALTARPIECE

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Fig. 5. Ghent Master, Nativity, wall painting, Groot Vleeshuis, Ghent, 1448. Photo © IRPA-KIK, Brussels

the Adoration of the Magi.58 In fact, the Magi were especially appealing to wealthy merchants and bankers, such as Palla Strozzi, who chose this theme for an altarpiece painted by Gentile da Fabriano in 1423.59 By the 1470s the Magi had become emblematic of the Medici, both in ritual drama and in painting, since the Three Kings, like the Medici, were rulers and wealthy men ‘who used their wealth wisely in bringing gifts to the Christ Child’.60 Tommaso Portinari, by contrast, chose a different strategy in his commission: to emphasise the ideal of poverty through the simplicity of the Virgin’s dress and pose, the prominence of the shepherds, and the vignettes of the Annunciation to the Shepherds and the Shepherds showing the Magi the way. A similar approach was later adopted by another Medici banker, Francesco Sassetti, in the Adoration that Domenico Ghirlandaio painted for him in 1485, which includes an adaptation of the three shepherds from the Portinari altarpiece.61 More interesting is Filippo Strozzi’s adoption of an analogous strategy in the predella of his altarpiece of 1487-88, also painted 8

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by Ghirlandaio (Fig. 6). Here Strozzi wears the rough, short garment of a shepherd as he kneels in prayer before the Christ Child. A shepherd’s crook lies at his side, confirming his identity, and his torn hem marks him as poor. In the panels painted for Portinari and Strozzi, the ideal of poverty joins the virtue of magnificence.62 Just as Portinari’s altarpiece has poverty as its central focus, but is also magnificent in size and luxurious in the garments worn by the donors and saints, so Strozzi’s panel reveals the same apparently conflicting goals, since behind the donor sits a splendid hunting dog adorned with an elegant studded collar. Nor should this ambivalence be surprising, since the Franciscans themselves strongly advocated voluntary poverty at the same time that they devised theories that praised the ‘redeeming qualities of wealth’, and established a lending institution, the Monti delle Pietà, to compete with Jewish moneylenders.63 Although Christiane Knorr saw in the choice of the Adoration of the Shepherds Portinari’s opposition to the Medici, Jill Burke demonstrated that this was certainly not true

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Fig. 6. Workshop of Domenico Ghirlandaio, Adoration of the Shepherd, Museum Boijmans-Van Beuningen, Rotterdam

for Strozzi, who was a close ally of the Medici after his return to Florence and who included the Adoration of the Magi in his altarpiece as well.64 Furthermore, in embracing the ideal of poverty, Portinari followed the lead of Cosimo, who was a strong supporter of the Observants. Koster suggests that Hugo was following a Florentine tradition by depicting the shepherds entering from the right,65 but in other ways, his work is strikingly different from earlier Florentine examples. Although a few largescale paintings in Florence include shepherds in Adoration scenes, they are never as prominent, as individualised, or as corporeal as those in the Portinari triptych. Furthermore, to my knowledge, only two earlier Florentine Adorations include the shepherds in the inner circle, and both are small subsidiary paintings: a predella panel by Giovanni del Biondo for an altarpiece in the Rinuccini Chapel in Santa Croce, Florence, and a panel by Taddeo Gaddi for a sacristy casket of the same church.66 The theme of the Adoration of the Shepherds was not only uncommon in Florence, especially in Medici circles, but its treatment was unusual among Netherlandish paintings. Although earlier Flemish panels include shepherds in Adoration scenes, they are generally excluded from the inner circle. The Master of Flemalle’s Dijon Nativity shows them confined to the doorway of the stable, and the Nativities of Dirk Bouts, Petrus Christus, and Gerard David further restrict the shepherds to the area behind the stable’s far wall (Fig. 7).67

By commissioning an altarpiece from a master from Bruges, by donating a magnificent work of art in part to make restitution for the sin of usury, and by focusing on themes of fecundity, Portinari’s behaviour was typical of Italian bankers. Furthermore, he followed the lead of Cosimo de’ Medici in supporting the ideal of poverty. But Portinari went beyond his predecessors in his emphasis on the poor. This aspect of the altarpiece can be more fully understood by examining his art patronage in Bruges. Portinari as Patron of the Observant Franciscans in Bruges Portinari was deeply embedded in Flemish society. Although Erik Aerts has characterised the Italian community in Bruges as ‘isolated and xenophobic’,68 Portinari was an exception to the rule. He had moved to Bruges at the age of twelve in the year 1440, and stayed more than fifty years.69 He spoke French, and perhaps Flemish, and became an advisor to two Burgundian dukes, Philip the Good and Charles the Bold. Philip appointed Portinari to his council by 1464, and Charles sent him on more than one diplomatic mission.70 Portinari took the unusual and expensive step of becoming a citizen of Bruges in 1483, and returned to live permanently in Florence only at the end of his life, in 1497.71 By the 1460s Portinari was an important member of the Confraternity of the Dry Tree PATRONAGE OF THE PORTINARI ALTARPIECE

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Fig. 7. Gerard David, Nativity, central panel of a triptych, early 1480s. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Bequest of Michael Friedsam, 1931 (32.100.40a). Photo, all rights reserved, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

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(Ten Droghen Boome) in Bruges, whose members, according to Noël Geirnaert, shared a ‘great interest in art, music, theatre, and literature’.72 The confraternity played a major role in the development of polyphonic music and, in fact, more than half its budget was devoted to such performances. Its chapel was lavishly decorated with sculpture, paintings, chandeliers, organs, and such expensive ritual objects as a silver gilt chalice, a missal with silver clasps, and a silver gilt tree. Reinhard Strohm has characterised the confraternity as ‘a rather worldly club of wealthy people, who very much wanted to display their devotion’.73 In the 1460s its members included the elite of Bruges: Philip the Good, Isabella of Portugal, Louis de Gruuthuse, Jan van Nieuwenhove, and Giovanni Arnolfini. But its most important group of benefactors was the Florentine mercantile community.74 Belonging to this confraternity must have been good for Portinari’s business, and he became a leading member, since in 1469 he was one of only sixteen signatories (out of about two hundred members) who authorised a contract on behalf of the confraternity.75 The confraternity met in the Conventual Franciscan church, but at this time a second group of Franciscans, the Observants, was establishing itself in Bruges, and Portinari soon became one of their primary supporters. As discussed earlier, the Observants advocated strict adherence to the Franciscan rule of poverty. Unlike the Conventuals, they avoided all luxuries, including polyphonic music, and instead devoted themselves to prayer and penance.76 A struggle between these two groups arose throughout western Europe, as the Franciscans entered what was perhaps their most troubled period. The rise of the Observants in Bruges can be reconstructed in its general outlines.77 The Franciscans first established themselves there in the 1220s, and by 1246 they had their own monastery within town, on Braambergstraat, just southeast of the city centre (Fig. 1). The key circumstance for the reform of the Franciscans in the Netherlands was the presence in the 1440s of Giovanni da Capistrano, a close associate of Bernardino of Siena. Papal legate to the Burgundian court and representative of the Vicar General of the Franciscan order, Giovanni’s mission was twofold: to establish new Observant monasteries and to

reform all existing Conventual ones. He fulfilled his first goal by founding new monasteries at Ecluse (1443), Leiden (1445), Alkmaar (1445), and Antwerp (1446).78 But because the Conventuals rarely relinquished control without a struggle, Giovanni’s second goal, to reform established monasteries, caused considerable friction between the two groups of Franciscans as well as among their supporters. In February 1443 Giovanni entered Bruges, and in the following years he and others repeatedly but unsuccessfully tried to persuade the Braamberg friars to accept Observant rules. In 1448, threatened by the growing influence of the Observants, the Conventual friars appealed to Pope Nicholas V to ensure that they would not be expelled or harassed by the Observants. In a bull of that same year, he reassured them, but by the 1460s the battle was pitched, with supporters of an Observant presence in Bruges on one side, and the Braamberg friars, the city magistrates, and assorted mendicants and priests on the other. In 1461, Jean de Baenst, councillor of the duke of Burgundy, Philip the Good, offered his house in Bruges to the Observants so that they could establish a monastery there. Pope Pius II agreed to this plan and the Observants moved in, but city officials almost immediately tried to reverse this development by arguing that they had not been consulted beforehand and that the presence of additional mendicants would place a strain on the residents of Bruges. As a result, in 1461 the Pope asked the Observants to leave town, and Duke Philip the Good, in consultation with the bishop, offered them land two miles outside of Bruges at Sysele, beyond the jurisdiction of the Bruges government. The Observants remained at Sysele for six years, from 1462 until 1468. Construction of the monastery there was begun, but never completed. Living so far from town, the monks suffered great poverty, and for this reason Duchess Isabella of Portugal resolved to establish a new monastery for them, closer to Bruges. She settled on a site just outside the Ezelpoort, a gate on the northwest perimeter of Bruges in the parish of Sint Jacobus, near Scheepsdalelaan (Fig. 1). In the meantime, the residents of Bruges had become more favourably disposed towards the Observants, and even the magistrates declined to block Isabella’s plan. Despite opposition from the PATRONAGE OF THE PORTINARI ALTARPIECE

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Conventuals and some priests, on 11 July 1466 Pope Paul II granted permission to build an Observant monastery at the Ezelpoort, and seven months later, the new duke, Isabella’s son Charles the Bold, concurred. On 24 July 1468, Isabella laid the first stone at the Ezelpoort, and ten years later, on 18 June 1478, the church was consecrated there.79 Although it is true, as Maximiliaan Pieter Jan Martens has observed, that some donors, such as a group of Spanish merchants, patronised both the Observant and the Conventual monks, critical issues divided the two groups, most notably their attitude towards poverty. These differences sometimes led to eruptions of violence.80 In 1447, at Mechelen, Philip the Good had to take the Observants under his special protection, and five years later, a Conventual friar there, Nicolas Roellants, chased and struck two Observants. Both Mechelen and Bruges saw continuous conflict between city officials and Conventual friars on the one hand, and the Observants, usually supported by the popes and the dukes of Burgundy, on the other.81 For this reason, as Strohm asserts, some patrons chose to support only one group, and beginning in the late 1460s, Isabella of Portugal and Tommaso Portinari began to divert much of their funding to the reformed friars.82 Isabella was one of their major benefactors. She secured permission for them to move to the Ezelpoort, bought land for their monastery there, and laid its first stone. Portinari, too, was also a major donor of the Observants. One contemporary document, Charte 7627, dated 1467, states that for the monastery at the Ezelpoort, Isabella: […] acquis et achetes les pieces et parties de terres cyapres declarees, prinse et eclisse de deux mesures et sept verges de terre qui souloient appartenir a Colart Danc aboutissant a la Rue et Cauchée du chemin de Sceepstale. Item deux mesures de terre ou environ qui appartindrent aux povres de leglise Saint Sauveur dudit Bruges aboutissans aussi au dit Chemin Sceepstale. Item deux mesures a trente deux verges qui estoient en fief de messire Josse Wasennaire […] que Thomas de Portunaire a acquestees de Jean Vleeshauwere et depuis les nous a transportees pour en faire notre bon plaisir.83 12

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[…] acquired and bought the pieces and parts of land listed below declared, taken and divided up of two mesures84 and seven yards of land that used to belong to Colart Danc85 next to the street and road on the way to Sceepstale. Item two mesures of land or around that belonged to the poor of the church Saint Sauveur of the said Bruges next to Scheepsdalelaen. Item two mesures at thirtytwo yards that were held as a fief of Mr. Josse Wassenaire […] that Tommaso Portinari has aquired from Jean Vleeshauwere and since has transferred to us for our pleasure. Thus Portinari transferred land just outside town at the Ezelpoort to Isabella, who in turn donated it, along with other plots, to the Observants for their monastery. This bequest is again mentioned in Charte 7541, dated 1479, which relates that Theobald Roris, guardian of the Observants, judging that their garden was too large, ceded a portion of it to Portinari. Roris declared that the sheer size of the property ‘[…] aliquo modo derogans puritati status nostri, quod difficulter prod sui magnitudine possit claudi uet oportet’ ([…] diminishes in some way our state of purity, and because of its vast size it cannot properly be enclosed without much difficulty).86 As Auvain Heysse concludes, this must be at least part of the land that Portinari had previously donated to the Observants.87 A third document mentions Portinari, his necrology of 11 March 1500: Singulari ac perpertua memoria dignus est circonspectus vir ac mercator egregius Thomas de Portunare, cum sua devota coniuge, qui ob singularum, qua efferbuit ad nostram Observantiam devotionem, totum fundum nostri conventus exterioris suis sumptibus comparavit, conventumque ipsum quoad ecclesiam et alia quedam principalia aedificia a fundamentis construxit, aliaque non exigua dona nobis ac aliis religiosis contulit; hiis pietatis operibus tam ipse quam devota euis conux muniti, in senectute bona decesserunt Florentiae.88

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Uniquely deserving of perpetual memory is the noteworthy man and outstanding merchant Tommaso Portinari (and his devoted wife), who, in order to supply every single thing necessary for our Observant devotion, purchased at his own expense all the land for our exterior monastery; he built the monastery itself from the foundation, as well as the church and other principal buildings; he bestowed many gifts upon us and upon other religious people; after he and his devoted wife were fortified with works of piety, they died in their happy old age in Florence. This passage is difficult to interpret precisely. It states that Portinari paid for ‘all the land’ and the construction of the Observants’ new church and principal edifices at the ‘exterior monastery’. Portinari could not have donated all the land at the Ezelpoort, since Isabella contributed a great deal, according to Charte 7627. For this reason, Heysse interpreted the term ‘exterior monastery’ as a reference to the earlier site at Sysele.89 But Archangelus Houtart justly concludes that the monastery that Portinari supported was the one at the Ezelpoort, and the archival record that dates closest to the time of the actual donation supports this conclusion.90 What emerges, then, from these documents is that Portinari, who donated land and money to build the Observants’ church and main buildings at the Ezelpoort, was one of their two most important patrons beginning in the late 1460s. Besides Isabella and Portinari, the archives mention a third benefactor of the Observants in Bruges. Two documents, which have escaped the notice of Italian Renaissance scholars, cite Cosimo de’ Medici’s patronage. Like the records concerning Portinari, those for Cosimo are confusing.91 The first, in the Registrum almae Provinciae, reads, ‘Conventus omnibus suis numeris absolutus, aedificatus est expensis, ut colligere possumus, domini Cosmae de Medices […] eodem anno 1461, quem et 14 annis fratres de Observantia religiossime incoluerunt’. (A monastery, perfect in every respect, was built and paid for (so we learn) by lord Cosimo de’ Medici […] in 1461, where the Observant brothers lived most piously for fourteen years).92 The second reference to Cosimo appears in a necrology, ‘Anno Dni 1470 generosus dnus Cosmas Medices, Leonis

decimi Summi Potificis avus, propriis expensis fratibus Observantinis conventum aedificavit, quem incoluerunt fratres usque ad reformationem conventus intra moenia civitatis, anno 1515 factam’. (In the year of our Lord 1470, the generous patron Cosimo de’ Medici, grandfather of the High Pontiff Leo X, built at his own expense a monastery for the Observant brothers, which they lived in until the reconstruction of the monastery within the city walls, completed in 1515).93 The first archive is inaccurate since the monastery begun around 1461, namely that at Sysele, was occupied for only six years. The second is also problematic, since the monastery in which the Observants lived until 1515 was that at the Ezelpoort, but Cosimo died in 1464, long before construction there was begun.94 Heysse dismisses a connection between Cosimo and the Observants in Bruges, but Servais Dirks and Sebald van Ruysevelt disagree.95 Indeed, the evidence suggests that Cosimo contributed funds to build the monastery at Sysele, which the Observants occupied from 1462-68. This is not surprising since there was a branch of the Medici bank in Bruges, Franciscans from Italy had been instrumental in founding the Observant community there, and Cosimo was an enthusiastic supporter of reformed monasteries. Although documents reveal that Isabella of Portugal, Tommaso Portinari, and Cosimo de’ Medici were major benefactors of the Observants, the same cannot be said of the dukes of Burgundy.96 In Mechelen during the 1440s and 50s, Philip the Good supported the Pope’s policies by placing the Observants under his protection, and asking city officials to help enforce the Pope’s edicts.97 Walter Prevenier and Wim Blockmans suggest that this position did not stem from genuine devotion, but rather served the duke’s financial interests since he wanted to weaken the economic strength of the Church.98 This thesis is supported by the ambivalence that the duke showed in Bruges. In 1461 he and Pope Pius II acquiesced to the city’s demands that the Observants leave town. Furthermore, ten years earlier, when stained glass windows at the Conventual monastery on the Braambergstraat were destroyed in a storm, Philip paid to replace them.99 By contrast, except for the land that he donated to facilitate the expulsion of the Observants from PATRONAGE OF THE PORTINARI ALTARPIECE

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Bruges, there is no record that Philip contributed any land, money, art, or architecture to the Observants. Similarly, Charles the Bold, Philip’s son, supported the Observants through edicts, but apparently gave them no donation of any kind. Yet he donated two houses to the Confraternity of the Dry Tree, a Conventual organisation.100 Thus the evidence concerning the benefactors of the Franciscans in Bruges confirms that the Medici were a critical factor in the formation of Portinari’s religious views and art patronage. By contrast, since the dukes maintained only a minimal interest in the reformed movement, and the political leaders of Bruges had for a long time actively opposed it, Portinari’s support does not seem to have been motivated by the hope of gaining profitable contracts from the Flemish elite. Scholars have generally been quick to attribute economic motives to bankers such as Portinari, while denying the possibility of genuine religious devotion and concern for their eternal souls. But Portinari did not consistently judge money to be the most important criterion for a good life. Earlier we noted his preference for trade over bills of exchange because he felt the former was more honourable. Similarly, in 1464, he informed one of his brothers that ‘he preferred honour to money and that he would rather be poor than become rich under Angelo Tani’.101 The choice of the Adoration of the Shepherds as the central focus for Portinari’s triptych demands an explanation, since this theme was not a common subject either for Florentine altarpieces or for the central panels of Netherlandish ones.102 In addition, in the 1470s it presented an unusual choice of subject for someone in the Medici circle.103 Nor should this be surprising, since peasants were often criticised both north and south of the Alps. To cite just one example, Leon Battista Alberti, in his Della Famiglia (1437-44), has Giannozzo term peasants ‘vile’, ‘evil’, and ‘spiteful’, and describe how they are always trying to cheat him. He complains that they constantly plead poverty, while their demands become increasingly unreasonable. Another character, Lionardo, agrees with this assessment.104 Certainly the theme of the Adoration of the Shepherds makes sense for an altarpiece commissioned for a hospital whose goal was to help the ‘sick poor’.105 But the subject of the 14

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central panel also aligns the altarpiece with Franciscan ideals. From the beginning, the theme of the Adoration of the Shepherds was closely associated with Franciscan piety.106 Franciscan churches, such as Santa Croce in Florence, include images of the shepherds,107 and many Franciscan texts idealise their poverty and devotion. For example, the thirteenth-century Mirror of the Blessed Virgin Mary links their poverty to that of Mary and Jesus: See how detached Mary was by her poverty. For she is the same Mary of whom it is said: ‘They found Mary and Joseph, and the Infant lying in the manger’ (Lk 2, 16). The poor shepherds found the poor Mother and the poor Infant in a poor place, not in splendid pomp, but in a poor manger. But if the Mother had not been poor, she would indeed have found fitting hospitality. While you diligently consider these things, you may realize how great was the poverty of Mary, of which St John Chrysostom says: ‘See the greatness of the poverty of Mary. Whoever is poor may receive thence great consolation’.108 For St Francis and his followers, the poor shepherds were privileged as the first to learn of Christ’s birth, and the connection between the Franciscans and idealised representations of the shepherds continued into the Quattrocento.109 Consequently Portinari’s decision to emphasize poverty and focus on the Adoration of the Shepherds corresponds perfectly with his support of the Observant Franciscans. Conclusions Scholars have traditionally described Portinari’s motives in commissioning the altarpiece at Sant’ Egidio as driven either by aesthetic taste or by competitive feelings towards Angelo Tani. But a more nuanced picture emerges if we consider his close association with the Medici, the common anxiety shared by so many Italian bankers that their souls were jeopardised by their usurious practices, their belief that one way to atone for this was by donating exceptional works of art to the

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Fig. 8. Hans Memling, Virgin and Child Enthroned with Two Angels, after 1479. Andrew W. Mellon Collection. Photo © 2005 Board of Trustees, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

Church, and their desire to counteract through their art patronage any negative associations linked to their profession. Documents in Bruges further reveal that in the late 1460s Portinari became a major benefactor of the Franciscan

Observants, following the lead of Cosimo de’ Medici. Since this act did not ally Portinari with the Dukes of Burgundy or other potential clients, it is unlikely to have been motivated by business interests, which suggests that PATRONAGE OF THE PORTINARI ALTARPIECE

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Fig. 9. Hugo van der Goes, Meeting of Jacob and Rachel, Christ Church, Oxford. Photo © IRPA-KIK, Brussels

Tommaso, like Cosimo before him, was capable of sincere religious devotion. Certainly the emphasis on poverty in the altarpiece must be viewed in conjunction with his close links to the Franciscan Observants.110 In 1468, Portinari may well have met Hugo van der Goes, who was in Bruges for the marriage of Charles the Bold and Margaret of York.111 Four years later, Portinari’s son was born, which may have caused him to think more deeply about his moral legacy. Although other commissions may have been motivated primarily by the hope of financial gain, the altarpiece in his family chapel, where Portinari would be buried and where he would be remembered, seems to have been inspired, at least in part, by concern for his soul and a desire to counteract any negative attitudes towards his profession. Portinari had commissioned a Passion scene and portrait triptych c. 1470 from Hans Memling. Why, then, did he transfer his patronage shortly thereafter to Hugo van der Goes? Memling’s style is characterised by richesse; as a rule he depicts the Madonna as the Queen of Heaven, enthroned beneath a canopy, before a cloth of honour, crowned, and wearing a jewelled gown (Fig. 8).112 Hugo’s Madonnas, by contrast, tend to be 16

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humbler, and he often emphasises shepherds, not just in Adoration scenes, but also in works where they are not demanded by traditional iconography, such as the Meeting of Jacob and Rachel (Fig. 9).113 Hugo visualises a world more in line with the Observants’ goals. This is not surprising considering that soon after gaining this commission, Hugo became a frater conversus at the Roode Klooster, a monastery that was affiliated with the Brotherhood of Common Life, a reform movement that held dear the ideal of poverty. Paula Nuttall concluded that as an art agent for the Medici, Portinari was so familiar with Netherlandish art, and had developed such ‘high standards of appreciation’, that he must have been aware of painters’ aesthetic differences.114 But could he not also have been cognisant of the greater sympathy for the poor expressed in Hugo’s work? Portinari’s actions reveal an ambivalent attitude towards money. He spent lavish sums on his hôtel, private chapels, clothes, and paintings, and, in 1474, at the same time that Hugo was painting the altarpiece for Sant’ Egidio, Portinari erected a chapel for the furriers’ guild, a trade that was critical to his business interests.115 Just as the Franciscans strongly advocated the ideal of poverty while establishing a

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lending institution, so Portinari commissioned an altarpiece that at its core embraces poverty, but is also grand in size and magnificent in style. A usurious banker and a Christian concerned with his soul, a supporter of the Observant Franciscans and the Conventual Confraternity of the Dry Tree, a citizen of Bruges and also of Florence, Tommaso Portinari was a complex man. But it is only by bridging the traditional divide in the discipline of art history that separates Italy from the North that we can better understand patrons such as Portinari, who lived their lives in two cultures, and were fully imbedded in both. Postscript Since completing this essay, Anne Derbes brought to my attention the contents of a will that Bernardo di Giovanni Portinari, Tommaso’s older cousin, composed in 1436.116 In this testament, a member of the Portinari family, under whom Tommaso trained in 1440, confesses his guilt about his banking activities. This is yet another example, and one particularly close to Tommaso Portrinari, of the common association between normal banking procedures and sin:

The said testator said that he had long acquired from many and various people large sums of money and credit in the monte di Pisa of the commune of Florence and that afterwards he had exacted [settlement of] these sums and credits from the testator’s account books. And because the testator was worried that his conscience might be burdened on account of the aforesaid, he directed and willed for the relief of his conscience that whatever was owed by right to any persons from whom he had bought or acquired money and credits in the monte di Pisa should be refunded, repaid, and restored in full. Item dixit dictus testator se ipsum diu acquisivisse super monte Pisarum comunis Florentie a quam pluribus et diversis personis quam plura et multas quantitates pecunie et credita, quas quantitates et credita postea exegit; de quibus quantitatibus et creditis dixit constare per libros ipsius testatoris. Et quia ipse testator dubitat ne conscientia sua pro predictis sit gravata eapropter pro exhoneratione conscientie sue iuxit et voluit huiusmodi personis a quibus aliquid emisset vel acquisivisset pro denariis et credits acquisitis super dicto monte di Pisa reddi et solvi et restitui omne id quod de iure restitui deberet et in quo conscientia sua est gravata prout gravata esset.117

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NOTES

This article is part of a book that I am writing on Hugo van der Goes. I would like to thank Anne Derbes, Noël Geirnaert, Lynne Jacob, Dale Kent, Julia Miller, Amy Neff, Laurie Taylor-Mitchell, and two anonymous reviewers for their many helpful comments on an earlier version of the article. I am also grateful to Ingrid Alexander-Skipnes for organising the session at the College Art Association in which I presented a preliminary version of this paper, and to Taylor Corse, who was instrumental in translating the Latin passages. Jill Burke describes the debate between those who think that patrons chose only the theme of a work and those who argue for a greater involvement; see Changing Patrons: Social Identity and the Visual Arts in Renaissance Florence (University Park, PA, 2004), pp. 6-8. In this case, I support the latter viewpoint. This article is dedicated to Anne Derbes in gratitude for our many stimulating and fruitful conversations on this and so many other matters. 1 Mark L. Evans, ‘Northern Artists in Italy during the Renaissance’, Bulletin of the Society for Renaissance Studies, 3 (1985), pp. 7-23, esp. p. 15. 2 Paula Nuttall, ‘Memlinc’s Last Judgement, Angelo Tani and the Florentine colony at Bruges’, in Polish and English Responses to French Art and Architecture: Contrasts and Similarities, ed. by Frances Ames-Lewis (London, 1995), pp. 155-65, esp. p. 164; Paula Nuttall, ‘Portinari, Tommaso’, in Encyclopedia of Italian Renaissance and Mannerist Art, ed. by Jane Turner (London, 2000), II, pp. 1293-94; Paula Nuttall, ‘Early Netherlandish painting in Florence: acquisition, ownership and influence c. 1435-1500’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Courtauld Institute, 1990), p. 44; Paula Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence: The Impact of Netherlandish Painting, 1400-1500 (New Haven and London, 2004), pp. 65, 69. 3 Christina Knorr, ‘The Coming of the Shepherds’, Art Bulletin, 78 (1996), pp. 370-71; Margaret Koster, ‘New documentation for the Portinari altar-piece’, Burlington Magazine, 145 (2003), pp. 164-79, esp. p. 169; Barbara Lane, ‘The Patron and the Pirate: The Mystery of Memling’s Gdansk Last Judgement’, Art Bulletin, 73 (1991), pp. 632-39; Nuttall, ‘Early Netherlandish painting in Florence’, p. 44. 4 Dale Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici and the Florentine Renaissance. The Patron’s Oeuvre (New Haven and London, 2000), pp. 8, 80, 107, 338, 341, 357, and esp. p. 356. See also Reinhard Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges (Oxford, 1985), p. 138. For an early and still valuable study of Medici patronage, see Ernst H. Gombrich, Norm and Form: Studies in the Art of the Renaissance (London and New York, 1966), pp. 35-57. 5

Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, p. 488 n. 62.

6

Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, p. 357.

7 Raymond de Roover, The Rise and Decline of the Medici Bank, 1397-1494 (Cambridge, MA, 1963), p. 71; Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, p. 488 n. 62.

18

Berliner Museen, 21 (1979), pp. 67-90; Ruth Wedgwood Kennedy, Alesso Baldovinetti: A Critical and Historical Study (New Haven, 1938), pp. 13-14, 28-29, 97-98, 218. The Marian cycle of frescoes, completed in 1461, at Sant’ Egidio were begun by Domenico Veneziano with the aid of Piero della Francesca, and continued by Andrea del Castagno, and Alesso Baldovinetti. 10 Roberto Salvini, Banchieri fiorentini e pittori di Fiandra (Modena, 1984), p. 57. 11

Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges, pp. 37-38.

12

For canvases purchased in 1466 and tapestries bought in 1467, see Michael Rohlmann, ‘Flanders and Italy, Flanders and Florence. Early Netherlandish painting in Italy and its particular influence on Florentine art: an overview’, trans. by Nicholas Devons et al., in Italy and the Low Countries – Artistic Relations. The Fifteenth Century, ed. by Victor M. Schmidt et al., (Florence, 1999), pp. 39-67, esp. p. 45; Tapestry in the Renaissance: Art and Magnificence, exh. cat. (New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2002), ed. by Thomas P. Campbell (New Haven and London, 2002), p. 89; Marina Belozerskaya, Rethinking the Renaissance: Burgundian Arts Across Europe (Cambridge, 2002), p. 250. 13 Campbell, Tapestry in the Renaissance, p. 89. Portinari also served as a middleman for purchasing Netherlandish art for other Italian clients. See Belozerskaya, Rethinking the Renaissance, pp. 201-02, 223. 14 Peter Stabel, ‘De gewenste vreemdeling: Italiannse kooplieden en stedelijke maatschappij in het laat-middeleeuws Brugge’, Jaarboek voor Middeleeuwse Geschiedenis, 4 (2001), pp. 189-221, esp. p. 212. 15 Luc DeVliegher, Les maisons à Bruges, trans. by Monique Van Schoute-Verbomen (Liege and Lannoo, 1975), pp. 23738; Erik Aerts, ‘Money and credit, Bruges as a financial center’, in Bruges and Europe, ed. by Valentin Vermeersch (Antwerp, 1992), pp. 56-71, esp. p. 64; André Vandewalle and Noël Geirnaert, ‘Bruges and Italy’, in Bruges and Europe, pp. 184-204, esp. pp.192, 198; Jean C. Wilson, Painting in Bruges at the Close of the Middle Ages: Studies in Society and Visual Culture (University Park, PA, 1998), p. 21; Nuttall, ‘Early Netherlandish painting in Florence’, pp. 28-29; De Roover, Medici Bank, p. 340. 16 Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, p. 55; Dirk De Vos, Hans Memling: The Complete Works (London, 1994), p. 87. 17 Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, p. 65; De Vos, Hans Memling, pp. 100-03, 105-09. 18 Salvini, Banchieri fiorentini, p. 59; Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, pp. 61, 79-71; Belozerskaya, Rethinking the Renaissance, pp. 243, 246.

8 Marc Boone, ‘Apologie d’un banquier médiéval: Tommaso Portinari et l’état bourguignon’, Le Moyen Age. Revue d’histoire et de philologie, 105 (1999) pp. 31-54, esp. p. 33; Nuttall, ‘Portinari, Tommaso’, p. 1293; Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, pp. 43-44.

19 Koster states that Sassetti commissioned Ghirlandaio’s partial copy of the Portinari Altarpiece as an act of ‘friendly competitiveness’ (see ‘Italy and the North’, p. 89), but another explanation is possible. Since the only part of Hugo’s triptych that is adopted is the group of shepherds, the patron may have been motivated by concern for his soul, and so wished to depict the ideal of poverty; see below.

9 Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, pp. 338, 356-57; Francis AmesLewis, ‘Domenico Veneziano and the Medici’, Jahrbuch der

20 De Roover, Medici Bank, pp. 338, 342, 348; Roger Crum, ‘Facing the Closed Doors to Reception’, Art Journal,

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57 (1998), pp. 5-13, esp. p. 10; Beatrice Greer, ‘The Turning Tide. The Last Significant Influence from the Netherlands: Hugo van der Goes and the Florentine Painters Ghirlandaio and Botticelli’, Fifteenth Century Studies, 7 (1983), pp. 121-77, esp. p. 130; Lane, ‘The Patron and the Pirate’, p. 633; Nuttall, ‘Early Netherlandish painting in Florence’, pp. 23, 44-45; Nuttall, ‘Memlinc’s Last Judgement, Angelo Tani and the Florentine colony at Bruges’, p. 156; Nuttall, ‘Portinari, Tommaso’, p. 1293; Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, p. 44. For a revised view of Portinari, which is less reliant on Medici documents and views Portinari as primarily concerned with his own family rather the Medici, see Boone, ‘Apologie d’un banquier médiéval’, pp. 34, 52-54. Similarly, Koster’s recent discovery of previously unknown archives has led her to conclude that Portinari ‘was not the scoundrel he has been made out to be’. See ‘New documentation for the Portinari altarpiece’, p. 164. But neither Koster nor Boone address the religious issues explored here. The first to revise Portinari’s image was Richard Vaughan, Charles the Bold: The Last Valois Duke of Burgundy (London, 1973), pp. 258-60. Yet Belozerskaya, Rethinking the Renaissance, p. 242, still terms Portinari ‘Tani’s crafty assistant’, pp. 239, 242. 21 Altarpieces were commissioned as a key expression of social prestige. See Michael North, ‘Art Markets’, in The Age of Van Eyck: The Mediterranean and Early Netherlandish Painting, 1430-1530,exh. cat. (Bruges, Groeningemuseum, 2002), ed. by Till-Holger Borchert (London, 2002), pp. 52-63, esp. p. 54. Portinari may also have chosen a Flemish artist because, like many Italians, he viewed Flemish painting as holier than Italian works. The terms devoto (devout) and pietissimo (most pious) were particularly associated with Flemish paintings. See Erwin Panofsky, Early Netherlandish Painting (Cambridge, MA, 1966), p. 2; Michael Baxandall, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy: A Primer in the Social History of Pictorial Style (Oxford, 1972), pp. 149-51; Paula Nuttall, ‘Decorum, Devotion, and Dramatic Expression: Early Netherlandish Painting in Renaissance Italy’, in Decorum in Renaissance Narrative Art, ed. by Francis Ames-Lewis and Anka Bednarek (London, 1992), pp. 74-75; Burke, Changing Patrons, pp. 17475. 22 John Fred Bell, A History of Economic Thought (New York, 1967), p. 340. 23

A. D. Fraser, ‘Cosimo de’ Medici’s Patronage of Architecture and the Theory of Magnificence’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 33 (1970), pp. 162-70, esp. p. 162. 24

Margaret Carroll, ‘“In the Name of God and Profit”: Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait’, Representations, 44 (1993), pp. 96-132, esp. p. 106. 25

Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, p. 442 n. 20.

26

Bell, A History of Economic Thought, pp. 161, 168; Gombrich, Norm and Form, p. 38; Iris Origo, The Merchant of Prato (London, 1957). 27

Bell, Medieval Economic Thought, pp. 84, 161, 200; Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona, ‘Barren Metal and the Fruitful Womb: the Program of Giotto’s Arena Chapel in Padua’, Art Bulletin, 80 (1998), pp. 274-91, esp. p. 277. 28

Bell, A History of Economic Thought, p. 344.

29

Raymond de Roover, Money, Banking, and Credit in Mediaeval Bruges: Italian Merchant-Bankers, Lombards, and MoneyChangers. A Study of the Origins of Banking (Cambridge, MA, 1948), p. 66. See also Bell, A History of Economic Thought, pp. 200-01; Jenkins, ‘Cosimo de’ Medici’, pp. 162-63. 30 31

Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, p. 132.

Derbes and Sandona, ‘The Program of Giotto’s Arena Chapel’, p. 277.

32

De Roover, Money, Banking, and Credit, p. 105.

33 Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona, ‘“Ave charitate plena”: Variations on the Theme of Charity in the Arena Chapel’, Speculum, 76 (2001), pp. 599-637, esp. p. 599. 34 Julie Codell, ‘Giotto’s Peruzzi Chapel Frescoes: Wealth, Patronage, and the Earthly City’, Renaissance Quarterly, 41 (1988), pp. 583-613, esp. pp. 597-98. 35 For a summary of the literature, see Derbes and Sandona, ‘The Program of Giotto’s Arena Chapel’, pp. 274-291. 36 Derbes and Sandona, ‘The Program of Giotto’s Arena Chapel’, pp. 286-87. 37 Derbes and Sandona, ‘The Program of Giotto’s Arena Chapel’, pp. 278-86. 38

Carroll, ‘Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait’ (cited in note

24). 39 See Gombrich, Norm and Form, p. 38; Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, p. 132. 40

Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, p. 11.

41

Benjamin N. Nelson, ‘The Usurer and the Merchant Prince: Italian Businessmen and the Ecclesiastical Law of Restitution, 1100-1500’, Journal of Economic History. Suppplements, 7, pp. 104-22, esp. p. 119; Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, p. 132. 42 Nicolai Rubenstein, ‘Lay Patronage and Observants in Fifteenth Century Florence’, in Christianity and the Renaissance: Image and Religious Imagination in the Quattrocento, ed. by Timothy Verdon and John Henderson (Syracuse, 1990), pp. 63-82, esp. p. 64. 43 Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, pp. 167-171; Rubenstein, ‘Lay Patronage and Observants in Fifteenth Century Florence’, p. 65 44 Katherine Park and John Henderson, ‘“The First Hospital Among Christians”: The Ospedale di Santa Maria Nuova in Early Sixteenth-Century Florence’, Medical History, 35 (1991), pp. 164-88, esp. p. 170; Nelson, ‘The Usurer and the Merchant Prince’, p. 114; John Larner, Culture and Society in Italy 1290-1420 (New York, 1971), p. 61. 45

De Roover, Money, Banking, and Credit, p. 91.

46

See De Roover, Money, Banking, and Credit, p. 90. Simon Schama notes that in seventeenth-century Holland, the ‘“golden maxims for the merchant were entirely those of traditional Christian and humanist teaching” including “honor before gold”’. See The Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the Golden Age (Berkeley, 1988), pp. 330-31. 47 Nuttall, ‘Portinari, Tommaso’, p. 1293; Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, p. 44. 48 Elisabeth Dhanens, Hugo van der Goes (Antwerp, 1998), p. 262. 49 Patrons at Santissima Annunziata included Cosimo’s secretary Ser Alesso Pelli, Bernardo d’Antonio, and the Benci and Pucci families. See Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, p. 207. 50 Michael Rohlmann, Auftragskunst und Sammlerbild: Altniederländische Tafelmalerei im Florenz des Quattrocento (doctoral dissertation, University of Cologne, 1990) (Alfter, 1994), p. 61. 51

Rohlmann, Auftragskunst und Sammlerbild, p. 61.

52

Koster, ‘New documentation’, p. 169.

53

Virginia Reinburg, ‘Prayer and the Book of Hours’, in Time Sanctified: The Book of Hours in Medieval Art and Life, ed.

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by Roger Wieck (New York, 2001, 1st ed. 1988), pp. 39-44, esp. pp. 43-44.

73

Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges, p. 71.

74

Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges, p. 71.

75

Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges, p. 72.

76

Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges, p. 70.

54

For the Madonna of Humility, see Millard Meiss, Painting in Florence and Siena after the Black Death: The Arts, Religion and Society in the Mid-Fourteenth Century (New York, 1951), pp. 132-56 55

Dhanens, Hugo van der Goes, p. 279 (my translation).

56

Dhanens, Hugo van der Goes, p. 292.

57

This work was commissioned by Jacob de Ketelboere to show the special relationship between the corporation of the butchers and the dukes of Burgundy. See Dhanens, Hugo van der Goes, pp. 286-87; Jochen Sander, Hugo van der Goes: Stilentwicklung und Chronologie (Mainz, 1992), pp. 216-20. 58 For the history of the altarpieces in this chapel, see Walter and Elisabeth Paatz, Die Kirchen von Florenz (Frankfurt a. M, 1952), IV, p. 24. Osvald Sirén’s theory that Monaco’s Adoration, dated 1420-22, served as the altarpiece of Sant’ Egidio has gained wide support. See, among others, Marvin Eisenberg, Lorenzo Monaco (Princeton, 1989), p. 119; Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, pp. 61, 63. 59

Burke, Changing Patrons, p. 112.

60 Burke, Changing Patrons, p. 113. See Rab Hatfield, ‘The Compagnia de’ Magi’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 33 (1970), pp. 107-61; Richard Trexler, Public Life in Renaissance Florence (Ithaca, 1980), pp. 423-24. 61

See above.

62 The concept of magnificence, derived from Aristotle’s Ethics, held that generous expenditures on public buildings constituted the virtue of magnificence. This was elaborated by Thomas Aquinas. See Richard A. Goldthwaite, Wealth and the Demand for Art in Italy 1300-1600 (Baltimore and London, 1993), p. 75. 63

Blake Wilson, Music and Merchants: The Laudesi Companies of Republican Florence (Oxford, 1992), p. 24. 64

Burke, Changing Patrons, p.115.

65

Margaret L. Koster, ‘Italy and the North – A Florentine Perspective’, in The Age of Van Eyck, pp. 78-93, esp. p. 89.

For the history of the Observants in Bruges, see Auvain Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants à Bruges et environs (1461, 1462, 1468)’, Archivum Franciscanum Historicum, 41 (1948-49), pp. 217-39, esp. p. 218; Archangelus Houbaert, ‘Minderbroederskloosters in de Zuidelijke Nederlanden. Kloosterlexicon’, Franciscana, 32 (1977), pp. 119-27; Sebald Van Ruysevelt, ‘De Francisskaanse Kerken. De stichtingen van de dertiende eeuw (Vervolg)’, Franciscana, 29 (1974), pp. 29-39. For the history of the Observants in Mechelin specifically and the Netherlands generally, see Lucien Ceyssens, ‘Les ducs de Bourgogne et l’introduction de l’observance à Malines’, Archivum Franciscanum Historium, 30 (1937), pp. 391-419. 78

Ceyssens, ‘Les ducs de Bourgogne et l’introduction de l’observance à Malines’, pp. 392-93. 79

Houbaert, ‘Minderbroederskloosters’, p. 124.

80

Maximilaan Pieter Jan Martens, ‘Artistic Patronage in Bruges Institutions, c. 1440-1482’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Santa Barbara, 1992, p. 314), and Houbaert, ‘Minderbroederskloosters’, p. 123. 81

Ceyssens, ‘Les ducs de Bourgogne’, pp. 394, 396.

82

Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges, p. 72.

83

Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants’, p. 224. The verge is an old name for the yard, which derives from the word virga, or stick. See www.unc.edu/~rowlett/units/dictM.html copyright 2002 by Russ Rowlett of the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, 23 March 2005. 84 The mesure was a land measurement equivalent in various localities. See Ronald Edward Zupko, French weights and measures before the Revolution: A Dictionary of Provincial and Local units (Bloomington, 1978), p. 107. 85 In an e-mail of 9 May 2005, Noël Geirnaert suggests that Colaert Danc is really Colart Daut. I thank him for this communication.

66 For these, see Richard Fremantle, Florentine Gothic Paintings from Giotto to Masaccio, (London, 1975), fig. 489; Gertrud Schiller, Iconography of Christian Art, trans. by Janet Seligman (Greenwich, CT, 1971, 1st ed. 1969), I, fig. 219. For earlier paintings that include the shepherds in Nativity or Adorations scenes, see Koster, ‘Italy and the North – A Florentine Perspective’, p. 89; Fremantle, Florentine Gothic Painters, figs. 156, 489, 522, 785, 859, 980, 1003, and 1074.

86

Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants’, p. 227.

87

Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants’, p. 227.

88

Houbaert, ‘Minderbroederskloosters’, p. 124, n. 21.

89

Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants’, pp. 222-23.

90

See ‘Minderbroederskloosters’, p. 124.

67 See James Snyder, Northern Renaissance Art: Painting, Sculpture, the Graphic Arts from 1330- to 1575 (Englewood Cliffs and New York, 1985), figs. 118, 139, and pl. 27.

91

68

Aerts, ‘Money and Credit’, p. 64.

69

De Roover, Medici Bank, p. 357. Portinari returned to Florence permanently by 1497 and died there in 1501. See Wilson, Painting in Bruges, p. 77. 70 De Roover, Medici Bank, p. 339; Nuttall, ‘Early Netherlandish painting in Florence’, p. 31; Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, pp. 43-44. 71

Stabel, ‘De gewenste vreedeling’, pp. 199, 209; Vandewalle and Geirnaert, ‘Bruges and Italy’, p. 194. See also note 69. 72 Noël Geirnaert, ‘Bruges and European intellectual life in the Middle Ages’, in Bruges and Europe, pp. 224-51, esp. p. 250.

20

77

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Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants’, pp. 221-22, notes that the dates must be wrong. 92

Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants’, pp. 221-22.

93

Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants’, p. 222.

94

Martens, ‘Artistic Patronage in Bruges’, states that they left in 1517, but cites no source to verify this. For the date 1515, see Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants’, p. 227; Marc Ryckaert, Adriaan E. Verhulst, and Jean Marie Duvosquel, Historische Stedenatlas van België Brugger (Brussels, 1991), p. 189. 95 Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants’, pp. 222 and 227 n. 3; Sebald van Ruysevelt, ‘De Franciskaanse kerken. De stichtingen van de dertiende eeuw (Vervolg) XI. Brugge’, Franciscana, 29 (1974), pp. 29-39, esp. p. 34; Servais Dirks, ‘Antiquités Franciscaines’, Le Messager de Saint François d ‘Assise, III (1877-78), pp. 249-60, esp. p. 256. Van Ruysevelt concluded that Bernardino of Siena established, with the help of

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the Medici, a new foundation of Observants at Bruges in 1461, first at Sysele, and then at the Ezelpoort. 96 For this see Ceyssens, ‘Les ducs de Bourgogne et l’introduction de l’observance à Malines’, pp. 391-419. 97

They also arrested any Conventuals dressed in secular clothes. See Ceyssens, ‘Les ducs de Bourgogne et l’introduction de l’observance à Malines’, p. 396. 98

Walter Prevenier and Wim Blockmans, The Burgundian Netherlands (Cambridge, 1986), p. 249. 99

H. Nelis, ‘Philippe-le-Bon et les Frères Mineurs de Bruges (1451)’, Franciscana, 7 (1924), pp. 115-17. 100 A. de Schodt, ‘Confrèrie de Notre-Dame de l’Arbre Sec’, Annales de la Société pour l’Étude de l’Histoire et des Antiquités de la Flandre, 27 (1876-77), pp. 141-87, esp. p. 154. 101

De Roover, Money, Banking, and Credit, p. 46, n. 53.

102

See above.

103 See Kent, Cosimo de’ Medici, pp. 257, 356; Ames-Lewis, ‘Domenico Veneziano and the Medici’, pp. 83-85; Hatfield, ‘The Compagnia de’ Magi’, pp. 107-61, esp. p. 137. The Magi were the patron saints of merchants; see Hatfield, ‘The Compagnia de’ Medici’, p. 108. The Medici were benefactors and protectors of the Compagnia de’ Magi, the lay confraternity in Florence dedicated to the devotion of the Three Kings; see pp. 135-41. See also Trexler, The Journey of the Magi. See also note 60. 104 See Leon Battista Alberti, The Albertis of Florence: Leon Battista Alberti’s ‘Della Famiglia’, ed. and trans. by Guido A. Guarino (Lewisburg, 1971), p. 197. 105 See Park and Henderson, ‘The First Hospital among Christians’, p. 171. In 1328-34, the Baroncelli family, ancestors of Portinari’s wife, commissioned a fresco of the Annunciation to the Shepherds from Taddeo Gaddi for the Franciscan church of Santa Croce. For this reason it is also possible that Maria Baroncelli influenced the decision to emphasise the shepherds in the Portinari triptych. In addition, in the decade before Portinari commissioned his altarpiece, over the years 1460-62, Alesso Baldovinetti painted a fresco of the Nativity with shepherds in the atrium of Santissima Annunziata, a favourite site for the patronage of the Medici and their circle, including Portinari, who endowed a Mass there. See Frederick Hartt and David Wilkins, History of Italian Renaissance Art (New York, 1994), 6th edition, fig. 12.33.

107 See for example, the paintings by Giovanni del Biondo and Taddeo Gaddi mentioned above, as well as Fremantle, Florentine Gothic Painters, figs. 156, 159, 522, 786, among others. 108 A Poor Man’s Legacy: An Anthology of Franciscan Poverty, ed. by C. J. Lynch (New York, 1988), p. 130. 109 Ames-Lewis, ‘Domenico Veneziano and the Medici’, pp. 83-85. 110 Elisabeth Dhanens mentions that a book by Thomas à Kempis is in the library of Sant’ Egidio (Fol. 84, Item 587), and suggests that Portinari brought it back with him to Italy. If true, a volume by a key figure in the Devotio moderna further suggests Portinari’s interest in the ideal of poverty. See Dhanens, Hugo van der Goes, p. 261. 111

Dhanens, Hugo van der Goes, p. 262.

112

See De Vos, Hans Memling, especially cat. no. 89, pp. 318-319. 113

For this work, see Dhanens, Hugo van der Goes, pp. 239-

49. 114 Nuttall, ‘Early Netherlandish painting in Florence’, p. 44, (‘his sensitivity to the individual capacities and skills of the painters he employed’), pp. 52-53. 115 The chapel was located in St James (St Jacob), the parish in which most foreign merchants lived. See Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges, p. 56. Portinari also had a private family chapel in St Jacob from at least 1472; along with Charles the Bold he had paid for the renovation of this church, which was expanded from a structure with only a nave to one with a nave and side aisles. He also donated a ‘Sacrament Throne’ to the church and perhaps a rondel by Luca della Robbia. See De Vos, Hans Memling, pp. 32-33. The parish priest of St Jacob was strongly opposed to an Observant presence in Bruges. See Heysse, ‘Trois couvents des Observants’, p. 226. For Portinari’s burial site, see Koster, ‘New Documentation’, p. 166; Dhanens, Hugo van der Goes, p. 261. 116

Boone, ‘Apologie d’un banquier médiéval, p. 33.

117

For the text and translation of this testament, see A Renaissance of Conflicts: Visions and Revisions of Law and Society in Italy and Spain,ed. by John A. Marino and Thomas Kuehn (Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2004). ASF, OSMN 70, fol. 186r.

106 Schiller, Iconography of Christian Art, I, 87; Andrew Ladis, Taddeo Gaddi: Critical Reappraisal and Catalogue Raisonné (Columbia and London, 1982), pp. 88, 114, 120.

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The Annunciation by Joos Ammann in Genoa: Context, Function and Metapictorial Quality Michael Rohlmann Biblioteca Hertziana Max-Planck-Institut für Kunstgeschichte, Rome A particularly important work within the history of artistic exchange between northern and southern Europe during the Renaissance is a mid fifteenth-century fresco in Genoa (Fig. 1).1 Painted by Joos Ammann, a painter from southern Germany, the Annunciation graces the loggia of the monastery of Santa Maria di Castello. While it has long been recognised that Ammann introduced stylistic features of Early Netherlandish art to Genoa, attempts to identify his style in other works – and thus clarify his artistic personality – have proved less successful. Nor has it been possible to determine Ammann’s participation in the contemporaneous pictorial decoration of the convent, or indeed to attribute it convincingly to other masters.2 All that can be established is that the Annunciation is without doubt the most outstanding example of painting in the monastery. The following study takes a new approach by examining the function of the painting’s subject matter in relation to its location. I intend to show that instead of simply transplanting a Northern pictorial invention south of the Alps, Ammann incorporated into his painting his concrete knowledge of local prerequisites and expectations. Not only did he merge Northern elements with Italian ones, but he succeeded in integrating into his pictorial invention the viewer’s actual experience of the loggia, its architecture and decoration. Moreover, his design reveals not only the interests and identity of the two donors Manuele and Lionello Oliva Grimaldi, but also his own artistic self-awareness. A painter from Ravensburg in Genoa Ammann’s painting decorates the back wall of the first floor of a loggia that connects various parts of the monastery. An inscription identifies the artist and date of execution:

JUSTIS DE ALLA/MAGNA PINX/IT 1451 CRDZ. The abbreviation, which has been convincingly deciphered as ‘Civis Ravensburgensis de Zella’,3 informs that Joos Ammann was a citizen of Ravensburg and that his family came from Radolfszell by Lake Constance. He is known to have been resident in Genoa between March and September 1451 when mention of him is found in a number of archival documents: he received gold leaf for his work from one Léon de Bruges and also from Jean de Tournai; on 3 September 1451, the silk merchant Antonio Caffarotto commissioned a tiered polyptych that was to show St Sebastian flanked by John the Baptist and St Anthony, crowned by a depiction of the Crucifixion and the Annunciation, and with the predella showing Christ between the Twelve Apostles. In 1452 Joos was back in Ravensburg, where he entered into a contract with his widowed mother and his brother to purchase the house of his deceased father.4 But how did an artist from Ravensburg in the middle of the fifteenth century end up in Genoa? The important role of trade has rightly been emphasised as an explanation.5 Ravensburg was the seat of Humpis, which for a considerable length of time was the largest German import- and export-company. It had branches throughout Europe, including Spain, France, Flanders and Italy, where between 1449 and 1466 Ottomar (Otmar) Schlapfer from St Gallen was the company representative in Genoa. Especially important was the trade in wool, which was brought from Genoa to Constance and Nuremberg, and through which the Ravensburg company would have made contact with the brothers Emanuele (Manuele) and Leonello (Lionello) Oliva Grimaldi. The two brothers ascended the Genoese social ladder when in 1448 their family was incorporated

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Fig. 1. Joos Ammann, Annunciation, 1451, convent of Santa Maria di Castello, Genoa, Loggia

into the prominent aristocratic house of the Grimaldi, a system known in Genoa as the Albergo. Their significant donations to the Dominican monastery of S. Maria de Castello seem to have helped their social advancement; in 1452 the friars expressed their gratitude for the brothers’ generosity in financing an extensive building project of the convent, begun in 1445. Since Joos’s fresco bears the Grimaldi coat of arms, it too must have been a gift of the two brothers. Thus the trade connection goes some way towards explaining how a painter from Ravensburg came to work in a Genoese monastery. Did the Humpis establish the contact between the Northern artist and the Grimaldi, who requested Joos come to Genoa? Or did the painter use the contacts of the Humpis to establish himself independently in one of Italy’s main economic centres? We cannot tell. All that is certain is that the death of his father prompted Joos Ammann to return to Germany in 1452. 24

Early Netherlandish painting in Genoa Why did the painter from Ravensburg so fascinate the Grimaldi that they commissioned him to execute a fresco? It was undoubtedly his particular stylistic orientation and modernity: Joos brought to Genoa the detailed and naturalistic style of art that had recently conquered Flanders. The Annunciation takes place in a room containing a number of realistically depicted requisites that include books, wooden boxes, a ceramic jug, a metal ewer and dishes, an hourglass, etc. Textiles are elaborately embroidered, a wooden desk is embellished with intarsia, a key is inserted into a keyhole, pearls of crystal twinkle in the light, metal gleams, a little bird peers at its reflection in water. It is a world full of beautifully arranged and deceptively real details. All this reveals Joos’s association with a view of the world that is characteristic for Early Netherlandish artists.

THE ANNUNCIATION BY JOOS AMMANN IN GENOA

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It is exactly this sort of visual reference to Early Netherlandish painting that would have appealed to Italian patrons, especially the Genoese. Early Netherlandish art exercised a dominating role in much of Europe during the fifteenth century, and was much admired and sought after in Italy. That Genoa was one of the first to embrace the new artistic fashion6 can be clearly related to the extensive economic role played by Genoese merchants and bankers in Flanders, first in Bruges, where the Genoese House is still standing, and later in Antwerp. There were more works by Jan van Eyck in Genoa than in any other Italian city, with one of the most famous examples being the Virgin and Child triptych of 1437 in the Gemäldegalerie Dresden. The right wing, with a portrait of the donor, bears the coat of arms of the Genoese Giustiniani family; technical studies have revealed that the arms are original and not, as had long been believed, a later addition. Artistic responses to the triptych in Liguria prove that it was an early import.7 In 1456 Bartolomeo Fazio described a now lost van Eyck triptych belonging to king Alfonso of Aragon in Naples as showing the Annunciation flanked by John the Baptist and St Jerome and including portraits of the Genoese Giambattista Lomellini and his wife. It can be deduced from a treatise by the humanist Pontano that the triptych was given as a present to Alfonso, possibly in 1444 when Giambattista visited Naples as a member of a Genoese delegation to the city.8 Van Eyck’s early New York diptych with The Crucifixion and The Last Judgement must have been known at least to artists in Liguria and Savoy during the fifteenth century because motifs reappear in works by Giovanni Canavesio, Ludovico Brea and his circle.9 The Madonna of 1433 in Melbourne, though perhaps only a studio replica, was owned in 1619 by a certain Luciano Costa, most likely a member of the Genoese family of the same name.10 The importance of the Genoese colony in Bruges can also be seen from the important social positions reached by the members of the Adorno family: Anselm Adornes even became mayor of Bruges in 1475. His will of 1470 mentions two small panels by Jan van Eyck depicting St Francis. The artist’s St Francis Receiving the Stigmata have survived in two versions; the somewhat larger panel, today in Turin, must have been known to Florentine painters in the

1470s as elements from it are found in their work. Perhaps Anselm had it with him when he undertook a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and travelled through Italy in 1470/71, or maybe it was in Italy with his son, Johann, who studied in Padua and from 1471-80 attempted to make a career for himself in Curie in Rome.11 However, as early as 1448 a version of van Eyck’s St Francis is mentioned in a Spanish inventory as belonging to the painter Joan Reixach: ‘una taula de pintura de la historia com Sent Francesch reb les plagues, acabada ab olio de la ma de Johannes’, ‘a panel painted with the story of how Saint Francis received the stigmata, finished with oil by the hand of Johannes’.12 Perhaps this relates to the depiction of the Stigmata in Philadelphia, which purportedly came from Lisbon. It has recently been shown that the wood for this panel came from the same tree as that used by van Eyck for the two portraits in Berlin of Baudouin de Lannoy and the so-called Giovanni Arnolfini.13 If the success of a painting is measured by the number of variants and partial copies, and their geographic dissemination, then Jan van Eyck’s St Francis Receiving the Stigmata must be considered the artistically most successful painting of the fifteenth century. The entire composition was extensively copied in Flanders until into the early sixteenth century. Details of its landscape and figures are found in miniatures as well as panel paintings by van Eyck’s immediate successors, while the overall structure of the landscape later influenced Dirk Bouts. South of the Alps, leading Tuscan painters of the late Quattrocento, such as Verrocchio, Botticelli, and Filippino Lippi, were moved to cite passages from the landscape.14 The entire composition was copied by a member of the circle of the Neapolitan painter Colantonio,15 and in Spain by the socalled Master of Porciúncula.16 In Valencia Joan Reixach was strongly influenced by his version of van Eyck’s St Francis.17 Van Eyck’s painting was also known in Germany where, for example, the Master of the St Clare Altarpiece in Bamberg was inspired by it.18 Here, for the first time, we encounter a new art historical phenomenon: the European career of a pictorial invention disseminated via painted replicas. This development was possible for a number of reasons: 1. The innovative and unique aesthetic and mimetic qualities of van

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Eyck’s technique; 2. The use of small panels which were easy to transport; 3. The changing interests of buyers, who now began to collect paintings for aesthetic reasons; 4. And finally, the existence of a well-developed trading system throughout Europe both increased patrons’ awareness of new trends and facilitated their acquisition of such works. In this the Genoese trading network was particularly important, for it was active in all those parts of Europe, from Flanders to Italy, from Spain to Germany, in which van Eyck’s St Francis was known. Genoese patrons also commissioned works from van Eyck’s successors. In 1457 Petrus Christus executed a triptych, of which the central part showing the Madonna between St Jerome and St Francis is today in Frankfurt, while the two wings with portraits of the donor couple from the Genoese Lomellini and Vivaldi families are in Washington.19 It seems that Christus created several works for the Adornes family of Bruges: a pair of pendant portraits showing Pieter Adornes and his wife Elisabeth Braderyck is known only through copies,20 and the same man is perhaps depicted in a portrait in Los Angeles.21 It has, moreover, been suggested that Adornes may also have commissioned the Lamentation in Brussels.22 Fazio also described a painting in Genoa by Rogier van der Weyden showing a nude woman bathing, being spied upon by two laughing youths behind a door.23 It is, however, astonishing how few works by Rogier and especially by Memling were to be found in Genoa. Only in one other case does it seem that a painting by Rogier was executed for a Genoese patron (the Pietà with St Dominic and St Jerome presenting the patron, London, National Gallery).24 The provenance of Memling’s Lamentation in Rome goes back to the Genoese branch of the Doria family.25 This change in the pattern of patronage may at least in part be due to the fact that in the second half of the fifteenth century Florence replaced Genoa as the main trading partner with Flanders. It was only towards the end of the century that Genoese imports of important Early Netherlandish paintings increased again. Large altarpieces were acquired, including a triptych from c. 1490/1500 depicting the life of St John the Evangelist that was probably for the Franciscan church of Santissima Annunziata in 26

Genoa.26 The Adoration of the Magi triptych of c. 1500 in Turin was in the collection of the Genoese Balbi in 1658, which indicates that it may have been a Genoese commission.27 In 1499 Andrea della Costa placed a large Netherlandish altarpiece in his family chapel in San Lorenzo della Costa,28 while in 1506 Gerard David painted the panels for the polypytch for the high altar of the monastery of San Gerolamo della Cervara that had been commissioned by Vincenzo Sauli.29 Sometime before 1519 Giovanni Sacco ordered a triptych for his family chapel in Savona from the Master of Hoogstraeten;30 Joos van Cleve’s large Adoration of the Magi (Dresden) adorned the high altar of San Luca di Albaro near Genoa that was consecrated in 1525.31 The same artist also executed another painting of the same subject for the family chapel of Stefano Raggio in the Genoese church of San Donato.32 Van Cleve’s Crucifixion triptych (New York) was in a Genoese collection during the nineteenth century and may have come from Santissima Annunziata della Costa in Sestri Ponente,33 while his large Lamentation was donated by Niccolò Bellogio to the Franciscan church of Santa Maria della Pace sometime around 1520/25.34 Other Netherlandish artists to deliver altarpieces to Genoa include Jan Provost,35 Adriaen Isenbrant36 and Pieter Coecke van Aelst.37 A notable feature of this long list of Early Netherlandish paintings in Genoa is that they were all imported, i.e. they were commissioned in Flanders and transported south. In not a single case can it be shown that the artist was personally present in Genoa.38 The situation was quite different with Joos Ammann, who himself undertook the journey to Italy. Another aspect that must be borne in mind is that all the imported paintings of the first phase were without exception small in scale and hung in private dwellings. It is only in the second phase, in the early sixteenth century, that large works were dispatched to Genoa and erected above altars in public churches. It is thus all the more notable that at a time when the works of the great Netherlandish artists could only be admired in the private spaces of collectors and connoisseurs, the new realistic style was made accessible to a wider audience when Ammann was commissioned to execute a large wall painting for a relatively public location. This

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Fig. 2. Jan van Eyck, Annunciation, 1432, Cathedral of St Bavo, Ghent, Ghent Altarpiece, detail of the exterior

combination of a medium specific to Italy with the particular stylistic qualities of the new Northern manner conveys much about the ambitions of the donors. The Grimaldi brothers clearly wished to see their newly acquired social status elevated by the prestigious act of commissioning a work that contains features hitherto found only in precious small-scale paintings. Such a plan was not, however, without its problems. By its very nature, the creation of a wall painting demanded the presence of the artist and could not simply be imported. The Grimaldi must have known they could not tempt one of the famous and extremely busy Netherlandish masters to Genoa; it was to be decades before a ruler like Federigo da Montefeltro could persuade Joos van Ghent to come to Urbino.39 But it was in any case not really necessary, as the medium wall painting imposed restrictions on certain features of the new Northern style, especially the technique of applying fine glazes to achieve depth and radiance which could not be employed. Instead of a specialist familiar with the technicalities of execution, it sufficed to utilise an artist with sufficient knowledge of Flemish visual strategies for achieving detailed and naturalistic effects. The German painter obviously offered the desired combination of physical presence and detailed knowledge of the achievements

of his Northern colleagues. How he came to be familiar with the new style is unclear, but there was considerable artistic exchange in the area around Lake Constance with Flanders, especially following the Councils of Constance (1414-18) and Basle (1431-45). But Joos may also have gone to Flanders, something that would have increased his artistic standing in the eyes of the Genoese. Pictorial tradition and spatial context Joos Ammann’s knowledge of Early Netherlandish painting is evident from more than his naturalistic style of depiction. Take for example the particular moment of the narrative he chose to illustrate. The angel has entered Mary’s chamber through the open door and makes his announcement, holding up his hand as if to bestow a blessing. Mary humbly lowers her gaze and folds her hands across her chest to indicate her willingness and obedience. Using contemporary theological tracts, Michael Baxandall has shown that Italian artists differentiated between the various stages of Mary’s reaction to the heavenly messenger: first conturbatio, surprise and anxiety at the appearance of the angel; then cogitatio, reflection; followed by interrogatio, her questioning the angel as to how she shall become pregnant; and finally

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Fig. 3. Loggia in the convent of Santa Maria di Castello, Genoa

humiliatio, her submission to the divine will.40 While Ammann’s angel has only just delivered his message, Mary is shown in the final stage of humiliatio. A progression of time is depicted from left to right: the message is followed by the answer, the beginning by the end. Yet the right half of the picture contains another reference to the earlier moment. Mary is shown with her back to the door, kneeling at her lectern on which lies an open book. When interrupted in her reading, the Virgin turns to look at the angel, and thus to the viewer. Within the rich pictorial tradition of the Annunciation, the most famous comparable example for the chosen moment of the narrative, and for the gestures and poses of both protagonists of the Genoese wall painting, is the Annunciation on the exterior of Jan van Eyck’s Ghent Altarpiece (Fig. 2).41 There, too, the angel appears on the left, kneels and raises his right hand, and Mary turns away from her lectern and places her crossed hands on her chest. Another comparable feature is the series of arched windows and a niche with a ewer, basin and towel. There can be little doubt that Joos Ammann had direct or indirect knowledge of van Eyck’s masterpiece.42 28

There are, however, also notable differences to depictions of the subject in Early Netherlandish art. Instead of van Eyck’s majestic palatial chamber, a room in an ordinary Netherlandish house, which was favoured by Rogier van der Weyden and Dirk Bouts, or a church interior as found in Barthélemy d’Eyck’s Annunciation Altarpiece in Aix-en-Provenance, Joos sets his Annunciation in a room that is clearly Italian. An orange tree grows outside the door, the window has been broadened and resembles a loggia, and from it one looks, as if from a belvedere, out over the landscape. The lectern is decorated with the exquisite intarsia that was the preserve of Italian craftsmen, as is the majolica jug in the background.43 But not only is the interior Italian, the room also reflects elements of the actual location of the wall painting. The surround of the opening leading to Mary’s bedchamber is emphasised by a row of alternating black-and-white stone, which is not only a typical motif of Genoese architecture but is also found in the monastery itself where it decorates the ribs and the arcaded arch of the actual loggia (Fig. 3). The painting is located in the centre of the back wall of the high loggia, which once offered an extensive view over the city, the coast and the sea. The painted loggia in the Annunciation thus relates to a real one, and Ammann reinforces the connection by showing a view of the distant sea and ships through the open door. The viewer is thus encouraged to make an association between the painted room of the Annunciation and the real surroundings of the monastery. Such a connection is further emphasised by the theological programme. The vault of the loggia is decorated with depictions of prophets and sibyls, who display banderols with texts through illusory openings in the ceiling (Fig. 4). Taking up a motif familiar from Netherlandish panels,44 Ammann fronts the room of his Annunciation with rich late Gothic arches that include two grisaille prophets holding banderols. This fictional architecture is, however, partly obscured by the lower half of a medallion representing Heaven out of which God the Father leans to dispatch His words in golden rays to the Virgin. Thus a clear parallel is drawn between the segment with its divine figure and the round openings of the vaults, while the grisaille prophets with their texts on the fictional arch are related to their counterparts looking down upon the visitor to the loggia.

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Fig. 4. Prophets, third compartment of the loggia vault in the convent of Santa Maria di Castello, Genoa

What programmatic context explains the presence of the prophets and Sibyls in the loggia?45 The texts of the banderols relate to the motif on each of the five keystones. The first vault shows four Sibyls with texts praising Mary’s virtues and the importance of her motherhood grouped around the keystone relief of the Madonna and Child. The second keystone with its depiction of the Agnus Dei gives the overall theme for the quotations from the four prophets, all of which use the lamb to allude to Christ. The next relief contains the monogram IHS and the textual references are to the Name of God and Jesus (Fig. 4). The fourth compartment of the ceiling is decorated with the image of Christus Salvator Mundi and the corresponding texts refer to God’s power of salvation and the impact of seeing him; the final keystone shows the Imago Pietatis, Christ as the Man of Sorrows, with the prophets’ banderols alluding to His passion. All five keystones thus condense and illustrate various aspects of faith: the Madonna, the Salvator Mundi and the Imago Pietatis are all cult icons with privileged indulgences; the Lamb of God is a traditional and highly symbolic pictorial formula; during the fifteenth century the abbreviation IHS was especially popular with the Strict Observance Orders as an aniconic symbol of Christ. As devotional abbreviations, signs and pictorial types, the keystones with their surrounding tongues of flames give the loggia the aura of a

sacred space. These cult images and symbols were obviously intended to produce a redeeming effect. The sign IHS adorns the vault of the central arch, which is also the only one to have a large wall painting: Joos Ammann’s Annunciation. The IHS monogram is repeated twice in the painting: once on the ceiling, in direct proximity to God the Father, where, like the keystones of the real vaults, it is surrounded by a wreath of flames, and again on the bedspread, positioned next to Mary’s head, but now encircled by a wreath of leaves. God the Father and Mary are moreover connected via the golden rays, while the placement of the symbolic IHS reinforces the theological significance of the event. It refers to the word becoming flesh, the word, equated with the ‘Name of Jesus’, is sent by God from Heaven and received on earth by Mary and born as a child. Just as the Father dispatches the inseminating rays, so do the fiery tongues of the symbol radiate beside Him; just as Mary accepts and receives into her body the word made flesh, so do the embroidered leaves envelop the Name of Jesus. All these aspects demonstrate the extent to which Ammann’s painting fits into the overall programme of the loggia. The German master did not simply supply the monastery with a fine example of Northern virtuosity, but rather created a work that deliberately engages with the artistic worlds of both the north and the south. Joos takes into consideration the local material culture, he incorporates features from the environment and his architectural surroundings and anchors his composition within the thematic decoration of the loggia itself. The result is theologically coherent. The extent to which the Northern pictorial invention is embedded within its Genoese context becomes even more apparent when set in relation to the function of the wall painting for the donors and for contemporary viewers. The function for the donors and the monastery What function was the Annunciation required to play in the Genoese loggia? The intention of the two brothers Manuele and Lionello Oliva Grimaldi is unmistakenly expressed by the painting. The Grimaldi coat of arms, theirs

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Fig. 5. Fra Angelico, Annunciation, c. 1450, Museo di San Marco, Florence

since 1448, is prominently placed above the door through which the angel had entered. Its heraldic blue and white play an important role in the overall colour scheme of the painting. The stone architecture and walls contrast with the blue of the ceiling, Mary’s mantle and the medallion with God the Father. Blue and white also appear on the decoration of the faience jug as well as in the contents of the open box next to it, and on the floor with its border of blue and white patterned tiles. All these references served as reminders of the new social status of the Oliva brothers within the noble house of the Grimaldi. In addition, this heraldic decoration of Mary’s chamber is tantamount to identifying the room as part of a Grimaldi house, as belonging to the family. It is, so to speak, the casa – in its dual meaning as both ‘house’ and ‘family’ – of the Grimaldi that is honoured by the divine visitor and filled with divine grace. And it was exactly this which the donors hoped they would receive as recognition for their generous gift. 30

But were the two brothers responsible for the actual choice of subject, or did they simply requisition it for their own purposes? Did the depiction have a particular meaning for the Dominican friars? Although the monastic complex contains a number of other wall paintings, there can be no doubt that Ammann’s is the aesthetically most significant. It is therefore surprising that, to date, no one has thought to examine its function within the context of the monastery itself. There is, however, another Annunciation fresco from the middle of the fifteenth century that has not been studied in relation to Ammann’s depiction, though the obvious parallels between the two help answer the questions posed above. The work in question is Fra Angelico’s Annunciation in San Marco in Florence (Fig. 5).46 San Marco, like Santa Maria di Castello, belonged to the same branch of the Dominican Order, the reformed group that followed the Strict Observance. The Order took over San Marco in 1436 and Santa Maria di Castello in 1442, and in both cases set about

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restructuring the buildings and decorating them with wall paintings.47 An occurrence of 1447 shows how close the contact between the two convents was: Cosimo de’ Medici, who had financed the rebuilding of San Marco, tried to persuade Gerolamo Panissari, then abbot of Santa Maria di Castello, to become head of the new library in San Marco. The Doge of Genoa and the city government succeeded, however, in convincing Pope Nicolas IV to prevent Panissari’s definite settlement in Florence.48 It was during Panissari’s time as abbot of Santa Maria di Castello from October 1446 to October 1452 that Ammann executed his painting. The fresco in S. Marco is located on the upper floor of the north corridor of the cloister, exactly opposite the staircase and directly before the actual area of enclosure that began to the left of the fresco in the east corridor.49 Ammann’s wall painting is in a comparable position, since the first floor of the loggia also leads to the area of enclosure that began at the end of the loggia.50 In his study of Fra Angelico’s Annunciation, William Hood pointed to the great importance of Mary for the Dominicans.51 Mary was seen as the abbess, the patroness of the Dominican houses, where she ruler over the friars. Mary signals her acquiescence at the moment of the announcement by the angel, and exactly such acceptance was expected of members of the Order. Mary shows herself to be completely at the will of God, and places her life totally in His service. This was also the aspiration of the Dominican Observantines, who pledged to serve God through humility, purity and chastity. At the entrance to the enclosure, Fra Angelico and Joos Ammann visualised this fundamental principle of the Order. As they passed the scene of the Annunciation on their way to the solitary meditations, the friars were given reassurance that, like Mary in the seclusion of her chamber, they too would be filled with God’s grace while in claustrum. Fra Angelico’s fresco, moreover, urges the viewer to pray. An inscription exhorts one to repeat the ‘Ave Maria’, the angel’s greeting to the Virgin, in front of the painting.52 A comparably practical function also seems to be present in Ammann’s Annunciation, because the room is constructed in such a way that the figure of the angel is placed in the centre of the

converging perspectival lines. The viewer thus becomes the direct counterpoint of the angel, and is accordingly encouraged to repeat the words spoken by the angel in praise of Mary. The formal design, theological content and function of Ammann’s painting can therefore only be properly understood in the context of its specific location within the Dominican convent. It conveys not only the hope of its donors, but even more the principles and values of the religious community for whom it was both a visual symbol and aesthetic treasure. Self-assured painting? The painting as a door Ammann’s wall painting could become the artistic highlight of the pictorial decoration of the convent because the artist brought to Genoa the new and superior style of Netherlandish painting. It will be argued that Ammann was very much aware of his special position in the city and that he deliberately drew attention to his particular virtuosity by including pictorial motifs that address the specifics of his art and his concept of painting. This can be best appreciated in his signature on the cartellino that is attached to the opened door. The work of the artist who presents the Annunciation for us to see is thus related to the door leading into that room. Such a deliberate positioning of the signature can, I believe, only be understood when one sees it as a declaration by the artist about the character of his art: it is he who opens the door that allows the viewer to see the pictorial world he has depicted. A few years earlier, Leon Battista Alberti defined a painting as a view through a window.53 Whether looking out of a window or in through a door, it is in both cases the same understanding of a picture as being beyond an aesthetic threshold that is the continuation of the world of the viewer, as the representation of a reality that lies on the other side of the opening. The new naturalistic and meticulous style of the Early Netherlandish artists is very suited to this notion of the depicted being an extension of reality. Joos Ammann was not the first to incorporate the idea of a painting being a view through a door, but again followed the great Early

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Fig. 6. Jan van Eyck, Arnolfini Double Portrait, 1434, National Gallery, London, detail

Fig. 7. Jan van Eyck, The Birth of John the Baptist, miniature of the Turin-Milan Book of Hours, Museo Civico d’Arte Antica, Turin, inv. Ms., n. 47, Fol. 93 v.

Netherlandish masters.54 Jan van Eyck frequently compared the function of the aesthetic threshold of his paintings with that of an open door. In the so-called Arnolfini Wedding, he signed the back wall next to the mirror with the words: ‘Johannes de Eyck fuit hic 1434’. The mirror reflects what lies beyond the pictorial plane – two people standing in an open doorway (Fig. 6). Here is a visual allusion to the presence of the artist and the viewer before the depicted couple or before the painting. The painting encourages us to identify the threshold of the picture frame with the doorposts reflected in the painting’s mirror.55 Van Eyck’s miniature of The Birth of John the Baptist from the Turin-Milan Book of Hours (Fig. 7) also offers a view of the room as if through an open door.56 Its perspectival construction is such that the imaginary position of the viewer is directly opposite the door in the miniature that opens into another room where Zachariah can be seen reading. This small background scene functions like a mirror, repeating the actions of the viewer in front of the painting who, to study the miniature, must have taken the manuscript in his hands.

Robert Campin and Rogier van der Weyden repeatedly employed the motif of the view through the open door in small triptychs to allude to the character of their paintings.57 In each case the central image shows an interior with Mary, either alone or with saints, or a depiction of the Annunciation. The left wing always contains a portrait of the donor looking towards the central scene but physically placed outside the actual interior; the link between the exterior and interior spaces is provided by a door opening that lies exactly at the transition point between the central panel and the actual wing. The donor’s gaze falls through the open door and accordingly parallels the situation of the viewer, who in order to view the central scene must also open a door – that of the two wings. The painted depiction of the door is accordingly an allusion to the function of the triptych wings. On the left wing of the Werl Altarpiece (Fig. 8), Robert Campin availed of both possibilities: the open door at the right leading to the now lost central panel, and – as in van Eyck’s Arnolfini Double Portrait – a mirror on the wooden partition in the background which reflects the presence of two fig-

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scene – it is not part of Mary’s abode but rather a ‘theatrical frame’ of the type used by Rogier van der Weyden, Petrus Christus and Dirk Bouts. Like passing through a door, this architectural surround marks the aesthetic entrance to the painting, to the actual scene of the Annunciation. In this way the painting offers both an opening into and a view beyond the room it depicts. The frame has, however, yet another meaning, for Ammann uses it to visualise the Annunciation as a pictorial mystery. The Annunciation – a pictorial mystery

Fig. 8. Robert Campin, St John the Baptist and Heinrich von Werl, 1438, Museo del Prado, Madrid

ures on the threshold of the room containing the kneeling figure of the donor and his patron saint John the Baptist.58 In addition to positioning his signature on the door, Joos Ammann also employs other means to convey the idea of looking through an opening. The landscape that is visible through the open door and the tripartite window contains small vignettes of later episodes in Mary’s life: the Visitation and the Birth of Christ. Their presence parallels our view of the Annunciation: for just as we look into Mary’s chamber and observe the beginning of the narrative, so too can we look out through the various openings of that room to following the story as it unfolds.59 The three openings of the window repeat the three openings of the late Gothic portal that is quasi superimposed on the

Superimposed on the framing architecture is the divine circle, an element that totally contradicts the logic of the spatial structure. Although He is in front of the architectural frame, the golden rays which God sends down to Mary fall upon her even though she is actually kneeling behind the architectural frame. Given the care with which the other objects in the painting are spatially related to each other, it is hard to imagine that here the painter simply made a mistake. Instead it seems more logical to explain this curiosity contextually. Judging from contemporary theological texts, the mystery of the Incarnation was one of the more incomprehensible aspects of faith. Bernhard of Siena for example used paradox to describe how God became man: eternity enters time, the immeasurable the measurable, the creator into the creation, the non-representable becomes representable, the non-narratable enters the narration, the inexplicable becomes the word, the invisible visible, the non-audible audible, etc.60 Perhaps Joos Ammann deliberately used the contradiction in his spatial construction as a pictorial metaphor that characterises the incomprehensible mystery of the Annunciation.61 The sudden appearance of God, and the sending of His son to become man, is very perplexing and something that cannot be explained on the basis of man’s experience of reality and the laws of the natural world. Only a painter such as Joos Ammann, who set himself the task of imitating the visible and physical world, could employ the painted contradiction to convey a supernatural vision and effect. In this way, a miracle becomes the ‘miracle’ of the image, one that transcends the borders and laws of the visible. The two grisaille prophets above the columns of the architectural frame hold banderols with

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Fig. 9. Joos Ammann, Annunciation, convent of Santa Maria di Castello, Genoa, Loggia, detail

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texts related to ‘seeing’. On the left, Isaiah looks out at the viewer and displays the message: ‘Ecce virgo concipiet et [pariet filium]’ (Isaiah 7, 14) (Behold, a virgin shall conceive and bear a son). On the right, David looks down upon Mary and requests that she listen to God as the king who desires her beauty: ‘Audi filia et vide et [inclina aurem tuum]’ (Psalm 44 [45], 11). Through these two different directions of looking and speaking, the dead stone of the architectural frame becomes a living and active narrative membrane. The frame conveys the event twofold: on the one hand those outside the frame are asked to view that which is within, while on the other those within are asked to accept the message despatched by God who is outside the frame. Gratia plena The angel declares Mary to be full of ‘gratia’. While this of course encompasses the theological idea of the divine gift of grace, it also refers to one of the central artistic categories of the Renaissance – aesthetic elegance. Joos Ammann combines both of these aspects in his rendition of Mary so as to visualise that she has been filled with the grace of God. Mary’s gracefulness is of the highest aesthetical order: her slim figure with its lightly swaying, introspective pose, her long, flowing robes, the delicateness of her crossed hands, her youthful face with its oval form, regular features and high forehead, her lowered eyes. Indeed Friedrich Winkler perceived such grace as foreign to Ammann’s style and suggested he may have been inspired by a depiction of a Sienese Madonna.62 Whatever the case, Ammann’s depiction of Mary clearly conveys her state of piena di grazia. But if Ammann can show God’s gratia in his work, are not his art and he himself also filled with the divine gift of gratia? Is it possible that here we have a self-assured statement about artistic practice, with the painter conveying his perception of himself as more than a mere craftsman, as one filled by a higher inspiration that was sent by God? Shadows and reflections It is hardly coincidental that in the centre of the all-important narrative triangle formed by the angel, God the Father and Mary, there

where the words spoken by the angel are picked out in gold, Joos Ammann presents a triumphant display of his artistic virtuosity. His ability to capture the naturalistic qualities of ordinary objects is brilliantly conveyed in such details as the ceramic jug, the wall niche with its books and boxes, and the metal ewer and the basin, on the rim of which sits a little bird (Fig. 9). These utensils are so positioned that they cannot fail to capture our attention and excite our admiration. Ammann’s attention to light and the laws of optics are particularly fascinating. The jug and ewer throw strong shadows and therefore appear a second time on the painted wall, thus allowing us to compare the shape of their flat black shadows with their seemingly three-dimensional and colourful forms. The different way in which the various objects reflect light relates to their different surface textures. The theme of reflection is addressed by the presence of the bird perched on the rim of the basin: it looks into the bowl of water and sees – just as we do – its reflection. By referring in the conceptual centre of his painting to shadows and reflections, Ammann creates a connection with the two myths surrounding the invention of painting that were known from ancient texts. According to Alberti, who discusses them in his 1435/36 treatise on painting, the art of painting began either by the tracing of the outline of a shadow on a wall, or by copying a reflection on the surface of water. The mythical urbild for the latter was the fate of Narcissus, who fell in love with his own reflection and tried to embrace it in the water: ‘What else can you call painting but a similar embracing with art of what is presented on the surface of the water in the fountain? Quintilian said that the ancient painters used to circumscribe shadows cast by the sun, and from this our art has grown’. (Della pittura, II, 26).63 Ammann was not the only contemporary artist to visualise this myth of the invention of painting. Jan van Eyck frequently employed reflection as a metaphor for the innovative character of his own artistic achievements.64 In the Arnolfini Double Portrait, the door, the artist and the viewer all appear reflected in the mirror on the wall (Fig. 6). In The Virgin and Child with Chancellor Nicolas Rolin, the two figures in the background, which scholars have also identified as the artist and a viewer, look

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out over a river in which a bridge is reflected.65 In both cases the artist sets the metaphor of reflection in the very centre of the painting, and so declares the painting to be a true reflection of a world that can be visually experienced. But there is another aspect to Ammann’s Annunciation that relates it to the history and development of art. He contrasts the imperfect shadows thrown by dead objects with the very much more perfect reflection of the bird as a living thing.66 The message is clear: Joos does not just present merely shadows of things but rather promises a perfect reflection of the world. His proficiency in making dead objects – architectural decoration, stone sculptures, ceramics, intarsia, embroidery, etc – seem real

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is obvious from his painting. But he can do more, for he has the ability to capture the living world of animals and humans as if reflected in a mirror. It was this new and very special quality, first achieved by Early Netherlandish painters, which distinguished Ammann from his Italian contemporaries and rivals and made him the obvious candidate for the commission in Santa Maria di Castello. Joos Ammann’s fresco demonstrates the extent to which he was aware of this difference and where his artistic strength lay. And in the very centre of his composition, he proudly displays to his contemporaries – and to us – exactly those differences which in the middle of the fifteenth century elevated Flemish painting above that of Italy.

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NOTES

1 My thanks to Fiona Healy for translating my text into English; the footnotes were translated by the author. General literature on the artistic relations between north and south and on the import of Early Netherlandish painting into Italy: Fiorella Sricchia Santoro, ‘Arte italiana e arte straniera’, in Storia dell’arte italiana, Parte prima: Materiali e problemi, vol. III, L’esperienza dell’antico, dell’Europa, della religiosità, ed. by Giovanni Previtali, (Turin, 1979), pp. 69-171; Liana Castelfranchi Vegas, Italia e Fiandra nella pittura del Quattrocento (Milan, 1983) [reviews by Paula Nuttall, in Burlington Magazine, 128 (1986), p. 428, and Ann Roberts, in Art Bulletin, 69 (1987), pp. 470-72]; Enrico Castelnuovo, ‘Presenze straniere, viaggi di opere, itinerari di artisti’, in La pittura in Italia: Il Quattrocento, ed. by Federico Zeri, 2 vols (Milan, 1987), 2, pp. 514-23; Dirk de Vos, ‘Bruges et les Primitifs flamands en Europe’, in Bruges et l’Europe, ed. by V. Vermeersch (Antwerp, 1992), pp. 319-57, 429-30; Rolf Quednau, ‘Tagungsbericht und Forschungsübersicht: Kunstgeschichte im europäischen Kontext: Italienische Frührenaissance und nordeuropäisches Spätmittelalter’, Kunstchronik, 45 (1992), pp. 186-211; Italienische Frührenaissance und nordeuropäisches Spätmittelalter. Kunst der frühen Neuzeit im europäischen Zusammenhang, ed. by Joachim Poeschke (Munich, 1993); Nederland-Italie. Relaties in de beeldende Kunst van de Nederlanden en Italie 1400-1750, Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek, 44 (Zwolle, 1993); Francis Ames-Lewis, ‘Princes, Painters and Netherlandish Art’, in Mantegna and 15th-century Court Culture, ed. by Francis Ames-Lewis and Anka Bednarek (London, 1993), pp. 10314; Michael Rohlmann, Auftragskunst und Sammlerbild. Altniederländische Tafelmalerei im Florenz des Quattrocento (Ph. D. thesis, University of Cologne, 1990), (Alfter, 1994); Charles D. Cuttler, ‘Le rayonnement des Primitifs flamands’, in Les Primitifs flamands et leur temps, ed. by Brigitte de Patoul and Roger Van Schoute (Louvain-la-Neuve, 1994), pp. 584-619, esp. 606-12; Gabriella Befani Canfield, ‘The Reception of Flemish Art in Renaissance Florence and Naples’, in Petrus Christus in Renaissance Bruges. An Interdisciplinary Approach, ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth (New York and Turnhout, 1995), pp. 35-42; Michael Rohlmann, ‘Flanders and Italy, Flanders and Florence. Early Netherlandish Painting in Italy and its Particular Influence on Florentine Art: An Overview’, in Italy and the Low Countries – Artistic Relations. The Fifteenth Century, Proceedings of the symposium held at Museum Catharijneconvent, Utrecht, 14 March 1994 (Florence, 1999), pp. 39-67; Keith Christiansen, ‘The View from Italy’, in From Van Eyck to Bruegel. Early Netherlandish Painting in The Metropolitan Museum of Art, exh. cat. (New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1998), ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth and Keith Christiansen (New York, 1998), pp. 3961; Il Rinascimento a Venezia e la pittura del Nord ai tempi di Bellini, Dürer, Tiziano, exh. cat. (Venice, Palazzo Grassi, 1999) ed. by Bernard Aikema and Beverly Louise Brown (Venice, 1999) (cfr. Michael Rohlmann, Kunstchronik, 53 [2000], pp. 304-14); Mauro Natale, ‘El Mediterráneo que nos une’, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo. Viajes de artistas e itineraries de obras entre Italia, Francia y Espana en el siglo XV, exh. cat. (Madrid, Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza and Valencia, Museo de Bellas Artes, 2001) ed. by Mauro Natale (Madrid, 2001), pp. 19-45; Jan van Eyck und seine Zeit. Flämische Meister und der Süden, 1430-1530, exh. cat. (Bruges,Groeningemuseum, 2002) ed. by Till-Holger Borchert (Stuttgart, 2002); Michael Rohlmann, ‘Arte da lontano. Pittura fiamminga nella Firenze rinascimentale’, in The Art Market in Italy. 15th-17th Centuries, ed. by Marcello Fantoni, Louisa C. Matthew and Sara F. Matthews-

Grieco (Modena, 2003), pp. 401-12; Paula Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence. The Impact of Netherlandish Painting, 14001500 (New Haven and London, 2004). 2 Ammann’s wall painting and the pictorial decoration of Santa Maria di Castello: Alfred Stange, Deutsche Malerei der Gotik, vol. IV, Südwestdeutschland in der Zeit von 1400 bis 1450 (Munich and Berlin, 1951), pp. 7, 38-39; Friedrich Winkler, ‘Jos Ammann von Ravensburg’, Jahrbuch der Berliner Museen, N.F. 1 (1959), pp. 51-118; Ennio Poleggi, Santa Maria di Castello e il romanico a Genova (Genoa, 1974), pp. 163-85; Maurizia Migliorini, ‘Appunti sugli affreschi del convento di Santa Maria di Castello a Genova’, in Argomenti di storia dell’arte, Quaderno della scuola di perfezionamento in archeologia e storia dell’arte della facoltà di lettere e filosofia dell’ Università di Genova 1971-1979 (Genoa, 1980), pp. 49-63, 205-11; Licia Collobi Ragghianti, ‘Per S. Maria di Castello a Genova, 1. Su Justus de Alemagna’, Critica d’arte, 51, quarta serie, n. 10 (1986), pp. 50-61; Licia Collobi Ragghianti, ‘Santa Maria di Castello a Genova, 2. Collaboratori di Giusto’, Critica d’arte, 52, quarta serie, n. 12 (1987), pp. 45-56; Alessandra Gagliano Candela, ‘Jos Ammann von Ravensburg’, in La pittura in Italia, vol. II, p. 659; Giuliana Algeri and Anna De Floriani, La pittura in Liguria. Il Quattrocento (Genoa, 1991), pp. 170-82; Giovanna Rotondi Terminiello, ‘Analogie tecniche tra le pitture murali di Giusto di Ravensburg e Piero della Francesco’, in Piero della Francesca ad Arezzo. Problemi di restauro per la conservazione future, ed. by G. Centauro and M. Moriondo Lenzini (Venice, 1993), pp. 247-50; Elena Parma, ‘Genoa-Bruges: the Art Market and Cultural Exchange in the Fifteenth Century’, in Italy and the Low Countries, pp. 79-96, esp. pp. 83-84; Jacques Heers, ‘El Mediterráneo como area de tránsito’, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, pp. 133-45, esp. pp. 142-43; Elena Parma, ‘Genua – Tor des Südens, in Jan van Eyck und seine Zeit, pp. 94-107, esp. p. 98; Andrea De Marchi, ‘Pittori a Camerino nel Quattrocento: le ombre di Gentile e la luce di Piero’, in Pittori a Camerino nel Quattrocento, ed. by Andrea De Marchi (Milan, 2002), pp. 23-99, esp. pp. 95-96, n. 242; Gianluca Zanelli, ‘Pittura fiamminga a Genova all’inizio del XVI secolo: il “caso” Joos van Cleve’, in Joos van Cleve e Genova. Intorno al Ritratto di Stefano Raggio exh. cat. (Genoa, Galleria Nazionale di Palazzo Spinola, 2003) ed. by Farida Simonetti and Gianluca Zanelli (Florence, 2003), pp. 11-81, esp. pp.72-73, n. 14; Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, ed. by Carla Cavelli Traverso (Genoa, 2003), pp. 105-08 (Giovanna Rotondi Terminiello); Serena Romano, ‘Giusto di Ravensburg e i pittori svizzero tedeschi a Santa Maria di Castello’, in Genova e l’Europa continentale. Opere, artisti, committenti, collezionisti. Austria, Germania, Svizzera, ed. by Piero Boccardo and Clario Di Fabio (Cinisello Balsamo, 2004), pp. 32-47; Massimiliano Caldera, La pittura in Liguria nel XV secolo (Milan, 2005), pp. 13, 31. 3 Cfr. Stange, Deutsche Malerei, p. 7; Winkler, ‘Jos Ammann’, p. 52, n. 11. 4 Cfr. Stange, Deutsche Malerei, p. 7; Winkler, ‘Jos Ammann’, pp. 51-52; Romano, ‘Giusto di Ravensburg’, p. 33. 5 On this paragraph see Jacques Heers, Gênes au XVe siècle. Activité économique et problèmes sociaux (Paris, 1961), pp. 443, 547-49; Heers, ‘El Mediterráneo’, pp. 142-43. 6 Early Netherlandish painting in Genoa: Max J. Friedländer, ‘Drei niederländische Maler in Genua’, Zeitschrift für bildende Kunst, 61 (1927/28), pp. 273-79; Godefridus Joannes

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Hoogewerff, ‘Pittori Fiamminghi in Liguria nel Secolo XVI (Gherardo David, Giovanni Provost, Joos van der Beke, Giovanni Massys)’, Commentari, 12 (1961), pp. 176-94; Carla Cavelli Traverso, ‘Tavole primitive fiamminghe in Liguria’, in La storia di Genova, vol. X, Atti del convegno di studi sui ceti dirigenti nelle istituzioni della republica di Genova 1989 (Genoa, 1990), pp. 113-38; Algeri/De Floriani, La pittura in Liguria, pp. 161–94; M. Fontana Amoretti, ‘Fonti per una storia della fortuna critica e collezionistica dei primitive fiamminghi in Liguria’, Studi di storia delle arti, 7 (1991-1994), pp. 11-33; Pittura fiamminga in Liguria. Secoli XIV–XVII, ed. by Piero Boccardo and Clario Di Fabio (Genoa, 1997); Giuliana Algeri, ‘Testimonianze e presenze fiamminghe nella pittura del Quattrocento’, in: Pittura fiamminga in Liguria, pp. 39-57; Carla Cavelli Traverso, ‘Da Provost a Massys’, in: Pittura fiamminga in Liguria, pp. 83-109; Repertory of Dutch and Flemish Paintings in Italian Public Collections, ed. by B. W. Meijer, vol. I, Liguria, ed. by M. Fontana Amoretti and M. Plomp (Florence, 1998); Rohlmann, ‘Flanders and Italy’, pp. 39-40, 57-58, n. 3; Parma, ‘Genoa-Bruges’; Elena Parma, ‘Rapporti artistici tra Genova e le Fiandre nella prima metà del Cinquecento’, in Fiamminghi a Roma 1508–1608, Atti del convegno internazionale Bruxelles 24-25 febbraio 1995, ed. by Nicole Dacos, Bollettino d’Arte Supplemento al n. 100, 1997 (Rome, 1999), pp. 41-62; Natale, ‘El Mediterráneo que nos une’, pp. 39-40; Parma, ‘Genua – Tor des Süden’; Zanelli, ‘Pittura fiamminga a Genova’; Frédéric Elsig, ‘I rapporti pittorici tra Genova e la Francia nel XV secolo’, in Genova e la Francia. Opere, artisti, committenti, collezionisti, ed. by Piero Boccardo, Clavio Di Fabio and Philippe Sénéchal (Cinisello Balsamo, 2003), pp. 76-89; Carla Cavelli Traverso, Viaggi di committenti, dipinti, maestri tra Liguria e Fiandra, in Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, pp. 19-31; Caldera, La pittura in Liguria, p. 12-15. 7

Roberto Weiss, ‘Jan van Eyck and the Italians’, Italian Studies, 11 (1956), pp. 1-15 (p. 2: Michele Giustiniani as patron); Anneliese Mayer-Meintschel, Niederländische Malerei 15. und 16. Jahrhundert. Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister, Dresden, Katalog I (Dresden, 1966), pp. 28-31; Elisabeth Dhanens, Hubert and Jan van Eyck (New York, 1980), pp. 242-51 (for a less convincing hypothesis on an initial patron from the family Rapondi-Bollemard); La Pittura a Genova e in Liguria, vol. I, Dagli Inizi al Cinquecento (Genoa, 1987), p. 91 (quotation of the architecture by the Genoese painter Maestro dell’ Annunciazione del Monte in Pontremoli); Miklós Boskovits, ‘Nicolò Corso e gli altri. Spigolature di pittura lombardo-ligure di secondo Quattrocento’, Arte Cristiana, 75, no. 723 (1987), pp. 351-386, esp. pp. 360, 381, n. 39; Dieter Jansen, Similitudo. Untersuchungen zu den Bildnissen Jan van Eycks (Cologne and Vienna, 1988), pp. 77-81 (not convincing: Flemish family Debbout-Paele as patron); Algeri and De Floriani, La pittura in Liguria, p. 161; Carl Brandon Strehlke, ‘Jan van Eyck: un artista per il Mediterraneo’, in Jan van Eyck (c. 1390-1441). Opere a confronto (Turin, 1997), pp. 55-76, esp. pp. 58, 67; Algeri, ‘Testimonianze’, pp. 39-40; Parma, ‘GenoaBruges’, pp. 84-85; Uta Neidhardt and Christoph Schölzel, ‘Jan van Eyck’s Dresden Triptych’, in Investigating Jan van Eyck, ed. by Susan Foister, Sue Jones and Delphine Cool (Turnhout, 2000), pp. 25-39; Parma, ‘Genua – Tor des Südens,’, pp. 9899; Zanelli, ‘Pittura fiamminga a Genova’, pp. 12, 72, n. 13. 8

Weiss, ‘Jan van Eyck’, p. 3; Michael Baxandall, ‘Bartholomaeus Facius on Painting’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 27 (1964), pp. 90-107, esp. pp. 102-03; Algeri and De Floriani, La pittura in Liguria, pp. 161-65; Rohlmann, Auftragskunst und Sammlerbild; p. 116; Befani Canfield, ‘The Reception of Flemish Art’, p. 37; Strehlke, ‘Jan van Eyck’, pp. 67, 69; Parma, ‘Genoa-Bruges’, pp. 8384; Gennaro Toscano, ‘Nápoles y el Mediterráneo’, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, pp. 79-99, esp. pp. 88-90; Frédéric Elsig, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, pp. 285-86.

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9 Georg Troescher, ‘Die Pilgerfahrt des Robert Campin. Altniederländische und südwestdeutsche Maler in Südostfrankreich’, Jahrbuch der Berliner Museen, N.F. IX (1967), pp.100-34, esp. pp. 110-14; Rohlmann, ‘Flanders and Italy’, pp. 39, 57, n. 3; Elsig, ‘I rapporti pittorici’, pp. 83-87. 10 Parma, ‘Genoa-Bruges’, pp. 85–86; Elsig, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, pp. 264-71; Borchert, Jan van Eyck und seine Zeit, p. 237. 11 Carlo Arù and E. de Geradon, Les Primitifs Flamands, 1. Corpus de la peinture des anciens Pays-Bas méridionaux au quinzième siècle. 5: La Galerie Sabauda de Turin, (Antwerp, 1952), pp. 7, 13; Noël Geirnaert, Adornes, ‘Anselm’, in Nationaal Biografisch Woordenboek, 16 vols (Brussels, 1987), 12, columns 2-13; Rohlmann, Auftragskunst und Sammlerbild, pp. 105-17; Jan van Eyck: Two Paintings of ‘Saint Francis Receiving the Stigmata’ (Philadelphia, 1997); Jan van Eyck. Opere a confronto; Katherine Crawford Luber, ‘Recognizing Van Eyck’, Bulletin of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, 91 (1998); Lorne Campbell, The Fifteenth Century Netherlandish Schools, National Gallery Catalogues (London, 1998), p. 445 (Genuese Girolamo Vento could have brought the van Eyck to Italy); Paula Nuttall, ‘Jan van Eyck’s Paintings in Italy’, in Investigating Jan van Eyck, pp. 171-82, esp. pp. 175-80; Noël Geirnaert, ‘Anselm Adornes and his Daughters. Owners of Two Paintings of Saint Francis by Jan van Eyck?’, in Investigating Jan van Eyck, pp. 163-68; Catherine Reynolds, ‘The King of Painters’, in Investigating Jan van Eyck, pp. 1-16, esp. pp. 4-5: St Francis not by van Eyck); Frédéric Elsig, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, pp. 256260; Katherine Crawford Luber, in La Clave Flamenca en los Primitivos Valencianos exh. cat. (Valencia, Museo de Bellas Artes de Valencia, 2001) ed. by Fernando Benito Doménech and José Gómez Frechina (Valencia, 2001), pp. 106-17; Borchert, Jan van Eyck und seine Zeit, pp. 236, 242, 268. 12 José Gómez Frechina, ‘Algunas pautas fllamencas en la pintura valenciana del siglo XV’, in La Clave Flamenca en los Primitivos Valencianos, pp. 63-103, esp. p. 68; Elsig, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, p. 260, n. 12; Borchert, Jan van Eyck und seine Zeit, pp. 236, 268. 13 Peter Klein, ‘Dendrochronological Analyses of the Two Panels of “Saint Francis Receiving the Stigmata”’, in Jan van Eyck: Two Paintings, pp. 47-50. 14 Günter Panhans, ‘Florentiner Maler verarbeiten ein eyckisches Bild’, Wiener Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte, 27 (1974), pp. 188-98; Michael Rohlmann, ‘Zitate flämischer Landschaftsmotive in Florentiner Quattrocentomalerei’, in Italienische Frühreniassance und nordeuropäisches Spätmittelalter, pp. 235-58; Rohlmann, Auftragkunst und Sammlerbild, pp. 105-08; Maurits Smeyers, ‘The Philadelphia-Turin Paintings and the Turin-Milan Hours’, in Jan van Eyck: Two Paintings, pp. 6474; Nuttal, ‘Jan van Eyck’s Paintings’, pp. 175-80; Elsig, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, pp. 257-59; Borchert, Jan van Eyck und seine Zeit, pp. 236, 242. Van Eyck’s St Francis and Venice: Mauro Lucco, ‘Bellini and Flemish Painting’, in The Cambridge Companion to Giovanni Bellini, ed. by Peter Humfrey (Cambridge, 2004), pp. 75-94 (pp. 82-85); Keith Christiansen, ‘Giovanni Bellini and the Practice of Devotional Painting’, in Giovanni Bellini and the Art of Devotion, ed. by Ronda Kast, (Indianapolis, 2004), pp. 7-57 (pp. 40-41). 15 Elsig, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, pp. 258-60; cfr. Nuttal, ‘Jan van Eyck’s Paintings’, p. 186. 16 José Gómez Frechina, in La Clave Flamenca en los Primitivos Valencianos, pp. 118-23; Borchert, Jan van Eyck und seine Zeit, pp. 236, 268. 17

Gómez Frechina, ‘Algunas pautas fllamencas’, pp. 67-

76. 18 Elsig, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, p. 257; cfr. Crawford Luber, ‘Recognizing Van Eyck’, p. 36, n. 7.

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19 Barbara G. Lane, ‘Petrus Christus: A Reconstructed Triptych with an Italian Motif’, Art Bulletin, 52 (1970), pp. 390-93 (reconstruction of the triptych); John Oliver Hand and Martha Wolff, Early Netherlandish Painting. The Collections of the National Gallery of Art, Systematic Catalogue (Washington, D.C., 1986), pp. 49-55 (for doubts about the reconstruction of the triptych); Diane Owen Hughes, ‘Representing the Family: Portraits and Purposes in Early Modern Italy’, in Art and History. Images and Their Meaning, ed. by Robert I. Rotberg and Theodore K. Rabb, (Cambridge, 1988), pp. 7-38, pp. 16-18 (suggests Domenico Lomellini and Battina Vivaldi as donors);, Petrus Christus. Renaissance Master of Bruges, exh. cat. (New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1994), Maryan W. Ainsworth with contributions by Maximiliaan P. J. Martens (New York 1994), pp. 131-41 (not a triptych); Peter Klein, ‘Dendrochronological Analysis of Panels Attributed to Petrus Christus’, in: Ainsworth, Petrus Christus, pp. 213-15 (wood of the panels in Washington and Frankfurt form the same tree); Lorne Campbell, ‘Approaches to Petrus Christus’, in Petrus Christus in Renaissance Bruges, pp. 1-10, esp. p. 3; Parma, ‘Genoa-Bruges’, pp. 86-87 (from Spain?); Zanelli, ‘Pittura fiamminga a Genova’, pp. 13-14, 73, n. 18 (not from Spain). 20 Lola B. Gellman, ‘Two Lost Portraits by Petrus Christus’, in Petrus Christus in Renaissance Bruges, pp. 101-14. 21

Ainsworth, Petrus Christus, pp. 154-57.

22 M. P. J. Martens, ‘New Information on Petrus Christus’s Biography and the patronage of His Brussel’s Lamentation’, Simiolus, 20 (1990-1991), pp. 5-23.

Zanelli, ‘Pittura fiamminga a Genova’, p. 16; Cavelli Traverso, in Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, pp. 113-18. 29 Gian Vittorio Castelnovi, ‘Il polittico di Gerard David nell’Abbatia della Gervara’, Commentari, 3 (1952), pp. 22-27; G. J. Hoogewerff, ‘A proposito del polittico di Gerard David nell’Abbazia di Cervara’, Commentari, 4 (1953), pp. 72-73; H. J. Miegroet, Gerard David (Antwerp, 1989), pp. 203-31, 29598; Clario Di Fabio, ‘Gerard David e il Polittico di San Gerolamo dell’Cervara’, in Pittura Fiamminga in Liguria, pp. 59-81; Helen M. Hyde, ‘Gerard David’s Cervara Altarpiece – An Examination of the Commission fort he Monastery of San Girolamo della Cervara’, Arte Cristiana, 85, no. 781 (1997), pp. 245-54; Clario Di Fabio, ‘Gerard David e il politico di San Gerolamo della Cervara’, in Pittura fiamminga in Liguria, pp. 59-81; Maryan W. Ainsworth, Gerard David. Purity of Vision in an Age of Transition (New York, 1998), pp. 177-201; From Van Eyck to Bruegel, pp. 296-301; Zanelli, ‘Pittura fiamminga a Genova’, p. 16; Cavelli Traverso, in Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, pp. 83-90; Il Polittico della Cervara di Gerard David exh. cat (Genoa, Palazzo Bianco, Genoa, 2005) ed. by Clario di Fabio (Milan, 2005). 30 Cavelli Traverso, ‘Viaggi’, pp. 19-31, 23; Cavelli Traverso, in Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, pp. 121-25. 31 Cécile Scailliérez, Joos van Cleve au Louvre (Les dossiers du Département des peintures 39), Paris 1991, p. 79; Joos van Cleve e Genova, pp. 134-39 (Elena Parma); John Oliver Hand, Joos van Cleve. The Complete Paintings, (New Haven and London, 2004), pp. 81-83, 160.

24

32 Scailliérez, ‘Joos van Cleve au Louvre’, pp. 77-78; Joos van Cleve e Genova, pp. 106-13 (Gianluca Zanelli); Cavelli Traverso, ‘Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria’, pp. 57-63; Micha Leeflang, ‘The “San Donato-Altarpiece” by Joos van Cleve and his Workshop’, in Indagini techniche sulle opera genovesi di Joos van Cleve, ed. by Farida Simonetti and Gianluca Zanelli (Florence, 2003), pp. 25-37; Hand, Joos van Cleve, pp. 58-60, 156-58.

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33 Scailliérez, Joos van Cleve au Louvre, p. 80; From Van Eyck to Bruegel, pp. 356–359; Hand, Joos van Cleve, pp. 56-57, 137.

23

Baxandall, ‘Bartholomaeus Facius’, pp. 104-05.

Peter H. Schabacker, Petrus Christus, Utrecht 1974, pp. 113-14 (the same donor portrayed on the Lomellini wing by Petrus Christus in Washington); cfr. Campbell, The FifteenthCentury Netherlandish Schools, pp. 440-46 (Girolamo Vento as possible patron). Eduard A. Safarik, Giorgio Torselli and Federico Zeri, La Galleria Doria Pamphilj a Roma (Rome, 1982), p. 14. 26

Edia Lévy, ‘L’oeuvre du base du maître de la légende de saint Jean l’Évangéliste reconstituée’, Revue des archéologues et historiens d’art de Louvain, 14 (1981), pp. 71-90; Maurizio G. Torre, ‘Il polittico con storie della vita di S. Giovanni Evangelista’, Bollettino dei Musei Civici Genovesi, 9, no. 26-27, 1987 (1989), pp. 39-60; P. Boccardo, ‘Le “rotte mediterranee” del collezionismo Genovese’, Bollettino dei Musei Civici Genovesi, 10, no. 28-30 (1988), pp. 99-117; Algeri, ‘Testimonianze’, pp. 52-54; Parma, ‘Genoa-Bruges’, pp. 8789; Zanelli, ‘Pittura fiamminga a Genova’, pp. 15-16; Carla Cavelli Traverso, Viaggi di committenti, dipinti, maestri tra Liguria e Fiandra, in Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, pp. 19-31, esp. pp. 27-28; Cavelli Traverso, in Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, pp. 126-35. 27 I misteri delle tavole fiamminghe, ed. by L. Pittarelli and L. Leoncini (Genoa, 1996), pp. 3-7; Algeri, ‘Testimonianze’, pp. 49-51; Parma, ‘Genoa-Bruges’, pp. 89-90, 95-96, n. 43; Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, pp. 138-40 (Luca Leoncini); Luca Leoncini, in Da Tintoretto a Rubens. Capolavori della Collezione Durazzo exh. cat. (Genoa, Palazzo Reale, 2004) ed. by Luca Leoncini (Milan, 2004), pp. 210-15. 28

Pierre Bautier, ‘Le triptyque brugeois de S. Lorenzo della Costa près de Gènes’, Revue belge d’archeologie ed d’histoire de l’art, 1 (1931,) pp. 11-13; A. Morassi, Trittico fiammingo a San Lorenzo della Costa (Florence, 1947); R. Dos Santos, ‘O Mestre do Trìptico Costa è Francisco Henriques?’, Bellas Artes, II/4 (1952), pp. 15-17; M. G. Torre, Il trittico bruggese del Martirio di S. Andrea: presentazione del dipinto, in: San Lorenzo della Costa. Itinerario storico-artistico (Genoa, 1988), pp. 31-34; Algeri, ‘Testimonianze’, p. 54; Parma, ‘Genoa-Bruges’, pp. 90-93;

34 Scailliérez, Joos van Cleve au Louvre, pp. 45-76; Parma, ‘Rapporti artistici’, pp. 42-45; Hand, Joos van Cleve, pp. 7578, 159. 35 Carla Cavelli Traverso, ‘Osservazioni sul cosidetto trittico di San Colombano’, in Atti del convegno di studi sui Ceti Dirigenti nelle Istituzioni della Repubblica di Genova, 12 (1991), pp. 569-94; Cavelli Traverso, in Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, pp. 188-97. 36 Carla Cavelli, ‘Le tavole fiamminghe di San Pancrazio’, in: La storia dei Genovesi. Atti del convegno di studi sui Ceti Dirigenti nelle Istituzioni della Repubblica di Genova, Aprile 1985, (Genoa, 1986), pp. 197-218; Giovanna Rotondi Terminiello and Carla Cavalli Traverso, ‘La ricomposizione del trittico di San Pancrazio: un importante recupero restaurativo a Genova’, in Studi in onore di Michele d’Elia, ed. by Clara Gelao (Matera, 1996), pp. 258-69; T. Toncini Cabella, ‘L’iconografia fitomorfa del Trittico fiammingo di San Pancrazio’, Trasparenze, 6 (1999), pp. 65-78; Zanelli, ‘Pittura fiamminga a Genova’, pp. 18-19; Cavelli Traverso, in Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, pp. 100-04. 37 Cavelli Traverso, in Primitivi fiamminghi in Liguria, pp. 79-81. 38

Cfr. Ainsworth, Gerard David, pp. 155–205.

39

Jacques Lavalleye, Juste de Gand. Peintre de Frédéric de Montefeltre (Louvain, 1936); Jacques Lavalleye, Les Primitifs Flamands, 1. Corpus de la peinture des anciens Pays-Bas méridionaux au quinzième siècle. 7: Le Palais Ducal d’Urbin, (Brussels, 1964); Marilyn Aronberg Lavin, ‘The Altar of Corpus Domini in Urbino. Paolo Uccello, Joos van Gent, Piero della

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Francesca’, Art Bulletin, 49 (1967), pp. 1-24; Nicole Reynaud and Claudie Ressort, ‘Les portraits d’Hommes illustres du Studiolo d’Urbino au Louvre par Juste de Gand et Pedro Berruguete’, Revue du Louvre, 41/1 (1991), pp. 82-116; Benedetta Montevecchi, ‘Giusto, Berruguete e i fiamminghi a palazzo’, in Piero e Urbino, Piero e le Corti rinascimentali, ed. by Paolo Dal Progetto, (Venice, 1992), pp. 338-48; Mark L. Evans, ‘Uno maestro solenne. Joos van Wassenhove in Italy’, in Nederland-Italie. Relaties in de beeldende Kunst van de Nederlanden en Italie 1400-1750, Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek 44 (Zwolle, 1993), pp. 75-110. 40

Michael Baxandall, Painting and Experience in FifteenthCentury Italy. A Primer in the Social History of Pictorial Style, 2nd edn. (Oxford and New York, 1988), pp. 49-56. 41 Cfr. Gert Duwe, Die Verkündigung an Maria in der niederländischen Malerei des 15. und 16. Jahrhunderts (Frankfurt, 1994); Daniel Arasse, L’Annonciation italienne. Une histoire de perspective (Paris, 1999); Sven Lüken, Die Verkündigung an Maria im 15. und frühen 16. Jahrhundert. Historische und kunsthistorische Untersuchungen (Göttingen, 2000). 42

Stange, Deutsche Malerei, p. 38; Caldera, La pittura in Liguria, p. 31. 43 Stange, Deutsche Malerei, p. 38; Winkler, ‘Jos Ammann’, pp. 57-58; Romano, ‘Giusto di Ravensburg’, p. 36. 44 Cfr. K. M. Birkmeyer, ‘The Arch Motif in Netherlandish Painting of the Fifteenth Century’, Art Bulletin, 43 (1961), pp. 1-20, 99-112; A. Esch, ‘Het boogmotief bij de Vlaamse primitieven. Een synthese’, in Dirk Bouts (c. 1410-1475) een Vlaams primitief te Leuven. Tentoonstellingscatalogus, ed. by Maurits Smeyers (Louvain, 1998), pp. 165-80. 45

On this paragraph see Poleggi, Santa Maria di Castello, pp. 179-80, 239-40, n. 21. 46 William Hood, Fra Angelico at San Marco (New Haven and London, 1993), pp. 260-73. 47 Cfr. Hood, Fra Angelico; Poleggi, Santa Maria di Castello, pp. 113-89; Romano, ‘Giusto di Ravensburg’. 48 Poleggi, Santa Maria di Castello, pp. 182-83, see also p. 240, n. 26; Romano, ‘Giusto di Ravensburg’, pp. 34, 46, n. 15. 49

Hood, Fra Angelico, pp. 240-41, 260.

50

Cfr. Poleggi, Santa Maria di Castello, pp. 172, 239, n. 19.

51

Hood, Fra Angelico, pp. 271-72.

52

Hood, Fra Angelico, p. 262.

53

Leon Battista Alberti, Über die Malkunst, ed. by Oskar Bätschmann and Sandra Gianfreda (Darmstadt, 2002), pp. 13, 92, 182-83. 54 For the metapictorial meaning of the door motif in general cfr.: Victor I. Stoichita, Das selbstbewußte Bild. Vom Ursprung der Metamalerei (Munich, 1996), pp. 61-74. 55 Wolfgang Kemp, Die Räume der Maler. Zur Bilderzählung seit Giotto (Munich, 1996), pp. 106, 113, 138-39.

40

56

Kemp, Die Räume der Maler, pp. 109-13.

57 Robert Campin, Merode-Triptych,The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York; Robert Campin, Werl-Altar, Prado, Madrid; Rogier Van der Weyden, Triptych with the Annuciation, Louvre, Paris, and Galleria Sabauda, Turin. Cfr. Felix Thürlemann, Robert Campin. Das Mérode-Triptychon. Ein Hochzeitsbild für Peter Engelbrecht und Gretchen Schrinmechers aus Köln (Frankfurt, 1997), pp. 53-69; cfr. also: Hans Belting and Christiane Kruse, Die Erfindung des Gemäldes. Das erst Jahrhundert der niederländischen Malerei (Munich, 1994), pp. 79-83. 58 Belting/Kruse, Die Erfindung des Gemäldes, p. 176; Stephan Kemperdick, Der Meister von Flemalle. Die Werkstatt Robert Campins und Rogier van der Weyden (Turnhout, 1997), p. 134. 59 For the window as a metapictorial motiv cfr.: Stoichita, Das selbstbewußte Bild. 60

Arasse, L’Annonciation italienne, pp. 11-12.

61

For other artistic strategies to represent the Annunciation as a mystery: Arasse, L’Annonciation italienne; cfr. also: Christiane Kruse, Wozu Menschen Malen. Historische Begründungen eines Bildmediums (Munich, 2003), pp. 175-224. 62

Winkler, ‘Jos Ammann’, p. 58.

63

Alberti, Über die Malkunst, pp. 7, 102-05, 184-85; cfr. Victor I. Stoichita, Eine kurze Geschichte des Schattens (Munich, 1999), pp. 11-41; Gerhard Wolf, Schleier und Spiegel. Traditionen des Christusbildes und die Bildkonzepte der Renaissance (Munich, 2002), pp. 213-24, 238-44; Kruse, Wozu Menschen malen, pp. 307-42, 401-40. 64 Belting and Kruse, Die Erfindung des Gemäldes, pp. 7179; Wolf, Schleier und Spiegel, pp. 244-48. For painted mirrors as metaphors of painting cfr: Stoichita, Das selbstbewußte Bild, pp. 209-23; Kruse, Wozu Menschen malen, pp. 318-43; Yvonne Yiu, ‚Der Spiegel: Werkzeug des Künstlers oder Metapher der Malerei? Zur Deutung des Spiegels in Produktionsszenarien in der nordischen Malerei des 15. und frühen 16. Jahrhunderts’, in Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, 68 [2005], pp. 475–488. 65 Kemp, Die Räume der Maler, pp. 136-39; Stoichita, Das selbstbewußte Bild, pp. 56-57; Porträt – Landschaft – Interieur. Jan van Eyck’s Rolin-Madonna im ästhetischen Kontext, ed. by Christiane Kruse and Felix Thürlemann (Tübingen, 1999); Gerhard Wolf, ‘Jenseits des Flusses. Affinitäten und Differenzen in den Bildkonzepten Jan van Eycks und Leon Battista Albertis’, pp. 12-29 (pp. 24-26); Steffen Bogen, ‘Die Schauöffnung als semiotische Schwelle. Ein Vergleich der Rolin-Madonna mit Bildfeldern des Franziskuszyklus in Assisi’, pp. 53-72, esp. p. 67; Christiane Kruse, ‘Rogiers Replik. Ein gemalter Dialog über Ursprung und Medialität des Bildes’, pp. 167-85, esp. p. 181; Felix Thürlemann, ‘Schauen als Faulheit. Eine gemalte Kritik an der Weltsicht Jan van Eycks’, pp. 187-99, esp. pp. 191-92. 66Perhaps Ammann’s shadow motif has a theological meaning too: in the words of the angels the Virgin is ‘overshadowed’ (‘obumbrabit’) by the power of God, cfr. Stoichita, Eine kurze Geschichte des Schattens, pp. 67-82; Kruse, Wozu Menschen malen, pp. 420-24.

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Piero and Bouts Creighton Gilbert Yale University

Whenever our culture, in an area of the visual arts, responds to the art of Quattrocento Italy, it sees Piero della Francesca in a remarkable and unique way, a fact which, besides, is widely understood to be such. He is not simply esteemed, but treated with strong attachment. Other artists of the era are admired, but Piero is loved in a way that is a token of the love of modern artists for him, a way that relates intimately to their sense of their own work, and more broadly to modern taste in general. He is not being claimed, it is tacitly stipulated, as the greatest artist of that period. He is not put on a pedestal above Masaccio or Donatello, say, not to mention Leonardo, who benefit from other kinds of approbation. They all, however, occupy a status chiefly bound up with a sense of the chain of history, not as a direct charge. On occasion the art of Piero finds visual reflection among modern artists, as well, something that does not happen with the others apart from the occasional quotation shown as such. It is also exceptional that this status of Piero’s only emerged along with what we regard as the cultural ambient of modernism in art, around the time of post-impressionism and its impact. Those who share it understand that in previous centuries Piero not only did not have such standing, but did not even appear on short lists of the notable artists remembered from the Quattrocento. Surprisingly, there seems to be little scholarship to address the emergence of this high level of approval of Piero, to clarify its coming into being, notably as to its beginnings. Effective study is available on the parallel phenomenon of the history of the collecting of Piero’s work, especially in what is evidently a key period around 1860 when it began in an active way.1 But there was no claim here to broach the issue of defining the qualities in modern taste that are related to him. Earlier citations can be found that show either mild approval or negative judgements, and later on more positive ratings, but it is rare if not

impossible to locate a definition of what was felt to show in Piero a basis for special attraction. To seek this, one can start from turning to later critiques, of the twentieth century, isolating their forms of praise for him, and then hunting for prior analogies. The nearest approach I have found to a survey of the fortuna of Piero, very helpful even if exceedingly condensed, is in a sequence of some four pages put together by De Vecchi as a section of his book on Piero in the Rizzoli series Classici dell’Arte.2 The series included a similar section on each artist to whom a volume was assigned, so that we may owe this to the publishers’ welcome project more than anything else. We are given key paragraphs from the remarks of writers beginning with Vasari, following single sentences from the artists’ own contemporaries, and about half the space offers a survey up to the age of Cavalcaselle in the middle of the nineteenth century. We find singled out some elements of Piero’s interest that are known to be especially his, such as perspective and other geometry, and atmospheric lighting, as tags to determine his personality. Otherwise we are given attention to trends that are usual for artists of his time, such as a human kind of classicism that ‘prepared the way’ for later ‘divine’ works of Umbrian painters. Any sense of approval is mild. A complete change is found in 1897 in the judgement offered by Bernard Berenson, in the section on Piero in his little book, The Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance.3 Among the texts collected by De Vecchi it is certainly an abrupt novelty. We may find slightly earlier assertions of high praise, but in words so few as not to encourage our understanding of what happened. While those who follow him tend simply to add a few words about the quality first isolated by Berenson to those they inherited from earlier texts, he gives this new concern nearly all the wordage of his five pages on the artist. It follows a general rating for Piero so high that ‘it may be questioned whether PIERO AND BOUTS

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Fig. 1. Piero della Francesca, Flagellation, Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, Urbino

another painter has ever presented a world more complete and convincing […] or ever endowed things with more heroic significance’. The artist’s way of accomplishing this was through ‘impersonality’, which is his ‘most distinguishing feature’. The writer then explores two aspects of impersonality, of which it is the second that concerns us, the ‘absence of expressed emotion’. This quality is then detailed through two examples, the Flagellation (Fig. 1) and the Resurrection. It may be permitted to reinforce this approach with another procedure frequent in Piero that Berenson did not mention here, the immobility of the figures. He likes figures fixed to a location and in the placing of their limbs, regardless of the dramatic rationale or the thematic connections. Frozen faces are reinforced by frozen bodies. The isolation of each impassive figure from the rest often reinforces this point, notably in the two works mentioned above which Berenson treated with special emphasis. While this approach reappears constantly in the literature after Berenson, it never has as 42

PIERO AND BOUTS

much emphasis as he had given it. It is found perhaps most vividly in the monograph by Clark, who was in effect a student of Berenson, though even he blends it with other more traditional comments.4 He begins by speaking of our impressed discovery of the ‘calm, majestic art’ of Piero with faces ‘devoid of sentiment’. Of special interest for us perhaps, Clark at once follows this observation by a link to an aspect of modern art close in time to the years of Berenson’s first thinking, a ‘new classicism, of which Cézanne and Seurat were the living manifestations’. The comparison with Seurat had already become common quite some time before Clark. It was widely diffused, notably in general texts on art history, where such linkages across epochs would naturally be evoked. Thus H.W. Janson, in his only allusion to any influence from Piero, finds that the ‘timeless’ quality in Seurat’s art recalls Piero, 5 and Arnason’s history of modern art aligns the older master with Seurat’s ‘figures in isolation’ and ‘withdrawal of figures’ that are ‘still and quiet’.6

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Fig. 2. Piero della Francesca, Legend of the True Cross. Helen’s Discovery of the Cross, San Francesco, Arezzo

It was years after this pairing had become common that it gained a powerful support from empirical history, through the discovery of direct knowledge of Piero by Seurat during his student days in Paris. He attended the École des Beaux-Arts from 1878 to 1880, between the ages of eighteen and twenty. As discussed most thoroughly by Albert Boime in his masters’ thesis of 1962, a large project for a museum of copies included full scale copies of two of Piero’s Arezzo frescoes, Helen’s Discovery of the Cross (Fig. 2) and the Battle of Heraclius, installed in 1874.7 The museum project was very soon dismantled, but among the units retained were these two, placed in the chapel of the École, where Boime reports them still in situ in 1962. The likenesses between the works of the two artists may then also be noted with respect to scale. Although in the quite different context of academic machines such large figurative works were normal at the time, they were really rare in the context of modernism from Monet on, and works like Seurat’s Grande Jatte are invariably noticed as a quite startling exception. This connection has in general been accepted, but is vigorously denied by a recent author, Zimmerman, who finds that links between Piero and Seurat begin with writers around 1910 and Italian painters of the same date.8 He

refutes the association with the copies at the École by noting that the chapel had poor light, and quoting negative remarks about Piero in the writings of its notable administrators, Charles Blanc and Eugène Müntz; it is known that the former was much admired by Seurat. Yet this seems to discount too simply a remark of Müntz of 1884, cited by Boime, calling Piero one of the three or four greatest painters of the fifteenth century, a bold claim at the time; it was surely made in direct awareness of the copies at the École. So too Blanc had written of Piero’s ‘singular genius’.9 De Vecchi summarises that the two scholars, while marked by ‘philological uncertainties’, about Piero, were among those of the time who celebrated him ‘most fervently’. It may seem reasonable to set up a correlation between (a) the new level of praise for him and (b) the new characterization of his art. This would match the earlier general slightness of praise for his art altogether. Similarly, as he had earlier been tagged with characteristics much like those suggested in other artists of his time, it is conspicuous that the high praise for the newly noted qualities mark elements in him not seen in other artists of his era. Thus one would never think of Masaccio or Donatello as immobile or expressionless; vibrating life brings their dramas strongly before us. Atmospheric light in PIERO AND BOUTS

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Fig. 3. Dirk Bouts, Martyrdom of St Erasmus. Central panel of the triptych. Sint-Pieterskerk, Leuven. Photo © IRPAKIK, Brussels

a high key, certainly compatible with Piero, plays a great role in his early employer Domenico Veneziano and, in a context of this kind, Fra Angelico’s graceful flow of characterdefining poses and Uccello’s complex and not strongly organic structures can be seen as modulations from Masaccio with some degree of analogy to Piero. Yet it remains difficult to explain the central quality in Piero that we call classicism in such a context of ties to his predecessors and associates. If we turn to Luca del44

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la Robbia to claim such a background, that is only a sign of the limits of such an approach. Here then I would like to cite for such a role a master painter of the time who can be labelled in at least this aspect more analogous visually to Piero than any of those named above, but who for an obvious reason could have been passed over when seeking such a likeness. This is Dirk Bouts. He is a contemporary of Piero’s, probably about ten years younger but shorter lived, who may be tagged in similar ways for

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the emotional detachment of his figures in bright broad spaces. As is usual in Flemish culture of the time, there is hardly any characterisation of his art in his time and not very much in the following generations. One may then turn at once to art historical writing of more recent times. Of his Martyrdom of St Erasmus (Fig. 3), the standard recent monograph alludes to the almost extreme suppression of dramatic emotion, and of the scene of the countess presenting her husband’s head to the emperor in her plea for justice (Fig. 4) observes that the ‘impassibility is remarkable’. There is an absence of contact among people, calm isolation, ‘a solemn aspect’.10 The themes are milder than these violent ones in other works by the artist. Those selected here were chosen specifically to make the point that such impassive restraint is counterintuitive, whereas it might not seem strange in other cases. Besides, the figures tend to be spatially held apart by the power of the strong light. Another writer comments about the Erasmus with regard to ‘the immobility of the figures, an expression of isolated nature; the artist moves away from narrative to contemplation’.11 These comments occupy only a small part of the writers’ descriptions of the work of the artist. Most of it involves his lively relationships with his great predecessors Jan van Eyck and Rogier van der Weyden. These are shown to be intimate and complex, yet it is striking that the impassive and related aspects had not appeared there. They seem to be Bouts’ originality. One would like to explain the similarities between the stylistic language of Piero and Bouts, so analogous in their local isolation and in their date. Bouts was perhaps younger by about ten years. These matches seem to make a simple coincidence rather unlikely, and that would be a counsel of despair. In cases of this general type, the usual simplest formulation is influence of one artist on the other, but the unlikeness of particular drawing styles is against that. The next most usual option is a common source used by both, but a survey in both areas seems to leave only a blank. The hypothesis I offer here seems to find support in the major importance in both cases, outside these likenesses between them, of their heirship from the local masters of the generation preceding. Van Eyck and Rogier on the one hand, and Masaccio and Donatello on the other, have always been agreed to pre-

Fig. 4. Dirk Bouts, Justice of Emperor Otto III: Ordeal by Fire, Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, Brussels. Photo © IRPA-KIK, Brussels

sent a great revolution in their artistic cultures, particularly in their approach to visual experience of reality. The next generation, the one that concerns us, in both cases is evolutionary, alluding to and comfortably borrowing from these before them. The same nature as before is addressed, but inevitably it is seen somewhat indirectly, with the artifice that comes in copying that preceding artistic view of nature. This is in the most favourable option, as in our two masters, while others might merely be copyists of the prior artists. A modulation toward formal pattern becomes involved in this second-level handling of the new art and reality of the previous painters. One of the natural outcomes appears in fixity and a certain detachment from the natural source.

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NOTES

1 L. Cheles, ‘Piero della Francesca e i vittoriani’, in Piero della Francesca tra arte e scienza, ed. by M. Dalai Emiliani and V. Curzi, (Venice, 1996) pp. 569-92.

O. Del Buono and P. De Vecchi, L’opera completa di Piero della Francesca (Milan, 1967), pp. 10-14.

8 M. Zimmermann, ‘Die “Erfindung” Pieros und seine Wahlverwandtschaft mit Seurat’, in Piero della Francesca and his Legacy, ed. by M. Lavin (Washington, 1995), pp. 268-301.

3 B. Berenson, The Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance (New York, 1897), pp. 68-75.

9 Boime, ‘Seurat’, pp. 269 (on Blanc) and 270-71 (on Müntz).

2

4

K. Clark, Piero della Francesca (London, 1951), pp. 1-2.

5

H. Janson, History of Art (New York, 1962), p. 505.

6

H. Arnason, History of Modern Art (New York, n.d.), p.

66.

46

7 A. Boime, ‘Seurat and Piero della Francesca’, Art Bulletin, 47 (1965), pp. 265-72.

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10 M. Smeyers, Dirk Bouts, Peintre du Silence (Tournai, 1998), pp. 62, 75. 11

43.

C. Cuttler, Northern Painting (New York, 1968), pp. 139-

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Sources and Documents for the Use of the Oil Medium in Fifteenth-Century Italian Painting Francis Ames-Lewis Birkbeck College, University of London Several of the early textual sources on the responses of Italian painters and their patrons to Netherlandish painting in the fifteenth century comment specifically on the qualities of the oil medium.1 Developed to an unmatched degree of technical and visual sophistication by Jan van Eyck, oil had by the 1480s become the standard (although not yet universal) medium for painting on panel throughout the peninsula. This seems to have occurred largely thanks to the presence in Italy of north European paintings, and in particular painters, and occasionally thanks to the first-hand experience gained from visits to the Netherlands by Italian painters. The use of oil as the principal constituent in the panel-painter’s binding medium seems to have developed sooner and more rapidly in centres where a princely court operated. This may have been due to the pervasive cultural influence in Italian courtly centres of the Burgundian court, and the frequent desire on the part of Italian princes to acknowledge this influence by owning and commissioning paintings in which the visual and optical effects of works produced in the Burgundian Netherlands were emulated.2 In major urban centres such as Florence and Venice panelpainting practice was, it seems, bound by technical convention for longer; nevertheless by around 1480 the use of oil was also dominant there. In many instances it seems probable that painters learned of the virtues and opportunities offered by the oil-based mediums from the experience of working on supports other than panel. One important early document, for example, specifies the use of oil for the painting of a gonfalone; and many of the earliest texts and documents refer (or appear to refer) to painting on walls. This paper seeks to chart the growing recognition in the writings of artists and others, and in references in documents,

of the values and potential of oil for painting on a range of supports. By the end of the fifteenth century, for panel painting as well as for painting on other supports, oil binding media had supplanted the traditional egg-tempera medium in the technical armoury of all but a small minority of painters. Later in the article, a number of further commentaries on, or reflecting experience of, Netherlandish painting that identify qualities best achieved using an oil medium are also discussed. Throughout the article, the increasing body of published technical evidence generated by scientific analysis of binding media is drawn on to complement information provided by the textual sources and documents. For all the fundamental work in painting on a panel, Cennino Cennini wrote in the 1390s, ‘you must always temper your colours with yolk of egg, and get them tempered thoroughly – always as much yolk as the colour which you are tempering’.3 To judge from Cennini’s unambiguous advice, the use of oil as a binding medium was not a major feature in the panel-painting technique of the tradition of Giotto that Cennini so warmly espoused. On the other hand, he already linked the use of oil with north European practice: ‘Before I go any farther, I want to teach you to work in oil on wall or panel, as the Germans are much given to do; and likewise on iron and on stone. But we will begin by discussing the wall’. The final sentence here may suggest that Cennini regarded the primary function of oil as being a medium for mural painting, as an addition to buon fresco, rather than as an alternative to egg-tempera for panel painting.4 He continues, however, by instructing the reader on the preparation of an oil ‘good for a tempera, and also for mordants’ by boiling down linseed oil,5 or letting it evaporate down to half the original volume in the August sun.6 Elsewhere he re-

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commends oil for a variety of special purposes: for making tracing paper;7 for preparing lamp black;8 for greasing the hands when handling lapis lazuli;9 as the binding medium for obtaining shot effects in draperies;10 for simulating velvet;11 for painting water;12 as an adhesive for mordant gilding;13 for painting on glass;14 and for damp-proofing a wall before working in fresco.15 But Cennini’s principal commentary on using an oil medium appears in the section on mural painting. By implication, this emphasises his preference for eggtempera for panel painting, and may suggest that he had not yet understood the very different optical properties that working with an oil medium offers, or therefore how the painter might exploit these properties. The use of oil in mural painting was also prioritised by Leon Battista Alberti in discussion of mural painting in his De Re Aedificatoria: ‘It has recently been discovered that linseed oil will protect whatever colour you wish to apply from any harmful climate or atmosphere, provided the wall to which it is applied is dry and in no way moist’.16 In his Commentarii written around 1450, Lorenzo Ghiberti noted that oil had already been used by Giotto, who ‘[...] was fertile in everything [...] he worked on walls, in oil, on panel’, again referring to mural painting first.17 Antonio Averlino, called Filarete, also seems to have preferred that oil should be used in wall painting rather than on panel: he opens his description of the technique of oil painting in his Trattato dell’Architettura with the words: ‘First [one works] on the gessoed panel or better on the wall where the lime must be well dried’.18 All these observations that associate the use of oil primarily with mural painting may suggest that the use of oil in mural technique was more prevalent than we generally think. A contract signed in February 1437, which may be the earliest recorded Italian documentary reference to the medium, requires that Giovanni da Ulma must paint the Chapel of S. Massimo in the palace of the Bishop of Padua, Pietro Donato, ‘all in oil’. This may indicate that it was then still an unusual technique in Padua, and that such a decoration as this needed the technical expertise of a German painter.19 Giovanni da Ulma can with considerable probability be identified with Giovanni di Niccolò d’Alemagna, who with Antonio Vivarini ran 48

one of the principal workshops in Venice until his death in 1450.20 It seems quite possible that while at the Council of Basel, over which he jointly presided from December 1433, Pietro Donato recruited Giovanni d’Alemagna because he was already adept in handling the oil medium, and was able to provide visual and optical qualities in the decoration that Donato had himself experienced when seeing mural paintings north of the Alps.21 Experience of transalpine wall-painting technique through the strong mercantile and cultural connections of Venice with northern Europe, and perhaps even directly through knowledge of Giovanni d’Alemagna’s work in Padua, may also have informed Domenico Veneziano’s mural technique. Indeed, such experience could have been a factor in his success in gaining the commission to decorate the Portinari Chapel in S. Egidio in Florence in 1439.22 In his technical introduction to the Lives of the Artists Vasari observed that Domenico Veneziano ‘painted in oil the chapel of the Portinari in Santa Maria Nuova’,23 and in the ‘Life’ of Domenico Veneziano and Andrea dal Castagno he further commented that ‘On the other part [i.e. his wall in the Portinari Chapel], Domenico did an oil painting of Joachim visiting his consort, St Anne’. Castagno too, to whom – according to Vasari – Domenico taught ‘the method of colouring in oils, which was not then known in Tuscany’,24 ‘painted in oils the Death of Our Lady [...] it is clear that Andrea could employ the medium of oils as successfully as his rival Domenico’.25 Domenico’s use of oil is borne out by the documentary record: early payments relate to labour costs and the purchase of pigments, but between 1 October and 10 October 1441 three payments were made for a total of six pounds of linseed oil.26 This suggests that oil was here used as the binding medium for a secco additions to the frescoed surface, or perhaps also as a mordant for gilding. That Domenico’s lost murals were decoratively strikingly rich is suggested by Vasari’s special praise for the ‘very ornate chamber’ in the Birth of the Virgin scene, and in the Marriage of the Virgin ‘some women in uncommonly delightful and graceful draperies, such as were in use at the time’.27 Domenico Veneziano’s use of oil, perhaps to achieve the special effect often found in Netherlandish paintings of convincingly imitating coloured marble, is also no-

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ted in a record in the 1492 inventory of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s collections. Here is listed ‘Un panno, dipintovi una fighura a sedere in uno tabernacholo [...] di mano di maestro Domenico da Vinegia, colorita a olio, contraffatta a marmo’.28 If this is correct, it suggests that Domenico had wider experience as an oil painter than we now know, and at a precociously early date for easel painting in Florence, given that he died in 1461. It may well have been as a result of Domenico’s use of linseed oil in the S. Egidio frescoes that oil binders gained currency in Florentine mural technique. Recently it has been shown that in his murals painted in 1459 for the Chapel in the Palazzo Medici, Benozzo Gozzoli followed Domenico’s practice by using oil as a binding medium, along with egg-tempera.29 Evidence has also recently been adduced that Piero della Francesca, who worked at S. Egidio with Domenico Veneziano in 1439, also used oil for a secco additions to his frescoes at S. Francesco, Arezzo.30 It may then be argued that when initially used in Italy, and at least in Florence, oil was considered a medium principally suitable for the application of a secco detail in mural painting. Lorenzo Ghiberti’s comment on Giotto’s usage of oil, for which no scientific evidence seems yet to have been produced, might however have reflected his knowledge of some precocious examples of painting with oil in earlier fifteenth-century panel painting in Florence, and his desire to credit Giotto with a leading role in this development. Recently it has been shown that Ghiberti’s contemporary, Masolino, used drying oils, probably linseed oil, in the panels that he painted for the double-sided altarpiece for S. Maria Maggiore in Rome, probably in 1427-28.31 However, Masolino is not likely to have gained experience towards his unusual practice in painting with the oil medium in any Florentine workshop of the 1420s. One possibility is that he may have learned it through early contact with Gentile da Fabriano, perhaps in Lombardy.32 Another is that Masolino learned about oil-painting techniques during his short period working for Pippo Spano in Hungary: certainly, sometime between 1454 and 1459 the Hungarian Michele Pannonio painted in oils his Thalia for Leonello d’Este’s Belfiore studiolo decoration.33 This is a project to which we will return shortly.

Writing in the early 1460s, Filarete recognised that painters working in northern Europe were the most expert in painting with the oil medium: ‘In Germany they work well in this technique, especially Jan van Eyck and Rogier van der Weyden, who have both worked excellently in these oil colours’.34 This remark indicates that, as also for Cennini, ‘Germany’ was a generic term that included the Burgundian Netherlands. Filarete’s knowledge of Northern practice may well have been influenced by the experience of Zanetto Bugatto, one of the two ‘redoubtable imitators’ in Italy of Rogier van der Weyden, according to Ciriaco d’Ancona writing in 1449.35 Like Filarete, Bugatto worked for the Sforza court in Milan: at the Duke’s behest he trained for over two years in Rogier’s Brussels workshop, returning to Milan in 1463 just a year or two before Filarete dedicated his Trattato to Piero di Cosimo de’ Medici in Florence. However, by his own admission, Filarete was not fully informed: ‘You can mix all these colours in oil, but this is another practice and another mode; it is beautiful for anyone who knows how to do it […].’ ‘Tell me how one works in oil. What oil is it?’ ‘It is linseed oil.’ ‘Isn’t it very dark?’ ‘Yes, but it can be lightened. I do not know how except that it is put in an amoretto. Let it stand for a good time and it will clarify. It is true that they say there is another way to do it quicker. Let us leave this.’ ‘How one works. First [one works] on the gessoed panel or better on the wall where the lime must be well dried. First the wood [should be] gessoed and well polished and then you give it a coat of glue. Then [give it] a coat of colour ground in oil if it is white [biacca: lead white in oil] and good or if it is any other colour. It is not important what colour it is [...] When you have given a coat of white to the forms of all the things you want to do on this [panel], [go over it] with the colours that you want to use for shadows and then with a light coat of the colour that you want to clothe them in. When your shadows are dry, you can return, heightening with white and other colours that go well

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with what you have given your figures. You will do this with everything you paint. This same method should be observed on the [panel] and also on the wall.’36 In a dialogue in praise of Borso d’Este’s Villa Belfiore, written around 1475, the humanist Ludovico Carbone commented on two of the Muses painted for Leonello d’Este’s studiolo by Angelo Maccagnino da Siena. Along with Zanetto Bugatto, as noted above, Angelo da Siena had already been described by Ciriaco d’Ancona in 1449 as a ‘redoubtable imitator’ of Rogier van der Weyden, perhaps on account of his handling of the Rogierian oil technique.37 Carbone now wrote: ‘I am aware that two of these paintings were executed with high skill by Angelo da Siena, who fluently mixed oil with the pigments’.38 Recent scientific examination has demonstrated that the panels painted in the first campaign on the Belfiore Muses, the Berlin Polyhymnia and the Milan (Museo Poldi Pezzoli) Terpsichore, are indeed painted with a degree of oil in the medium.39 A document of January 1448 records the supply of ‘a measure of linseed oil’ for ‘Master Angelo the painter to paint figures in oil for the studio’,40 indicating that it had been intended from the start that the Belfiore Muses were to be painted with an oil-based medium. This may reflect the high prestige with which Netherlandish painting was held at Ferrara, at least by July 1449 when Ciriaco d’Ancona wrote his celebrated description, cited in full below, of the Deposition triptych by Rogier van der Weyden in the possession of Leonello d’Este.41 Cosmè Tura’s repainting of the London Calliope(?) between 1459 and 1463 was ‘executed using an essentially Early Netherlandish painting technique [...] Tura has used the oil medium with great skill and sophistication [...] Surely it must be the most striking example of Tura’s response to the works of Rogier van der Weyden known to have been in Ferrara’.42 In a document of June 1451, the first reference to him in the Ferrarese archives, Tura estimates the value of pennants for trumpets painted ‘on both sides with gold and blue, outlined with oil colours’.43 Oil may well have been conventionally acknowledged already by around 1450 as the ideal medium for painting on pliable supports like cloth, such as pennants will have been made from. It has moreover been 50

suggested that Tura’s earliest documented commission, a decorated crest for a palio, apparently made of boiled leather, was also probably painted using an oil-based medium.44 If by the early 1460s, at the latest, oil was in standard use for panel painting in Ferrara, and probably also in Naples, it is no surprise that other princely courts later in the Quattrocento also needed the services of painters proficient in the technique. Writing his life of Federigo da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino, in the 1480s, the Florentine biographer Vespasiano da Bisticci referred to Federigo’s concern to employ a painter who could work in oils at his court at Urbino: [Federigo] was much interested in painting, and because he could not find in Italy painters in oil to suit his taste he sent to Flanders and brought thence a master [uno maestro solenne] who did at Urbino many very stately pictures, especially in Federigo’s study, where were represented philosophers, poets, and doctors of the Church, rendered with wondrous art. He painted from life a portrait of the Duke which only wanted breath.45 As Vespasiano records, Justus of Ghent answered Federigo’s summons, and had certainly arrived in Urbino by February 1473, and possibly earlier.46 Because he shared this need to have a court painter who worked in the oil medium, Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan, in 1460 sent his court painter Zanetto Bugatto to train for nearly two-and-a-half years in the workshop of Rogier van der Weyden. After Bugatto’s return to Milan in 1463, the Duchess wrote to Rogier to thank him: Hearing of your fame and qualifications, we decided formerly to send our master Zanetto to you to learn something in the art of painting. And on his return he recounted to us [...] what thoroughness and attention you had shown, on our behalf, in demonstrating to him freely all the things you knew about in your special trade.47 However, despite his wish for the chance to gain the same experience, Niccolò Colantonio, later the court painter to Alfonso of Aragon, King of Naples, was apparently not permitted to travel north. In his brief account of paint-

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ing in Naples written at the request of Marcantonio Michiel in 1524, Pietro Summonte related that ‘as was the custom at the time, Colantonio’s profession was entirely working in the Flemish manner and in the colouring of that country. As he was much dedicated to this, he determined to go there. But King René kept him at home, and showed him himself the practice and the technique of that colouring’.48 If Vasari’s fallible account is to be believed, however, his pupil Antonello da Messina may, like Zanetto Bugatto, have travelled to the Netherlands to gain experience in the oil technique.49 The earliest documented references to the use of oil as a medium in central Italian easel painting date from the mid-1460s. The documents for Piero della Francesca’s lost doublesided gonfalone in Borgo San Sepolcro of 1466 state that is was to be ‘lavorato a oglio’.50 This is not unexpected, given that a canvas gonfalone is a flexible support, liable to be waved by its bearer. Traditional egg-tempera painting ideally needs a firm wooden support, as Cennino Cennini’s discussion of the preparation of a panel for tempera painting makes clear. For a painting that had to be flexible the more elastic oil is the preferable binding medium. However, Piero appears to have used oil in panel painting at an earlier date than this. When it entered the collection of the Musée du Louvre in Paris, his Portrait of Sigismondo Malatesta, which is generally dated to 1451, was analysed.51 It was found that it is in a mixed technique, in part tempera grassa and in part oil: the results of this technique are noticeable, for example, in the brocade fabric in which Piero achieved a remarkably Netherlandish effect.52 A recent discussion of Piero’s binding mediums contrasts technically the left and the right sides of the Misericordia Polyptych.53 The panels on the left, painted in the mid-to-later 1440s, are in tempera, while for those on the right, painted perhaps in the mid-1450s, Piero used an experimental, mixed tempera grassa technique, not however entirely successfully. By the time of the S. Agostino Polyptych (contracted in 1454, completed by 1469) he was handling oil in a very Netherlandish manner. The authors of this study suggest that Piero is likely to have learned his Netherlandish techniques ‘in the context of professional practice’, and they associate with this – by implication a vis-

it like Zanetto Bugatto’s to a Netherlandish workshop – the 1458 document in which Piero placed in his brother Marco’s hands full control over his possessions. Vasari relates that Antonio and Piero Pollaiuolo’s 1466 altarpiece for the Cardinal of Portugal Chapel at San Miniato al Monte was ‘una tavola a olio [...]’;54 and indeed once again recent analysis of the painting confirms the extensive experimental use of an oil medium.55 This may largely be because this was essentially a Portuguese commission; and the fact that the panel is of oak, rather than poplar which customarily was used in Italian panel painting, further indicates that particular technical instructions may have been provided in order that the Netherlandish pictorial treatment that was pervasive in Portugal, as elsewhere on the Iberian peninsula, might be simulated to the highest degree possible. Vasari recognised that the Pollaiuolo brothers worked extensively in oil: in Antonio’s case, this may in part have been because his training was as a goldsmith, and he was not therefore bound by the conventions of the tempera-painter’s practice. By the mid 1470s, Leonardo da Vinci also was experimenting with the use of oil; and by the early 1480s, shortly after he arrived in Milan, he was, it appears, using oil for the bulk of his work. The 1483 commission document for the Louvre Madonna of the Rocks is peppered with references to particular forms and details (‘hornamenti’) that Leonardo was required to paint in oil.56 The earliest clearly definable work in which Leonardo used an oil binder is the Portrait of Ginevra de’ Benci probably of 1474. Here the wrinkling of the surface in the landscape indicates an excess of oil in the top layer of paint. This dried more quickly than the layers below on exposure to air, resulting in the formation of a wrinkled skin.57 References to the use of oil in Leonardo da Vinci’s own writings are few, but there are enough to indicate his concern with the technique and its implications and outcomes. The earliest of these notes probably date to the late 1470s or 1480: these include a discussion of walnut oil, in which Leonardo refers to a problem that sounds very much like the surface disfigurement that has been observed on the Ginevra de’ Benci portrait: Since walnuts are enveloped in a thick rind, which partakes of the nature of skin, if you

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do not remove it when you make the oil from them, this skin tinges the oil, and when you work with it this skin separates from the oil and rises to the surface of the painting, and this is what makes it change.58 The locus classicus for the early written evaluation of oil as a paint medium is of course Giorgio Vasari’s Lives. Included in Vasari’s discussion of Jan van Eyck’s ‘invention’ of the oilpainting technique, and of its introduction into Italy, is a range of suggestive pieces of information. However, as is well known, his account as a whole is over-simplified and contains various inconsistencies. Nevertheless, Vasari’s comments on Netherlandish painters and their contributions to the use and handling of oil throw light on his general position regarding painting north of the Alps. It is difficult to believe that he was unaware of the errors contained in his discussion, and the historical inconsistencies that these errors generate. His failure to iron these out was, however, perhaps due to his general indifference to any except Italian (and in particular Tuscan) art, rather than to a wilful desire to mislead in the interests of supporting his view of the supremacy of Tuscan art. Vasari’s main reason for writing about Netherlandish painters at all was to explain when and how Italian painters came to use oil. This, he acknowledged, was a crucial change in painting technique which, he conceded, came about through the innovations of Jan van Eyck. Vasari’s discussion of the qualities of oil as a painting medium, and a brief history of its development, is included in paragraph eightythree of the technical ‘Introduction’ to the 1550 edition of the Lives: this was reprinted with some amendments and additions in the 1568 edition.59 Here, discussion starts with the ‘Discovery and Early History’ of oil painting – a brief recitation of major fifteenth-century Netherlandish oil painters, from Jan van Eyck to Hans Memling (and including Martin Schongauer). For perhaps the first time, Vasari also explains the advantages of oil painting over the traditional tempera or buon fresco, both in terms of its optical properties and its handling: A most beautiful invention and a great convenience to the art of Painting, was the discovery of colouring in oil. The first inventor 52

of it was John of Bruges in Flanders, who sent the panel to Naples to King Alfonso,60 and to the Duke of Urbino, Federico II (sic), the paintings for his bathroom.61 He made also a San Gironimo, that Lorenzo de’ Medici possessed,62 and many other estimable things. Then Roger of Bruges his disciple followed him; and Ausse [Hans (Memling)] disciple of Roger, who painted for the Portinari at Santa Maria Nuova in Florence a small picture which is today in Duke Cosimo’s possession.63 From his hand also comes the picture at Careggi, a villa outside of Florence belonging to the most illustrious house of the Medici.64 There were likewise among the first painters in oil Lodovico da Luano [Dirk Bouts of Louvain?] and Pietro Crista, and master Martin [Schongauer] and Justus of Ghent who painted the panel of the communion of the Duke of Urbino and other pictures; and Hugo of Antwerp who was the author of the picture at Santa Maria Nuova in Florence.65 This art was afterwards brought into Italy by Antonello da Messina, who spent many years in Flanders, and when he returned to this side of the mountains, he took up his abode in Venice, and there taught the art to some friends. One of these was Domenico Veniziano, who brought it afterwards to Florence, where he painted in oil the chapel of the Portinari in Santa Maria Nuova. Here Andrea dal Castagno learned the art and taught it to other masters, among whom it was amplified and went on gaining in importance until the time of Pietro Perugino, of Leonardo da Vinci and of Raffaello da Urbino, so much so that it has now attained to that beauty which thanks to these masters our artists have achieved. This manner of painting kindles the pigments and nothing else is needed save diligence and devotion, because the oil in itself softens and sweetens the colours and renders them more delicate and more easily blended than do the other mediums. While the work is wet the colours readily mix and unite one with the other; in short, by this method the artists impart wonderful grace and vivacity and vigour to their figures, so much so that these often seem to us in relief and ready to issue forth from the panel, especially when they are carried out in good drawing with invention and a beautiful style.

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A considerably more detailed account of the introduction of the technique to Italy appears in the ‘Life of Antonello da Messina’ in the 1568 edition. Vasari also added to the 1568 edition a short section on the lives of ‘Divers Flemish Artists’, based on material published the previous year in Lodovico Guicciardini’s Descrittione di Tutti i Paesi Bassi.66 In the lives of ‘Divers Flemish Artists’, Vasari introduced ‘Hubert, [Jan van Eyck’s] brother, who invented oil-painting in 1510, and left many works in Ghent, Ypres and Bruges, where he lived and died’,67 although he should surely have realised that the date of 1510 cannot be reconciled with his own history of the introduction of oil painting into Italy. Is this a printer’s error for 1410, that Vasari failed to notice in proof? Also not mentioned earlier in the Lives are ‘Divic of Louvain’, who is presumably identical with Guicciardini’s ‘Dirich van Haarlem’ (Dieric Bouts) and perhaps with the Lodovico da Luano listed in the technical Introduction. Justus of Ghent is included amongst those ‘who retained the Flemish style, having never left their country’– despite the fact that Justus did leave his country to work for Federigo da Montefeltro in Urbino.68 The ‘Life of Antonello da Messina’ includes a lengthier discussion of the history and properties of oil painting. Vasari here gives much more detail about Jan van Eyck’s supposed ‘invention’ of oil painting, telling the story of the time when Jan ‘[...] set himself to test divers sorts of colours, being fond of alchemy, making oils for the preparation of varnishes’. A newly varnished painting that Jan put out in the sunshine to dry regrettably split at the joints. It then ‘occurred to him that he might succeed in discovering a kind of varnish which would dry in the shade without the aid of the sun [...]’, and he discovered that linseed oil and the oil of nuts dried more quickly than any which he had tried. By boiling these with other ingredients, he obtained the varnish which he and every other painter had so long desired. Numerous experiments showed him that by mixing colours with these oils he gave them a quality of great strength, and that when they were dry they were not only proof against water, but the colours were so strong that they were quite lustrous without any

varnish, and, what was even more remarkable, they blended far better than the tempera.69 Jan ‘at length disclosed [the secret of this technique] to Ruggiero da Bruggia, his pupil, who told his own pupil Ausse [Memling] and others [... But] the method did not get beyond Flanders’.70 Vasari relates the anecdote about the painting by Jan van Eyck sent to Alfonso of Aragon ‘that was highly valued by the king for the beauty of the figures and the new method of its colouring’, and that when Antonello da Messina had resolved to go to Bruges, ‘he became very friendly with Giovanni [Jan van Eyck...], and because Giovanni was willing that Antonello should see the method of colouring in oil, he did not leave the country until he had thoroughly mastered this method, as he so earnestly desired to do’.71 Vasari writes of Antonello’s return to Italy, and of how on his visit to Venice he met ‘Maestro Domenico’ [Veneziano] and ‘taught him the secret and method of oil-painting’.72 Domenico in turn, according to this scenario, introduced the technique into Florence. It hardly needs to be repeated here that this account includes several historical errors. Jan van Eyck died in 1441, when Antonello da Messina was about ten years old; and just at that time, as Vasari rightly stated in his ‘Life of Andrea del Castagno and Domenico Veneziano’, Domenico was already in Florence painting the S. Egidio murals with the use of linseed oil. It is however evident that Jan van Eyck did make significant improvements to the oil-painting technique that he inherited. However, Vasari knowingly exaggerated van Eyck’s ‘invention’, since he was well aware that van Eyck neither invented nor discovered oil painting. Writing to Vasari on 24 February 1563, Vincenzo Borghini cast doubt on the version of events that Vasari gave in the 1550 edition of the Lives. Vasari had sent Borghini a copy of Cennino Cennini’s Libro dell’Arte, and in his letter Borghini expressed his puzzlement that Cennini mentions ‘del colorire ad olio’, rightly observing that ‘I draw your attention to the fact that he mentions oil painting, and that, since it is so early as far as chronology goes, it must have appeared before Antonello da Messina’.73 Although he failed to

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correct the error, Vasari rightly acknowledged the crucial importance for Italian painting of the introduction of the oil technique. At the end of the ‘Life of Antonello’, he wrote that our artists are not less indebted [to Antonello] for having brought the method of painting in oils to Italy, than to Giovanni da Bruggia for having discovered the method in Flanders, as both of them benefited and enriched their art. This invention has made possible those excellent artists who have subsequently been able to make their figures like living beings.74 ***** So much for the textual history of the introduction and use of the oil medium in early Renaissance Italy. What can we learn from other texts of the properties and visual effects of oil painting that were especially appreciated and valued during the fifteenth century? At the end of his discussion of the qualities of oil painting in the ‘Introduction’ to the 1568 edition of the Lives, cited above, Vasari perhaps predictably noted only its value for the painting of figures. But for earlier commentators other visual effects that oil made possible were given greater prominence. It is worth noting that the commission to Domenico Veneziano to paint the S. Egidio murals, in which he made considerable use of linseed oil, presumably seeking to emulate Netherlandish optical and colouristic effects, followed only three years after Leon Battista Alberti’s translation of his De Pictura into the vernacular, Della Pittura. This text could have advised painters in Florence in the later 1430s of a number of pictorial practices and effects by which a greater, and more Netherlandish, truth to Nature could be achieved. Although Alberti did not concede the point, the achievement of some of these results would have been much facilitated by the use of an oil medium. It is increasingly acknowledged, for example, that his advice on the painting of gold using pigments, rather than by applying gold leaf, appears to reflect Netherlandish rather than Florentine practice around 1435: There are some who make excessive use of gold, because they think it lends a certain 54

majesty to painting. I would not praise them at all. Even if I wanted to paint Virgil’s Dido with her quiver of gold, her hair tied up in gold, her gown fastened with a golden clasp, driving her chariot with golden reins, and everything else resplendent with gold, I would try to represent with colours rather than with gold this wealth of rays of gold that almost blinds the eyes of the spectators from all angles. Besides the fact that there is greater admiration and praise for the artist in the use of colours, it is also true that, when done in gold on a flat panel, many surfaces that should have been presented as light and gleaming, appear dark to the viewer, while others that should be darker, probably look brighter’.75 He here argued in favour of an optical effect that results from the use of a technique standard in north European painting but still unfamiliar in Italy. Moreover, he reinforced the message by making it clear that the artist will earn greater praise by demonstrating his skill in the handling of colours. The admiration for gold represented in pigments is echoed by Ciriaco’s praise of the ‘gold really resembling gold’ in the Deposition triptych by Rogier van der Weyden that he saw in Ferrara in 1449.76 Some twenty-five to thirty years after Alberti wrote, Filarete echoed his advice immediately after he had discussed in some detail (as cited above) the method of painting in oil: ‘If you have to do a thing that should appear to be of gold, silver, or other metal, choose suitable colours that will appear like [metal] even though they are not’.77 Alberti’s advice on representing gold is perhaps the best of several reasons for thinking that shortly before writing De Pictura he may have had direct experience of northern Europe, and perhaps in particular of the Burgundian Netherlands and its art.78 It has been suggested that he accompanied Cardinal Niccolò Albergati on his peace mission to the Burgundian court in 1431. Other elements of Alberti’s discussion in Della Pittura reinforce this notion: in his discussion of varietà, for example, Alberti writes of the inclusion in the painting of ‘buildings and provinces’79 in a way that again reflects Netherlandish landscape backgrounds rather than those to be seen in Florentine painting of the time. And later, in De Re Aedificatoria, Alberti also notes that ‘[...]

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our minds are cheered beyond measure by the sight of paintings depicting the delightful countryside, harbours, fishing, hunting, swimming, the games of shepherds, flowers and verdure’.80 Here Alberti seems to reflect the ‘blooming meadows, flowers, trees, leafy and shady hills’81 of Ciriaco’s response to Rogier van der Weyden’s Deposition triptych in July 1449, and to anticipate Fazio’s description in 1456 of the landscape background to a painting by Jan van Eyck: ‘[....] mountains, groves, hamlets, and castles, carried out with such skill you would believe one was fifty miles distant from another’.82 Finally, and perhaps most important, Alberti’s evaluation of the use of pigments to achieve verisimilitude in the effects of light and tonality may have been fundamental to the adoption of oil-painting techniques by Italian painters.83 However, Alberti failed to relate his commentary to Netherlandish art in general, or to any Netherlandish paintings in particular of which he might have had first-hand knowledge. The earliest description of a Netherlandish painting by an Italian observer, and perhaps the most extensive of the fifteenth century, is that written by Ciriaco d’Ancona of the Deposition triptych by Rogier van der Weyden in the collection of Leonello d’Este, Marquess of Ferrara. Ciriaco responded warmly to Rogier’s mimetic qualities, and clearly identifies four qualities that Rogier was able to achieve in part at least because he was painting with an oil medium: After that famous man from Bruges, Johannes the glory of painting, Roger of Brussels is considered the outstanding painter of our time. By the hand of this most excellent painter is a magnificently wrought picture which the illustrious prince Lionello of Este showed me in Ferrara on July 8, 1449. In it one sees our first progenitors, and in a most pious image the ordeal of the Deposition of the God-Incarnate, with a large crowd of men and women standing about in deep mourning. All this is admirably depicted with what I would call divine rather than human art. There you could see those faces come alive and breathe which he wanted to show as living, and likewise the deceased as dead, and in particular many garments, multicoloured soldiers’ cloaks, clothes prodigiously

enhanced by purple and gold, blooming meadows, flowers, trees, leafy and shady hills, as well as ornate porticoes and halls, gold really resembling gold, pearls, precious stones, and everything else you would think to have been produced not by the artifice of human hands but by all-bearing nature itself.84 In this eloquent passage, Ciriaco identifies those qualities of naturalism most admired in Netherlandish works by Italian commentators: the textures and colours of fabrics, the well populated and detailed landscapes, the convincing depiction of gold, pearls and gemstones, and above all the affective realism of the figures and their expression of human emotions. Another enthusiastic assessment of the visual and pictorial results achieved by Netherlandish painters was written in 1456 by Bartolommeo Fazio, court historian to Alfonso of Aragon, King of Naples. Although Fazio did not attribute van Eyck’s pictorial effects specifically to the use of oil, he recognised that the painter had made new discoveries about the properties of colours: [Jan of Gaul] was not unlettered, particularly in geometry and such arts as contribute to the enrichment of painting, and he is thought for this reason to have discovered many things about the properties of colours recorded by the ancients and learned by him from reading Pliny and other authors [...]85 Fazio’s views on Jan van Eyck here also agree with Philip, Duke of Burgundy’s description of van Eyck in 1435 as ‘one so excellent in his art and science’,86 and perhaps show Fazio seeking to elevate van Eyck to the status of Leon Battista Alberti’s ideal painter. True to his respect for classical writers and writings, Fazio also suggests that van Eyck’s ‘discoveries’ about colours came about from reading Pliny, rather than from his experiments in refining oil-painting practice. Nevertheless here the verb ‘colorire’ and ‘colorito’ are synonymous with ‘painting [or painted] in oil’.87 Filarete makes this usage especially clear in his comment that van Eyck and Rogier van der Weyden ‘have both worked excellently in these oil colours’.88 In turn, it probably explains why Piero della Francesca replaced Alberti’s ‘luminum receptio’ – reception of light – 89

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with ‘colorare’ when in De Prospectiva Pingendi he identified the three parts of painting: ‘La pictura contiene in sè tre parti principali, quali diciamo essere disegno, commensuratio et colorare.’90 ‘Colorare’ may here be understood to mean ‘done in colours’: the action of laying pigment onto the support. Moreover, it implies the use of an oil binding medium – just as Alberti’s ‘luminum receptio’ seems to imply Cennino’s egg-tempera technique of paint application, as one should expect in Florence in 1435. In his Cronaca rimata, written in the courtly environment of Federico da Montefeltro’s Urbino in around 1480, Giovanni Santi also discussed the art of Jan van Eyck and Rogier van der Weyden in terms of ‘colouring’: At Bruges, among the others most praised The great Jan, also his pupil Roger, And many gifted with great excellence, So that in this high art and mystery They have been so excellent in colouring That often they have even outdone the life.91 The identification of oil painting with ‘colouring’ is still to be found in Summonte’s account of Colantonio, and at various points in Vasari’s Lives, for example in his account of Antonio Pollaiuolo’s introduction to the practice: ‘As his brother Piero was a painter, he went to him to learn the art of manipulating colours [...] he learned the art of colouring in a few months, and became an excellent master [... together] they produced a quantity of pictures. Among these was an oil painting for the cardinal of Portugal [...]’92 The range of qualities identified by Ciriaco d’Ancona in Rogier’s lost Deposition is also found, if less precisely and certainly less expressively, in Bartolommeo Fazio’s descriptions of paintings by Jan van Eyck and Rogier van der Weyden.93 Fazio too wrote of the triptych in Leonello d’Este’s possession that Ciriaco d’Ancona had described with such feeling seven years previously. Like Ciriaco, Fazio was especially impressed by Rogier’s skill in showing affectingly the full range of human expression. Although for Fazio the Adam and Eve side-panel merely showed ‘no deficiencies from the highest beauty’, of the figures of the central Deposition he wrote that ‘their grief and tears [are] so represented, you would not think 56

them other than real’. But his longest commentary on Rogier’s demonstration of human feelings comes in his observations on the three large canvases of the Passion of Christ owned by Alfonso of Aragon, in which the Mother of God, dismayed at hearing of the capture of her son yet, even with flowing tears, maintaining her dignity, a most perfect work. Likewise the abuse and pain that Christ Our Lord patiently suffered from the Jews, and in this you may easily distinguish a variety of feelings and passions in keeping with the variety of the action.94 This ‘variety of feelings and passions in keeping with the variety of the action’ is a topos derived from Pliny’s praise of Aristeides (Natural History XXXV, 98), but one that was well chosen to highlight Fazio’s principal critical concern. It echoes Alberti’s discussion in De Pictura of the importance of showing a range of human feeling in a narrative work, as did our Tuscan painter Giotto [who] represented the eleven disciples struck with fear and wonder at the sight of their colleague walking on the water, each showing such clear signs of his agitation in his face and entire body that their individual emotions are discernible in every one of them.95 Something of the same concern with the depiction of human feeling is to be found in a letter written in 1460 by Alessandra Strozzi to her son Lorenzo in Bruges. This includes a chance surviving reference to this same quality of affective realism, observed in a Netherlandish painting here by a bourgeois Florentine woman rather than a courtly intellectual. It hints at a growing enthusiasm and, already by 1460, a market demand for Netherlandish art in Florence: As to the two painted canvases, one is the Three Magi, offering gold to our Lord, and they are good figures. The other is a peacock, which seems very fine to me, and is enriched with other decorations. To me they seem beautiful; I will keep one, because, from what you in your letter say they cost, I don’t know if here one would get three florins apiece, for they are small canvases. If I had a

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chance to sell them at a profit, I would sell them both. The Holy Face I will keep, for it is a devout figure and beautiful.96 Alessandra Strozzi’s brief characterisation of the painting of Christ – ‘una divota figura e bella’ – which echoes Ciriaco’s use of the word ‘pientissimo’ to describe Rogier van der Weyden’s Deposition in Leonello d’Este’s collection, is a unique record of a Florentine’s response to a Netherlandish painting in the fifteenth century. In his life of Jan van Eyck, Fazio also describes the Lomellini Triptych, by then in the collection of Alfonso of Aragon. He comments in particular on the central panel of the Annunciation, showing a Virgin Mary ‘notable for its grace and modesty’, and an Angel Gabriel ‘with hair surpassing reality’. One of the side panels showed St Jerome [...] like a living being in a library done with rare art: for if you move away from it a little it seems that it recedes inwards and that it has complete books laid open in it, while if you go near, it is evident that just their main features are there. 97 This sense of the impressive visual and spatial illusionism that could be achieved through the tonal handling of oil-bound pigments in turn reflects another comment of Ciriaco d’Ancona. Discussing Angelo da Siena’s Clio, one of the first of the Muses painted for Leonello d’Este’s Belfiore studiolo, and already completed when he saw it in 1449, he wrote: What I had seen from one point as round, shining pearls and gleaming gems projecting from the base of the gold coloured dais appear from another point as even, smooth panels of flat pigment; I am indeed bound to marvel exceedingly at this painter’s talent.98 Bartolommeo Fazio also notes in particular the effects of light in Jan van Eyck’s Lomellini Altarpiece: ‘[...] as if through a chink in the wall falls a ray of sun that you would take to be real sunlight’; and in another work ‘there is a lantern in the bath chamber, just like one lit’. In a comment that seems to echo not only Ciriaco d’Ancona’s description of the landscape in Rogier van der Weyden’s Deposition but also

Leon Battista Alberti’s account of the painting that is ‘richly varied’,99 he lavishes praise on a landscape by van Eyck which showed ‘[...] horses, minute figures of men, mountains, groves, hamlets, and castles, carried out with such skill you would believe one was fifty miles distant from another’. This he saw in a painting of women of uncommon beauty emerging from the bath [...] of one of them he has shown only the face and breast but has then represented the hind parts of her body in a mirror painted on the wall opposite, so that you may see her back as well as her breast [...] almost nothing is more wonderful in this work than the mirror painted in the picture, in which you see whatever is represented as in a real mirror.100 To achieve the particular artistic interests and qualities highlighted in discussions of specific Netherlandish paintings by such early commentators as Ciriaco d’Ancona and Bartolommeo Fazio virtually required that the painter exploit oil as the binding medium. Such interests and artistic concerns were, however, those primarily of fifteenth-century observers rather than of their successors. Paradoxically, once by the turn of the century oil painting had largely superseded egg-tempera painting throughout the peninsula, new aesthetic priorities that excluded those Netherlandish qualities of pictorial treatment that were highly valued in the Quattrocento were becoming established. This is perhaps most famously indicated by Michelangelo’s comments recorded by Francisco de Hollanda in 1538. In response to a question of Vittoria Colonna’s about the ‘devout’ character of Flemish art, Michelangelo is reported to have said: Flemish painting [...] will, generally speaking, Signora, please the devout better than any painting of Italy, which will never cause him to shed a tear, whereas that of Flanders will cause him to shed many; and this not owing to the vigour and quality of the painting but because of the goodness of the devout person. It will appeal to women, especially the very old and the very young, and also to monks and nuns and to certain noblemen who have no sense of true harmony.101

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Influential attitudes such as Michelangelo’s, and the aesthetic priorities that his words convey, have dominated in the historiographical tradition; as has Vasari’s indifference towards Netherlandish artists because of his insistence on the pre-eminence of the artistic qualities and characteristics of Italian, and especially of Tuscan, painters. For this reason, the strength of Netherlandish art as a major stimulus to the activities of Italian fifteenth-century painters has been consistently underestimated in the writing of the history of Italian Renaissance art. In particular, the great importance of the adoption of Netherlandish oil-painting techniques, which permitted and indeed encouraged the new naturalism of Renaissance

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painting, has not been adequately acknowledged. In recent years, however, in books, exhibition catalogues and scholarly articles, more and more attention has been paid to this field of study. The increasing understanding of the strength and significance of Italian responses to Netherlandish art in the fifteenth century is now progressively offering a more historically refined and more accurate reconstruction of the history of Quattrocento painting. Collections of studies such as this volume can only help in the process of raising awareness of the high regard in which Netherlandish painting and painting techniques were held in fifteenth-century Italy.

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NOTES

1 For many of the texts cited here, see Paolo Torresan, Il Dipingere di Fiandra. La pittura neerlandese nella letteratura artistica italiana del Quattro e Cinquecento (Modena, 1981). For recent discussion of these textual sources and of the oil technique, see Paula Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence. The Impact of Netherlandish Painting, 1400-1500 (New Haven and London, 2004). 2 On the cultural importance of the Burgundian court in fifteenth-century Europe, and not least in Italy, see recently inter alia Marina Belozerskaya, Rethinking the Renaissance. Burgundian Arts across Europe (Cambridge and New York, 2002); The Age of Van Eyck. The Mediterranean World and Early Netherlandish Painting 1430-1530, exh. cat. (Bruges, Groeningemuseum, 2002), ed. by Till-Holger Borchert (London, 2002). 3 Cennino Cennini, The Craftsman’s Handbook ‘Il Libro dell’Arte’, trans. by Daniel V. Thompson Jr (New Haven, 1933; repr. New York, 1960), p. 91. 4

Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, p. 57.

5

Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, pp. 58-59.

6

Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, p. 59.

7

Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, pp. 13-14: ‘If you want to make it more transparent, take some clear and fine linseed oil; and smear it with some of this oil on a piece of cotton’, for example. 8 Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, p. 22: ‘[...] take a lamp full of linseed oil, and fill the lamp with this oil, and light the lamp. Then put it, so lighted, underneath a good clean baking dish [...] and the smoke which comes out of the flame will strike the bottom of the dish, and condense in a mass’. 9

Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, p. 37.

10

Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, p. 89: ‘When you have worked with any colour you wish [...] and you want to get a shot effect, work over the gold with any oil colour you please, provided it differs from the ground’. 11 Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, pp. 89-90: ‘If you want to get the effect of a velvet, do the drapery with any colour you wish, tempered with yolk of egg. Then make the cut threads, as the velvet requires, with a minever brush, in a colour tempered with oil’. 12

Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, pp. 95-96: ‘[...] then, in secco, lay verdigris in oil uniformly over the whole ground’. 13 Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, p. 96: ‘There is a mordant which is perfect for wall, for panel, for glass, for iron, and for any location; and it is made in this way. You take your oil, cooked on the fire or in the sun [...] as I have shown you before; and work up with this oil in a little white lead and verdigris’. 14 Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, pp. 111-13: ‘[...] after you have shaded with the aforesaid colour you may paint any costumes, and mark out with oil paint’ (at 112); ‘Take various colours ground in oil, such as ultramarine blue, black, verdigris, and lac’ (at 113). 15 Cennini, Craftsman’s Handbook, p. 120: ‘Regardless of the stone the wall is made of, take linseed oil cooked as if for

a mordant, and temper pounded brick with it, and wet it up. But first of all apply some of this oil or mordant to the wall, boiling hot, with a brush or swab’. For the use of oil glazing for special purposes (for example, for glazing over certain pigments) in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century panel paintings, see J. Dunkerton, ‘Modifications to traditional egg tempera techniques in fifteenth-century Italy’, in Early Italian Paintings: techniques and analysis, ed. by T. Bakkenist, R. Hoppenbrouwers and H. Dubois (Maastricht, 1997), pp. 29-30. 16 Leon Battista Alberti, On the Art of Building in Ten Books, trans. by Joseph Rykwert, Neil Leach and Robert Tavernor (Cambridge, MA and London, 1988), p. 177; for the original see Leon Battista Alberti, De Re Aedificatoria, ed. by Giovanni Orlandi and Paolo Portoghesi, 2 vols (Milan, 1966), 2, p. 505 [Libro Sesto, Capitolo IX]. 17 Lorenzo Ghiberti, I Commentarii, f.8 v in the MS in Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale; for this translation, see Creighton Gilbert, Italian Art 1400-1500. Sources and Documents (Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1980), p. 77. For published transcriptions from the original, see Julius von Schlosser, Lorenzo Ghibertis Denkwürdigkeiten (I Commentarii) (Berlin, 1912), p. 36: ‘Costui fu copio[so] in tutte le cose, lavo[rò] in [...] (fresco), in muro, lavorò a olio, lavorò in tavola’; and Lorenzo Ghiberti. I Commentari, ed. Ottavio Morisani (Naples, 1947), p. 33: ‘[...] lavorò in [fresco], in muro, lavorò a olio, lavorò in tavola.’ Interpretation of the vocabulary and the punctuation of the MS copy of Ghiberti’s lost autograph is notoriously difficult: it is not impossible that Ghiberti intended to record that Giotto worked in oil on walls, and that he worked on panel (by implication) in egg-tempera. 18 Filarete’s Treatise on Architecture, trans. by John R. Spencer, 2 vols (New Haven, 1965), 1, p. 311 [book XXIV]; for the original, see Antonio Averlino detto il Filarete, Trattato di Architettura, ed. by Anna Maria Finoli and Liliana Grassi (Milan, 1972), 2, p. 668. 19 Erice Rigoni, ‘Giovanni da Ulma è il pittore Giovanni d’Alemagna?’, Atti e memorie dell’Accademia di scienze, lettere ed arti in Padova n.s. LIV (1937-38), pp. 131-36; repr. in L’arte rinascimentale in Padova. Studi e Documenti (Padua, 1970), pp. 51-6: ‘tutto a olio in la forma che sta quelli de messer zuan cornaro et meio’; see also Maria Clelia Galassi, Il disegno svelato:Progetto e immagine nella pittura italiana del primo rinascimento (Nuoro, 1998), p. 63. 20 See Alberto De Nicolò Salmazo, ‘La pittura rinascimentale a Padova’, in La Pittura in Italia. Il Quattrocento, 2 vols, ed. by Federico Zeri (Milan, 1986), 1, p. 640; and now Ian Holgate, ‘Giovanni d’Alemagna, Antonio Vivarini and the early history of the Ovetari Chapel’, Artibus et Historiae 47 (2003), pp. 9-29. 21 On Donato, see Ian Holgate, ‘Paduan culture under the patronage of Bishop Pietro Donato’, Renaissance Studies 16 (2002), pp. 1-23, especially pp. 13-17 where the author discusses manuscripts commissioned by Donato that were illuminated by Northern miniaturists. 22 This is suggested also by Vasari, who opened his discussion of the Portinari Chapel frescoes by writing of the ‘very celebrated painter Domenico Veneziano, who had been invited to Florence because of his new method of colouring in oil’: Giorgio Vasari, ‘Life of Andrea dal Castagno and Domenico

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Veneziano’, in The Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects, trans. by A.B. Hinds, ed. by William Gaunt, 4 vols (London, 1963), 2, p. 14. 23

See the technical introduction to the Lives, which is conveniently published separately, in an English translation, as Giorgio Vasari, Vasari on Technique, trans. by Louise S. Maclehose (London, 1907; repr. New York, 1960), p. 229. 24

Vasari, Lives, trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 2, p. 15.

25 Vasari, Lives, trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 2, p. 15; in the 1550 edition of the Lives Vasari wrote ‘Dall’altra parte aveva maestro Domenico fatto ad olio nell’altra parete di detta cappella la Natività et lo Sposalizio di detta Vergine; et Andrea aveva cominciato ad olio l’ultima storia della morte di Nostradonna...’; Helmut Wohl, The Paintings of Domenico Veneziano. A Study in Florentine Art of the Early Renaissance (New Haven and London, 1980), pp. 355-57. 26 Wohl, Domenico Veneziano, p. 342; Helmut Wohl, ‘Domenico Veneziano Studies: the Sant’Egidio and Parenti Documents’, Burlington Magazine, 113 (1971), pp. 635-41; Giuletta Chelazzi Dini, catalogue entry on the S. Egidio mural fragments (Florence, Cenacolo di S. Apollonio), in Una Scuola per Piero exh. cat. (Florence, Uffizi, 1992-93), ed. by Luciano Bellosi (Venice, 1992), pp. 77-78. 27

Vasari, Lives, trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 2, p. 15.

28

‘A canvas, painted with a seated figure in a tabernacle… by the hand of maestro Domenico Veneziano, coloured in oils to simulate marble’; see Marco Spallanzani and Giovanna Gaeta Bertelà, Libro d’Inventario dei beni di Lorenzo il Magnifico (Florence, 1992), p. 71. 29 Cristina Acidini Luchinat, Benozzo Gozzoli: la Cappella dei Magi (Milan, c. 1993), pp. 375-76; Luchinat, ‘Benozzo Gozzoli’s Chapel of the Magi Restored and rediscovered’, in The Early Medici and their Artists, ed. by Francis Ames-Lewis (London, 1995), pp. 125-33 at pp. 127-28. 30 Paolo Bensi, ‘Materiali e procedimenti pittorici’, in Un progetto per Piero della Francesca: indagini diagnostico-conoscitive per la conservazione della ‘Leggenda della Vera Croce’ e della ‘Madonna del Parto’ (Comitato nazionale per il quinto centenario della morte di Piero della Francesca, et al.; Florence, 1989), pp. 256-57. I am grateful to Ingrid Alexander-Skipnes for this reference. 31 Carl Brandon Strehlke with Cecilia Frosinini, The Panel Paintings of Masolino and Masaccio (Milan, 2002), pp. 23-24, 39, and 232-43, cats. 28-30. 32 Strehlke with Frosinini, Panel Paintings, p. 39. It has been shown by scientific analysis that Gentile da Fabriano also used oil as a medium in his 1425 Quaratesi Altarpiece for San Niccolò sopr’Arno in Florence; Dunkerton,‘Modifications’ pp. 29-33; Strehlke with Frosinini, Panel Painting, p. 39. 33 Pannonio is recorded as working for the Este court in 1454-59; see Grazia Biondi, ‘Documenti relativi allo spazio di Belfiore nell’Archivio di Stato di Modena’, in Le Muse e il Principe, exh. cat. (Milan, Museo Poldi Pezzoli, 1991), ed. by Alessandra Mottola Molfino and Mauro Natali, 2 vols (Modena, 1991), 1: Saggi, pp. 305 and 307. 34 Filarete’s Treatise, trans. Spencer, 1, p. 311; Filarete, Trattato, eds. Finoli and Grassi, 2, p. 268: ‘nella Magna si lavora bene in questa forma maxime da quello maestro Giovanni di Bruggia et maestro Ruggieri i quali anno adoperato optimamente questi colori a olio’ (Book XXIV). 35 See Andrea Di Lorenzo, ‘Le Muse di Belfiore nelle descrizioni degli umanisti’, in Le Muse e il Principe, exh. cat. eds. Mottola Molfino and Natali, 1: Saggi, pp. 321-31 at pp. 326-27; and for proposals about the two ‘redoubtable imitators’ of Rogier, see recently Creighton Gilbert, ‘The two

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Italian pupils of Rogier van der Weyden: Angelo Macagnino and Zanetto Bugatto’, Arte Lombarda 122 (1998), pp. 5-18. 36 Filarete’s Treatise, trans. Spencer, 1, p. 311; Filarete, Trattato, eds. Finoli and Grassi, 2, pp. 668-69. 37 Le Muse e il Principe, exh. cat. eds. Mottola Molfino and Natali, 1: Saggi, pp. 326-27. 38 ‘Agnosco duas ex his picturis ab Angelo Senensi artificiosissime laboratas, qui oleum coloribus venustissime admiscebat’: Ludovico Carbone, De amoenitate, utilitate, magnificentia Herculei Barchi; see Alfonso Lazzari, ‘Il “Barco” di Lodovico Carbone’, Atti e memorie della deputazione ferrarese di storia patria 24 (1919), pp. 5-44 at pp. 34-37, Di Lorenzo, ‘Le Muse’ in Le Muse e il Principe, exh. cat. eds. Mottola Molfino and Natali, 1: Saggi, pp. 321-31 at pp. 328-31. 39 On the Poldi Pezzoli Terpsichore, see Pinin Brambilla Barcilon, with Antonietta Gallone, ‘Il restauro della Tersicore al Museo Poldi Pezzoli’, in Le Muse e il Principe, exh. cat. eds. Mottola Molfino and Natali, 1: Saggi, pp. 263-86; in general on the technique of the Belfiore Muses see Roberto Bellucci, Francesca Ciani Passeri, Marco Ciatta, Carla Giovannoni, Patrizia Petrone and Chiara Rossi Scarzanelli, ‘Urania, Erato e le altre’, in Le Muse e il Principe, exh. cat. eds. Mottola Molfino and Natali, 1: Saggi, pp. 235-50 especially pp. 24850; and recently on Angelo da Siena and his technique, see J. Dunkerton, ‘Cosmè Tura’s Painting Technique’, in Cosmè Tura. Painting and Design in Renaissance Ferrara exh. cat. (Boston, Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, 2002), ed. by Stephen J. Campbell (Boston, 2002), pp. 107-51, at pp. 107-13. 40 Dunkerton, ‘Tura’s Painting Technique’, p. 111, citing Adriano Franceschini, Artisti a Ferrara in età umanistica e rinascimentale: Testimonianze archivistiche, parte I: dal 1341 al 1471 (Ferrara, 1993), p. 305 doc. 606b: ‘Uno pexo de olio de linoxa [...] per dopincere figure a olio’. 41

See below, p. 55 and n. 84.

42 Jill Dunkerton, Ashok Roy and Alistair Smith, ‘The unmasking of Tura’s “Allegorical Figure”: A Painting and its Concealed Image’, National Gallery Technical Bulletin 11 (1987), pp. 5-35, at pp. 31-32, and ibid., ‘La Musa di Londra: Analisi delle techniche pittoriche delle due stesure’, in Le Muse e il Principe, exh. cat. eds. Mottola Molfino and Natali, 1: Saggi, pp. 251-62. For more recent discussion of Tura’s handling of the oil medium, see Dunkerton, ‘Tura’s Painting Technique’, pp. 107-51. 43 Franceschini, Artisti a Ferrara, p. 355 doc. 663h: ‘...profiladi de choluori al ollio...’. 44

Dunkerton,‘Tura’s Painting Technique’, p. 113.

45

Vespasiano da Bisticci, Renaissance Princes, Popes & Prelates. The Vespasiano Memoirs: Lives of Illustrious Men of the XVth Century, trans. by William George and Emily Waters (London, 1926; repr. New York, 1963), p. 101. Another, rather later, example is Isabella d’Este’s criticism of Pietro Perugino’s Battle of Love and Chastity. Writing to Perugino on 30 June 1505, she commented that ‘I am sorry that the painter Lorenzo of Mantua advised you not to employ oils, for I should have preferred this method, as it is more effective’; see David S. Chambers, Patrons and Artists in the Italian Renaissance (London, 1970), p. 143. 46 He was almost certainly already in Rome before the death of Pope Paul II on 26 July 1471; for Justus of Ghent, see most comprehensively Mark L. Evans, ‘“Un maestro solenne”. Joos van Wassenhove in Italy’, Nederlands Kunsthistorisch Jaarboek 44 (1993), pp. 75-110. 47 Gilbert, Italian Art 1400-1500, p. 121; for the original, see Francesco Malaguzzi-Valeri, Pittori Lombardi del Quattrocento (Milan, 1902), pp. 126-27 (Francesco Sforza to the Duke of

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Burgundy, 26 December 1460: pp. 126-27; Bianca Maria Sforza to Rogier van der Weyden, 7 May 1463: p. 127) 48 My translation. The original reads: ‘la professione del Colantonio tutta era, sì come portava quel tempo, in lavoro di Fiandra e lo colorire di quel paese. Al che era tanto dedito che aveva deliberato andarci. Ma il re Raniero lo ritenne qua, con mostrarli ipso la pratica e la tempera di tal colorire’; see Torresan, Dipingere di Fiandra, pp. 47-48; Fausto Nicolini, L’Atrte napoletana del Rinascimento e la lettera di Pietro Summonte a Marcantonio Michiel (Naples, 1925), p. 160. 49 Vasari, On Technique, p. 229: ‘This art [i.e. oil painting] was afterwards brought into Italy by Antonello da Messina, who spent many years in Flanders, and when he returned to this side of the mountains, he took up his abode in Venice, and there taught the art to some friends’. For some support for this episode see Joanne Wright, ‘Antonello da Messina – the origins of his style and technique’, Art History 3 (1980), pp. 41-60; for a different view see Jill Dunkerton, ‘North and South: Painting Techniques in Renaissance Venice’, in Renaissance Venice and the North, exh. cat. (Venice, Palazzo Grassi, 1999), ed. by Bernard Aikema and Beverly Louise Brown (London, 1999), pp. 92-103. 50 Eugenio Battisti, Piero della Francesca, 2 vols (Milan, 1971), 2, pp. 226-27 doc. LXXXVI (Arezzo, Archivio Centrale di Stato, Conventi Soppressi n. 20: Convento di S.Orsola d’Arezzo, filza no. 18, Carte della Compagnia della Nunziata, cc. 44 and 49). 51 Michel Laclotte, ‘Le portrait de Sigismondo Malatesta par Piero della Francesca’, La Revue du Louvre 4 (1978), pp. 255-66. 52 Paolo Bensi, ‘Il ruolo di Piero della Francesca nello sviluppo della technica pittorica del Quattrocento’, in Piero della Francesca tra arte e scienza. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi, Arezzo 8-11 ottobre 1992, Sansepolcro 12 ottobre 1992, ed. by Marisa Dalai Emiliani and Valter Curzi (Venice, 1996), pp. 167-81. 53 Roberto Bellucci and Cecilia Frosinini, ‘Piero della Francesca’s Process: Panel Painting Technique’, in Painting Techniques. History, Materials and Studio Practice (Contributions to the Dublin Congress 7-11 September 1998), ed. by Ashok Roy and Perry Smith (London, 1999), pp. 89-93 at pp. 9192. I am grateful to Fiona Whitehouse for this reference. 54 Vasari, Lives, trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 2, p. 81; he also records that Piero Pollaiuolo ‘who had learned oil-painting from Andrea dal Castagno, painted in that medium the wall spaces under the architrave below the vaulting, doing some prophets’; that for the captains of the Parte [Guelfa] he also ‘did a Madonna and Child in a lunette surrounded by a border of cherubim, all in oils’, and ‘on a pilaster of S. Michele in Orto they painted in oils on canvas the Angel Raphael with Tobias’. This painting (actually on panel) is now in Turin, Galleria Sabauda. On the Cardinal of Portugal Chapel altarpiece, see Paula Nuttall, ‘“Fecero al Cardinale di Portogallo una tavola a olio”. Netherlandish influence in Antonio and Piero Pollaiuolo’s San Miniato altarpiece’, Nederlands Kunsthistorish Jaarboek 44 (1993), pp. 111-24; Nuttall, Flanders to Florence, pp. 174-76.

Vinci. The Origins of a Genius (New Haven and London, 1998), pp. 113-14; on p. 92 Brown suggests that the use of oil is also discernible in Leonardo’s Uffizi Annunciation. On Leonardo’s exploitation of oil for colouristic and tonal effect, see further Marcia Hall, Color and Meaning. Practice and Theory in Renaissance Painting, (Cambridge, 1992), pp. 67-68. 58 From the Codex Atlanticus, f.4v-b; Jean-Paul Richter, The Literary Works of Leonardo da Vinci, 2 vols (2nd ed., London/New York/Toronto, 1939), 1, p. 362 para. 631. Carlo Pedretti, in his Commentary on Richter, 2 vols (Oxford, 1977), 1, p. 366, dates this entry in the Codex Atlanticus to 1478-80. A further note in the Codex Atlanticus (f.71v-a) ‘on how to restore oil colours that have become dry’ (Richter, Literary Works, 1, p. 363 para. 632) is dated by Pedretti, Commentary, 1, p. 366 to c. 1480. 59

Vasari, On technique, pp. 226-30.

60 This could refer either to the ‘St George’ acquired for Alfonso of Aragon in 1443-45 (Roberto Weiss, ‘Jan van Eyck and the Italians’, Italian Studies 11 (1956), pp. 1-15 at p. 11; Gabriella Befani Canfield, ‘The Reception of Flemish Art in Renaissance Florence and Naples’, in Petrus Christus in Renaissance Bruges. An Interdisciplinary Approach, ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth (New York, 1995), pp. 35-39) or perhaps to the Lomellini Triptych recorded in Alfonso’s collection by Bartolommeo Fazio in 1456 (Michael Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators (Oxford, 1971), p. 106). However, in the ‘Life of Antonello da Messina’ Vasari described this same work as ‘an oil-painting of Giovanni, having many figures, being sent to Alfonso I, King of Naples, by some Florentines trading in Flanders, which was highly valued by the king for the beauty of its figures and the new method of its colouring’ (i.e. painting in oils); and he further relates that Antonello da Messina ‘learned how King Alfonso had received this picture of Giovanni da Bruggia from Flanders, which was painted in oil so that it might be washed, would resist all accidents, and possessed every quality. When he had once seen the picture, the brightness of its colouring and the unity and beauty of the painting made such an impression upon him that he laid aside every other care and design and set out for Flanders’: Vasari, Lives trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 1, p. 356. This was evidently a different, and otherwise unknown, painting by van Eyck. 61 There was only one Federigo, Duke of Urbino; this is probably a reference to the painting described by Fazio as of ‘women of uncommon beauty emerging from the bath’ (Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, p. 107), owned in fact, according to Fazio, by Ottaviano della Carda, Federigo’s nephew and counsellor. 62 Presumably this is the ‘St Jerome’ recorded in the Medici inventories of 1465 and 1492 (for the latter see Spallanzani and Gaeta Bertelà, Libro d’Inventario, p. 52), which is perhaps identifiable with the small panel from Van Eyck’s workshop now in Detroit. 63 Further identified in Vasari’s ‘Lives of Divers Flemish Artists’ as ‘a small picture of the Passion of Christ which is in Florence, in the duke’s possession’ (Vasari, Lives trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 4, p. 252), this is probably the multi-narrative panel now in Turin, Galleria Sabauda.

56 Recently, see Pietro C. Marani, Leonardo da Vinci (English ed., New York, 2000), pp. 343-44 doc. 14, especially p. 344b, with the ‘Lista de li hornamenti se ano a fare a lancona dela conceptione [...]’.

64 This presumably refers to the Uffizi Entombment, not by Memling but from Rogier van der Weyden’s workshop. This is now usually identified as the painting described in the Medici inventory of 1492 as the altarpiece at the Villa of Careggi; see Spallanzani and Gaeta Bertelà, Libro d’Inventario, p. 133. For doubts about this, see Nuttall, ‘Medici and Netherlandish Painting’, pp. 135-52 at pp. 146-47; and Nuttall, Flanders to Florence, pp. 113-14.

57 David Bull, ‘Two portraits by Leonardo: Ginevra de’ Benci and the Lady with the Ermine’, Artibus et Historiae 25 (1992), pp. 67-83. See also David Alan Brown, Leonardo da

65 The Portinari Altarpiece (Florence, Uffizi), which significantly was described with greater enthusiasm by Lodovico Guicciardini as a ‘beautiful altarpiece’ (‘la bellissima tavola,

55

Alessandro Cecchi, ‘The Conservation of Antonio and Piero del Pollaiuolo’s Altarpiece for the Cardinal of Portugal’s Chapel’, Burlington Magazine, 141 (1999), pp. 81-88.

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che si vede a Firenze in santa Maria nuova’; see Vasari, On Technique, p. 228 n. 7). 66 Lodovico Guicciardini, Descrittione di Tutti i Paesi Bassi (Antwerp, 1567). 67

Vasari, Lives trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 4, p. 252.

68

Vasari, Lives trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 4, p. 253.

69

Vasari, Lives trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 1, p. 355.

70

Vasari, Lives trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 1, p. 356.

71

Vasari, Lives trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 1, pp. 356-57.

72

Vasari, Lives trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 1, p. 357.

73

‘Solo vi metto in consideratione, che fa mentione del colorire a olio, che costui è puro antico, e per una consideratione de’tempi pari innanzi ad Antonello da Messina [...]’; for Borghini’s letter, Giorgio Vasari, Der Literarische Nachlass Giorgio Vasaris, ed. Karl Frey, 3 vols (Munich, 1923-40), 2, p. 26; translation from Robert J. Williams, ‘Vincenzo Borghini and Vasari’s “Lives”’ (doctoral dissertation, Princeton University, 1989, Ann Arbor, MI, 1989, p. 145). 74

Vasari, Lives, trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 1, p. 358.

75

Leon Battista Alberti, On Painting and On Sculpture, ed. and trans. by Cecil Grayson (London, 1972), p. 93 para. 49. 76 Wolfgang Stechow, Northern Renaissance Art 1400-1600. Sources and Documents (Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1966), pp. 8-9. 77

Filarete’s Treatise, trans. Spencer, 1, p. 311.

78

The possibility that Alberti knew Netherlandish paintings through direct experience of painting in Bruges or Brussels, rather than through his knowledge of Netherlandish paintings in the collection of Pope Eugenius IV (for which see Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, p. 35), was first raised by Girolamo Mancini, Vita di Leon Battista Alberti, (Florence, 1882), pp. 85-86; see also Elizabeth Dhanens, ‘Het Portret van kardinaal Nicolò Albergati door Jan van Eyck, 1438’, Academiae Analecta L, 2 (1989), pp. 19-41 at pp. 35-39; Ernst H. Gombrich, ‘Light, Form and Texture in Fifteenth-Century Painting North and South of the Alps’, Journal of the Royal Society of Arts 122 (1964), pp. 826-49, repr. in The Heritage of Apelles, (Oxford, 1976), pp. 19-35; Carlo Ragghianti, ‘Incontri fatidici’, Critica d’Arte 145 (1976), pp. 70-73. There is also a number of indications in De Re Aedifictoria that Alberti had travelled in northern Europe and had made first-hand observations about local building materials and other matters; see Alberti, On the Art of Building, trans. Rykwert, Leach and Tavernor, p. xiii (with forward references to p. 54 (Book 2 chapter 11), p. 88 (Book 3 Chapter 15), p. 148 (Book 5 Chapter 17), p. 172 (Book 6 Chaper 8) and p. 179 (Book 6 Chapter 11)). 79

Alberti, On Painting, ed. and trans. Grayson, p. 79 para.

40. 80 Alberti, De Re, eds. Orlandi and Portoghesi, p. 804; Alberti, On the Art of Building, trans. Rykwert, Leach and Tavernor, p. 299. 81

Stechow, Northern Renaissance Art 1400-1600, pp. 8-9.

82

Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, p. 106.

83

On this, see especially Hall, Color and Meaning, pp. 4856; also Nuttall, Flanders to Florence, pp. 35-36, 161-170. 84 Translation cited from Stechow, Northern Renaissance Art 1400-1600, pp. 8-9. For the original Latin text see Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, p. 108 n. 149, and Di Lorenzo, in Le

62

Muse e il Principe, exh. cat.eds. Mottola Molfino and Natali, 1: Saggi, pp. 326-27; for a version in Italian see Torresan, Dipingere di Fiandra, pp. 23-24. See also Francis Ames-Lewis, ‘Princes, Painters and Netherlandish Art’, in Mantegna and 15th-century court culture, ed. by Francis Ames-Lewis and Anka Bednarek (London, 1993), pp. 103-14 at p. 108; Ronald Lightbown, Mantegna (London, 1986), p. 26. 85

Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, p. 106.

86

Stechow, Northern Renaissance Art 1400-1600, p. 4; From Van Eyck to Bruegel. Early Netherlandish Painting in The Metropolitan Museum of Art, exh. cat. (New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1998), ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth and Keith Christiansen (New York, 1998), p. 15. 87 This point is excellently examined in Nuttall, Flanders to Florence, pp. 34-36. 88 Filarete’s Treatise, trans. Spencer, p. 311: Filarete, Trattato, eds. Finoli and Grassi, 2, p. 268: ‘i quali anno adoperato optimamente questi colori a olio’. 89 Alberti, On Painting, ed. and trans. Grayson, pp. 66-67 paras 30-31: ‘We divide painting into three parts [...] circumscription, composition and reception of light’. 90 Piero della Francesca, De Prospectiva Pingendi, ed. by Giusta Nicco-Fasola, (Florence, 1984), p. 63 (f.1r); as NiccoFasola explains (p. 63 n.1), ‘[...] Piero non sviluppa la sua idea del colorare; ma [...] la sua espressione stessa accentua non la luce astratta (cioè il bianco e nero) ma il colore variate nella luce’. 91 ‘A Brugia fu tra gli altri più lodati/ il gran Joannes, el discepol Rugero/ con tanti d’alto merito dotati/ Della cui arte e sommo magistero/ di colorire furno sì eccellenti/ che han superato mille volte il vero’: Torresan, Dipingere di Fiandra, p. 29; translation from Gilbert, Italian Art 1400-1500, pp. 9899. 92

Vasari, Lives, trans. Hinds, ed. Gaunt, 2, pp. 80-81.

93

Original texts in Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, pp. 165-67, with English translations at pp. 106-07 and pp. 10809. 94

Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, pp. 108-09.

95

Alberti, On Painting, ed. and trans. Grayson, p. 83 para

42. 96 Alessandra Macinghi Strozzi, Alessandra Macinghi negli Strozzi: lettere di una gentildonna fiorentina del secolo XV ai figliuoli esuli, ed. by Cesare Guasti (Florence, 1877), pp. 224 and 230-31; for further discussion, see now Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, pp. 231-39. 97

Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, p. 106.

98

Michael Baxandall, ‘Guarino, Pisanello and Manuel Chrysoloras’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 28 (1965), pp. 183-204 at pp. 187-88; Le Muse e il Principe, exh. cat. eds. Mottola Molfino and Natali, 2, pp. 326-27. 99

‘I would say a picture was richly varied if it contained a properly arranged mixture of old men, youths, boys, matrons, maidens, children, domestic animals, dogs, birds, horses, sheep, buildings and provinces’; Alberti, On painting, ed. and trans. Grayson, p. 79 para. 40. 100

Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators, p. 107.

101

Francisco de Hollanda, Four Dialogues on Painting, trans. by Aubrey F.G. Bell (London, 1928), pp. 15-16.

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Aspects of Antonello da Messina’s Technique and Working Method in the 1470s: Between Italian and Flemish Tradition Maria Clelia Galassi Università di Genova Introduction Antonello d’Antonio (Messina, c.1430 –1479) holds a special place among Italian painters because of his knowledge of Flemish painting and his personal interpretation of the Flemish model into a pictorial language that never lost its Italian character, particularly in the fully volumetric forms and in the treatment of space. No other Italian artist shared his style and technique, not even Giovanni Bellini who was certainly close to him during Antonello’s Venetian period (1475-76). Too Flemish-like to be regarded as a painter completely consistent with the Italian tradition, too Italian-like to be considered a mere follower of Flemish masters, Antonello showed a third option in painting where the Northern legacy was revisited using the parameters of a Mediterranean mind.1 The result was a marvellous synthesis that Marcantonio Michiel recognised in the Saint Jerome in His Study (originally in the Venetian house of Antonio Pasqualino, now in the National Gallery, London), a painting he was unable to attribute: Some believe it is from the hand of Antonello but more, with justice, ascribe it to Jan [van Eyck] or to Memling […]. And it displays that [Flemish] manner, although the face is finished in an Italian fashion, so that it seems the work of Jacometto. The buildings are ‘alla ponentina’ [in the Flemish style]; the landscape views naturalistic, detailed and finished […] and the whole work, for subtlety, colours, design, strength, and relief, is perfect.2 The link between Antonello and Flemish painting continues to stir debate in art history literature. While scholars such as Marabottini,

and Castelfranchi Vegas generally concur on Antonello’s personal contact with Flemish painters in the years 1465-71, perhaps during a presumed journey to Flanders claimed but not documented by Vasari,3 other art historians such as Sricchia Santoro prefer to trace the Flemish aspects of Antonello’s art to experiences that came to pass entirely in Italy: his training in Naples in the workshop of the court painter Colantonio, and the direct observation of the many Flemish works present in the collection of Alfonso of Aragon, king of Naples, and in other Italian centres where Antonello may have been active.4 An intensive study of Flemish paintings, as well as the desire to emulate the much appreciated Northern masters, could have been reason enough to induce Antonello to adopt iconographies and compositional motifs which came directly from Flemish models. By contrast, the question of whether his technical skill, particularly his use of oil painting, was learned from watching a Flemish painter at work or simply by viewing already painted works, is more problematic and still begs a convincing answer. In her essays on Antonello’s technique, Joanne Wright argued that the apprenticeship in Colantonio’s workshop cannot explain fully Antonello’s deep knowledge of Flemish technique, and she concluded that the artist, before setting up his own workshop in Messina, must have received, in Italy or abroad, training from someone who understood the Eyckian method of oil painting and glazing.5 However, this view is challenged by Jill Dunkerton in recent publications on Antonello’s paintings in the London National Gallery (in particular the early Salting Madonna and the Salvator Mundi) in which she argues that Antonello had only a superficial knowledge of

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Flemish techniques, based on the study and imitation of the Flemish paintings presented ab antiquo in Italy.6 The aim of this paper is to reconsider the still unsolved problem of Antonello’s technique by presenting new findings emerging from the examination of some ‘key works’ of the artist, using infrared reflectography (IRR), infrared digital photography, macrophotography and, when possible, X-radiography and microphotography (magnification 100 X). I will discuss findings regarding his underdrawing and painting method in order to distinguish the technical features that belong to the Italian tradition from those that Antonello could have garnered from the study of Flemish works, or perhaps from his personal relationships with Flemish painters. Concerning attribution and chronology, Antonello’s early oeuvre is still under debate.7 I will focus on signed paintings or on works that are unanimously regarded by scholars as Antonello’s signature pieces, all belonging to the last decade of his career. Therefore, the problem of Antonello’s training will not be examined here. Antonello’s activity and his workshop Because of long, undocumented periods in his life, mainly from 1457 to 60 and from 1467to 71, the absence of many documented works, and an oeuvre still under debate, Antonello continues to be an enigmatic artist. If we consider the biographic events of Antonello’s life and how contemporaries perceived his art, we are faced with a remarkable case of artistic schizophrenia. The celebrated artist, Antonello, who the Duke of Milan, Galeazzo Maria Sforza, tried in vain to convince to become court portraitist in 1476,8 is mostly recorded in the documents of his homeland, Sicily, as a painter of processional gonfalons, traditional pieces of art made for popular devotion.9 After Antonello’s death, his paintings were still coveted by the most sophisticated northern Italian collectors, as Isabella d’Este’s ambition to sell the Portrait of Michele Vianello (‘quela bela testa del Messinese’) (that beautiful head done by the painter from Messina)on the Venetian market in 1506 demonstrates.10 By contrast, the artist was very soon forgotten in Messina, as is evident from 64

the short and obscure allusion to the painter made by the local historian Francesco Maurolico, author of the Sicanarum rerum compendium: ‘Venetiis aliquot annis publice conductus vixit […], Mediolani quoque fiut precelebris’ (He lived for some years in Venice publicly well known and he was very famous in Milan too).11 Some seventy years after his death, Giorgio Vasari already ran into great difficulties in collecting information for his biography of Antonello, and most likely based his knowledge on Venetian and Milanese sources, rather than on Sicilian ones.12 At about the age of twenty-five in 1456, Antonello had already established his workshop in Messina. By this date he had resolved the three-year contract of apprenticeship with his assistant, Paolo Ciaccio.13 In the same year, he received his first documented commission for a gonfalon from the Confraternity of San Michele dei Gerbini of Reggio Calabria on the Italian peninsula, in front of the Sicilian island.14 No documents testify to Antonello’s activity in Messina before this date, although we know that his family had settled in the city in 1406. Son of a maczonus, a term that in Italy refers to both masons and stone carvers, Antonello could have been taught in his early years in his father’s workshop; the mediocrity of the Messina artistic environment during the first half of the century, however, would seem inadequate to explain the origin of his art.15 Nevertheless, the presence ab antiquo of Flemish paintings in local private collections could have been reason enough to raise the interest of the young Antonello in Northern art and to induce him to move to Naples.16 On the basis of Summonte’s assertion about his training in Colantonio’s workshop,17 scholars agree in considering the period in Naples – which is not recorded by any documents or works – as the central and crucial moment in Antonello’s education. How long Antonello could have resided in Naples and which other cities, in Italy or abroad, the painter might have visited before returning to Messina are questions that have no convincing answers. Likewise, we can only speculate about where the painter was active before his return to Messina in January 1460 after an undocumented period of about three years. We can only postulate that the trip had to be important and probably motivated by reasons of work since from documents we

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know that Antonello’s father rented a boat in Messina and went to the port of Lamezia, in Calabria, to bring him home, after his arrival there. All the family, perhaps the whole workshop – according to the document, his wife, children, brother, sister, grandfather, and many servants, not to mention a lot of luggage, robam et arnesia (things and tools)– had accompanied the painter.18 At that time, Giordano, Antonello’s brother, was probably already working in the workshop, although only in January 1461 did Antonello sign a two-year agreement to teach him ‘totam eius artem pictorie predictam bene et absque fraude iuxta sui ingenii capacitatem’ (all his skill in painting, in a good way and without any fraud, according to his capacity).19 Giordano’s personality is completely unknown, and he most likely continued to collaborate with Antonello, particularly in the production of gonfalons. Only in 1473 did he receive a commission as an independent ‘pictor’ for a lost gonfalone to be sent to the island of Lipari in the Sicilian archipelago.20 Another artist who was certainly associated to Antonello was the wood sculptor Giovanni de Saliba, who in 1461 married Antonello’s sister. In the workshop, Giovanni had the responsibility for making the golden frames of the gonfalons that the documents describe as rich in carved figures, foliage, and columns.21 No examples of Antonello’s gonfalons survive, but we have sufficient evidence to believe that in Sicily the painter was appreciated and requested mainly as a specialist in this particular kind of production that, according to documents, accounted for most of his workshop’s activity. From Sicilian documents, in fact, we know that from 1457 to 1478 the painter received commissions for eleven works, including one icon of the Virgin, three altarpieces, and seven gonfalons. The detailed contractual descriptions of these works testify to the conservative and old-fashioned taste of this production. Antonello, who in Venice and in Milan worked for the aristocracy and a select group of cultured collectors, in Sicily had to deal above all with popular religious confraternities that demanded devotional images to exhibit in their solemn processions. In the contracts, the frequent request for the use of fine gold and ‘good’ colours shows that Antonello’s gonfalons were probably more appreciated for the

richness of their golden and carved frames and for the high quality of the pigments used, rather than for the excellence of the painting itself. A clause in the contract for the gonfalone commissioned in 1472 by the confraternity of the Spirito Santo in Noto, according to which the painter had to give a six-year guarantee in case the work showed problems in conservation ‘culpa et defectu magisterii ipsius magistri Antonii’ (because of every faults or imperfections attributable to the Master Antonello himself), constitutes interesting evidence of the lack of confidence in the painter’s technique, probably too modern to be completely trusted and appreciated by traditionalist clients.22 Associated principally with this conservative and popular production, memory of Antonello in Sicily faded very soon, as the vague celebration by Maurolico demonstrated. Pietro Summonte himself, our main source for Antonello’s education in Naples, in his famous letter to the Venetian Marcantonio Michiel in 1524, showed that he had no thorough knowledge of the artist who, according to Summonte, was at that time better known in Venice than in Naples.23 Outside Sicily, Antonello’s reputation persisted and became increasingly associated with his second artistic ‘personality’, that of the famous ‘Antonellus Messaneus’, as the painter was wont to sign his elegant cartellini using an elaborate calligraphy coming from the model of French and Burgundian manuscripts.24 Regarded as a sophisticated painter and a great master of perspective, he was celebrated in Venice as the author of the Pala di San Cassiano, ‘la più eccellente opera de penelo che habia Ittalia e fuor d’ Ittalia’ (the most excellent painting which exists in Italy and abroad),25 as an exceptional portraitist, and as an incomparable creator of intense religious images for private meditation. Although the early chronology is still in question, we can suppose that the painter very soon diversified his production from popular gonfalons to refined portraits and small religious paintings. Antonello’s eleven surviving half-length portraits are portraits of men, 26 quite similar in size and composition, elaborated according to a model that the artist could have drawn from van Eyck’s examples, like the Portrait of a Man in a Turban (National Gallery, London).27 With no exceptions, he preferred a ‘seven-eighths’ view, which omitted depic-

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tion of the hands. His sitters always look towards the spectator and the pupil of the near eye coincides with the centre of the portrait’s width. The light comes from a source oriented slightly to the left to create a soft shadow on the right side of the nose, leaving both cheeks strongly lit. With the exception of the Portrait of a Man in Berlin (Staatliche Museen, inv. 18) the background is always dark.28 The small religious paintings were mostly focused on few subjects that the painter often replicated with minimal variants, as in the case of the serial group of the Ecce Homo.29 Themes like the Crucifixion, the Ecce Homo, and the Dead Christ Supported by Angels represent a leitmotiv in Antonello’s production and attest to his interest in the up-to-date subjects recommended by the devotio moderna. This mystic movement, which propagated particularly throughout northern Europe according to the Imitatio Christi by Thomas Hemerken from Kempis (about 1425), urged a devotional practice based on imitation of Christ’s suffering through daily private meditation.30 We could hypothesise that the painter himself personally took up the practices advocated by the devotio moderna, since we know that he was deeply religious with a very individualistic and private sense of spiritualism. In fact, in his will the painter asked to be buried wearing a Franciscan habit in the Franciscan monastery of Santa Maria del Gesù in Messina, and to have an austere and private funeral without any ‘clerus maioris messanensis ecclesie [sic]’ (priest of the main Messina church) in attendance.31 We do not know if Antonello produced in his Sicilian workshop his small and precious devotional panels only on demand or for the open market. Our knowledge about the art market on the Italian peninsula during the fifteenth century is still unreliable, and we know only that Messina had a very busy port where Venetian, Genoese, and Catalan merchants traded a significant number of paintings, Romanian carpets, Valencian pottery, Flemish linen, and French furniture.32 Likewise, our knowledge about Antonello’s southern Italian patrons is still sketchy. From Sicilian documents we know that in 1461 Giovanni Marilla, a financier dealing with the Medici bank in Bruges, commissioned a now lost Madonna.33 Unfortunately, it is not possible to ascertain the historical provenance of the Ecce Homo (The 66

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York), which in 1687 was quoted in the inventory of the Marquis Del Carpio’s collection in Naples.34 Likewise, we cannot say whether the small diptych, now lost, which in 1724 Francesco Susinno described in the Earl Adonnino palace in Messina, was originally ordered from Antonello or acquired only at a later date.35 Sources and documents assert that Antonello’s painting was very much appreciated in Milan. After the death of his court artist, Zanetto Bugatto, and impressed by one of Antonello’s portraits belonging to his brother, Galeazzo Maria Sforza, Duke of Milan, undertook a written negotiation to hire the artist – at that time working in Venice – as court painter. From the letters we know the names of the two persons involved in negotiations with the artist: the Milanese merchant Aloisio Cagnola ‘che cognose et è informatissimo del dicto pictore’ (who knows the painter very well) and who was probably his client too, and the Venetian aristocrat Pietro Bon.36 As Lionello Puppi argued, Pietro Bon must have had a personal role in introducing Antonello to the Venetian artistic community. During his stay in Venice, from 1475 to 1476, Antonello certainly enjoyed the patronage of this influential aristocrat, who was the Venetian Republic Consul in Tunis, and most likely had the chance to meet the painter in Messina during his diplomatic missions, since the Sicilian port was the most important intermediate call on the route between Venice and north Africa. In Venice, Pietro Bon was the donor of the San Cassiano Altarpiece and probably introduced the painter to local collectors. These included Alvise Pasqualino and Michele Vianello, both prolific collectors of paintings and rich merchants, the first of silken goods, the second of jewels; both were portrayed by the painter.37 During his two-year stay in Venice, Antonello executed at least twelve works, including the large San Cassiano Altarpiece Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna). It was indeed quite frenetic activity, certainly supported by a well-organised workshop.38 The presence in Venice of Jacobello, Antonello’s son, is nearly certain, although scholars still differ on identifying him with the artist called ‘Pino’ to whom Jacopo Sansovino attributed the execution of the Saint Sebastian (Staatliche Gemäldegalerie, Dresden).39 During the

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Venetian period Jacobello still remained in Antonello’s shadow, and it is not easy to estimate the boy’s involvement in his father’s works.40 It is only after returning to Messina (1476) that the son seems to have assumed greater responsibility in the workshop. His collaboration on the Antonello’s last paintings, such as the Dead Christ Supported by an Angel (Museo del Prado, Madrid), the Benson Madonna (National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C.) and the Mellon Portrait of a Man (National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C.), has been suggested by some scholars.41 In 1479, after his father’s death, Jacobello inherited the workshop and completed the works Antonello left unfinished. The signed and dated 1480 Madonna and Child (Accademia Carrara, Bergamo) is also thought to have been only partially executed by Jacobello, on a panel already started – at least in the drawing – by Antonello himself.42 With Antonello’s death, his workshop began exploiting his most famous compositions, also producing literal copies from the master prototypes, as in the case of the Virgin of the Annunciation (Museo dell’Accademia, Venice), a copy of the painting in Palermo (Galleria Regionale della Sicilia), and of the Dead Christ supported by Three Angels (Palazzo Ducale, Venice), a copy of the painting in the Museo Correr in Venice. Some of Antonello’s relatives were employed in the workshop: the two sons of Giovanni de Saliba, Pietro and Antonio de Saliba (the latter was associated to the workshop of his cousin Jacobello since 1480), and Salvo d’Antonio, son of Giordano, who after the premature death of his cousin Jacobello in 1488, played an increasingly important role in this artistic dynasty.43 The presence in Antonello’s workshop of drawings and model cartoons was no doubt crucial to the exploitation of his legacy. A famous sheet with Five Studies of Compositions (r) and Miscellaneous Sketches (v) (British Museum, London), coming in part from Antonello’s compositions, is proof of the existence of a workshop modelbook, probably put together by Salvo d’Antonio to preserve the master’s ideas.44 On the other hand, the presence of a clear pouncing, revealed by the infrared reflectography in the Christ at the Column (Detroit Institute of Arts), a replica of Antonello’s Christ at the Column of the Louvre, also attributed to Antonio de Saliba or Salvo

d’Antonio, is important evidence of the use of workshop cartoons in replicating master prototypes.45 Antonello’s working method: the underdrawing stage. Old and new assumptions Although several of Antonello’s paintings have been examined using both traditional infrared photography and infrared reflectography, his underdrawing method is still partially unknown because of the difficulty, at times the impossibility, of detecting any dark and sharp linear drawing beneath the paint layers. Only the Salvator Mundi (National Gallery, London), in fact, reveals a dark, clear underdrawing for external and internal contours – including the first placement of the blessing hand, the position of which was shifted during the paint stage – and regular diagonal hatching for modelling the shadow at the proper left side of the nose. As is well known, the painting has to be regarded as an unicum in Antonello’s production, since it represents a sort of exercise on a Flemish model from which a similar Memling’s Salvator Mundi (Museum of Fine Arts, Boston) might also derive. The rigid quality of the contour lines, typical of a transferred design, confirms the hypothesis that Antonello may have traced it from a model cartoon coming from a Northern pattern.46 Until now, no comparable underdrawings have been detected in any of Antonello’s other paintings. In her pioneering 1980 essay on Antonello’s technique, Joanne Wright published an infrared photograph of the 1474 Portrait of a Man (Staatliche Museen, Berlin, inv. 18a) which showed no particular trace of an underdrawing.47 Similarly, a technical study undertaken on Antonello’s paintings at the Musée du Louvre yielded no information about the underdrawing stage, since neither the Christ at the Column or the Portrait of a Man, both examined by infrared photography and infrared reflectography, revealed any underdrawing.48 Similarly, scanty results come from examinations of Antonello’s works in the National Gallery of London. As Jill Dunkerton pointed out, inspection by infrared reflectography of the Crucifixion revealed few contour lines, and some regular and parallel hatching only in the area of the Virgin’s drapery, while no under-

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drawing is visible in the St Jerome in His Studio or in the Portrait of a Man.49 Likewise, even the very poorly preserved Dead Christ Supported by Three Angels (Museo Correr, Venice) shows on IRR only some hatching in Christ’s loincloth.50 More recently, new data on Antonello’s underdrawing have emerged from examinations carried out at the National Gallery of Washington. The Benson Madonna, a poorly preserved and transferred painting, reveals a brushed underdrawing – faintly visible both upon close examination by the naked eye and by infrared reflectography – along all the contours of the flesh areas, and some diagonal hatching which the painter repeated at slightly different angles to create curved shadows in the Child’s arm and foot. On the contrary, no underdrawing at all was detected during the infrared reflectography examination of the Mellon Portrait of a Man, a painting that is attributed to Antonello and his workshop.51 In 2000, I published the results of technical examination by infrared reflectography of the Ecce Homo of Genoa (Galleria Nazionale di Palazzo Spinola) and of Ecce Homo of Piacenza (Collegio Alberoni).52 While the Piacenza Ecce Homo did not exhibit any underdrawing, except for a double profile of the proper right shoulder which was reduced during the paint stage, the Genoese Ecce Homo showed a liquid, linear underdrawing executed with two different brushes: the thinner one used to delineate the features of the eyes, of the nose and of the upper lip; the thicker one to boldly outline the pattern of the figure against the dark background, with some shifting in the position of the shoulders during the painting stage. The shifting of external contours in his half-length figure paintings (as in the portraits and the Ecce Homo) has long been pointed out as one of the artist’s peculiar features. The infrared examination of the paintings in New York (The Metropolitan Museum of Art) (Fig. 1) and in Berlin (Staatliche Museen, inv.18, i.e., the other portrait in Berlin) showed similar light shifts at the position of the heads and of the shoulders, suggesting that the painter started by drawing a general pattern of the figure which he gradually characterised and focused in the later stages of the painting process by shifting the preliminary contour. 53 Since some of these figures, mainly the Ecce Homo, are similar in 68

Fig.1. Antonello da Messina, Ecce Homo, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, infrared digital photograph © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

size and partially coincident in external contours, we can suppose that they originated from a group of common templates for the poses of the head and the torso. The paucity of Antonello’s underdrawing based on few – when visible – linear outlines and generally lacking in hatching, could be the evidence of a technique based mainly on pictorial means. Nevertheless, recent findings from the New York Ecce Homo (Fig. 1),54 suggest that the artist could have used different kinds of media, sometimes visible by infrared reflectography (such as a carbon ink or a carbon black), sometimes completely transparent when examined by infrared reflectography (such as an iron-gall ink), other times only barely visible by infrared reflectography (such as a brown pigment with a high organic content). The Metropolitan panel presents, in fact, an underdrawing that is clearly visible to the naked eye because of the thinness of the over-cleaned paint layer. Parallel hatching applied with a fluid medium is visible in the torso, while in the

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Fig. 2. Antonello da Messina, Ecce Homo, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, infrared digital photograph, detail of the Christ’s shoulder showing parallel strokes of hatching © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

face a few strokes marking the lower position of the nose and some delicate hatching appear in the shadow side. The fluid medium consists of a material largely transparent under the infrared range of the Vidicon system (around 2000 nanometres) so that the underdrawing is too faint to record when examined by infrared reflectography. By contrast, examination by infrared digital photography, which means using an infrared range of 750-1000 nanometres, detected a free and sketched underdrawing, copious in groups of parallel strokes of hatching, made by a sharp brush, by which the painter worked up the shadow system (Fig. 2). Likewise, examination by infrared digital photography of the Portrait of a Man (The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, c. 1470) shows a careful underdrawing made with a dark liquid medium that was only barely visible when the painting was analysed by infrared reflectography. The underdrawing consists in ‘delicate parallel hatching in the hollow of the cheek on the shadow side of the face and along the jaw line and the shadow under the chin’, in ‘some delicate crosshatching under the lower lip’, and in a ‘series of sketchy parallel lines that seek to find the outline of the back of the neck and continue for a short distance under the hair’.55

The results coming from the Metropolitan Museum suggest that our assumptions about the putative ‘lack’ of underdrawing in Antonello’s panels could sometimes be untrue. According to this evidence, infrared reflectography examination does not seem to be the only useful method to investigate Antonello’s underdrawing: at present, the integrated examination by macrophotography of the visible, infrared reflectography and infrared digital photography appears to yield more interesting results, particularly when applied to overcleaned paintings with very transparent surfaces resulting from old, excessive restorations. The infrared examination of the Saint Gregory (Galleria Regionale della Sicilia, Palermo) confirmed this assumption. To the naked eye, it is possible to deduce, through the thin layer of the flesh tone colour, groups of brown parallel lines in the form of hatching, which suggest the shadow around the cheek. When the painting was examined by infrared reflectography, the hatching was faintly visible, becoming ‘light greyish’, while by means of digital infrared photography we were able to detect a dark system of rounded and parallel hatching, executed with a fine and sharp brush.56 With the information at our disposal, we can only speculate on the real nature of this brown, liquid medium. Since the underdrawing material is visible under infrared reflectography, albeit scarcely, but does not exhibit the degree of contrast expected for carbon black, we could suggest the presence of a brown organic pigment, something like Cassel earth. The same medium was probably used in underdrawing the San Cassiano Altarpiece (Fig. 3). To the naked eye, a sort of reddish paintdrawing in the flesh areas can be distinguished, which fixes, during the paint stage, contours and the features of figures; through the paint layer we can also make out a black underdrawing for the previous contours and some hatching which sets the shadows in the face of the male saints. By infrared digital photography we can better distinguish the dark hatching in the male flesh tones (Figs. 4 and 5), as well as in the main folds of the Virgin’s blue mantle.57 Again, the examination by infrared reflectography and infrared photography of the Palermo Virgin of the Annunciation (Fig. 6) revealed the trace of an underdrawing that was scarcely evident under the infrared radiation.

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Fig. 3. Antonello da Messina, San Cassiano Altarpiece, Kunshistorisches Museum, Vienna © Kunshistorisches Museum, Vienna

Only a very fine line on the left side of the face for the hair, a contour line for the chin, and possible traces of few diagonal hatchings in the shadow of the proper left side of the nose were visible (Fig. 7). Infrared reflectography also allowed us to establish that Antonello revised the position of the Virgin’s hands during the paint stage (Figs. 8 and 9) in order to increase the perspectival foreshortening of the fingers.58 Different results emerged from the infrared digital photographic examination of the Munich Virgin of the Annunciation (Fig. 10), that showed a clearer linear underdrawing in the fine contours of the eyes (partially visible, moreover, to the naked eye), of the face, of the hands, and of the folds of the blue mantle (Fig.11). The outlines, in particular of the hands, reveal a kind of mechanical quality and 70

some rigidity in the ductus, suggesting that the painter may have traced the figure – at least the contour lines of the hands – from a preliminary cartoon, perhaps by means of pouncing (Fig. 12).59 This result is noteworthy, since the position of the Virgin’s hands in the 1474 Syracuse Annunciation is very similar, suggesting that Antonello could have designed the hands in the two paintings starting from the same model cartoon. By contrast, the very damaged Syracuse version shows (for what we can judge, and despite a large lacuna) some changes which heighten the perspectival foreshortening of the fingers. Only future examinations by infrared of the Syracuse Annunciation will allow us to confirm a possible connection between the underdrawing of the two paintings.

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Fig. 4. Antonello da Messina, San Cassiano Altarpiece, Kunshistorisches Museum, Vienna, detail of the face of St. Nicholas © Kunshistorisches Museum, Vienna

Fig. 5. Antonello da Messina, San Cassiano Altarpiece, Kunshistorisches Museum, Vienna, infrared digital photograph, detail of the face of St. Nicholas showing a hatched underdrawing © M.C.Galassi

Fig. 7. Antonello da Messina, Virgin of the Annunciation, Museo Regionale della Sicilia, Palermo, infrared reflectography assembly showing the trace of a linear underdrawing © M. Faries

Fig. 6. Antonello da Messina, Virgin of the Annunciation, Museo Regionale della Sicilia, Palermo © Museo Regionale della Sicilia, Palermo

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Fig. 8. Antonello da Messina, Virgin of the Annunciation, Museo Regionale della Sicilia, Palermo, infrared reflectography assembly showing a pentimento in the fingers of the right hand © M. Faries

Fig. 9. Antonello da Messina, Virgin of the Annunciation, Museo Regionale della Sicilia, Palermo, infrared reflectography assembly showing a pentimento in the fingers of the left hand © M. Faries

Fig. 11. Antonello da Messina, Virgin of the Annunciation, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, Munich, detail in the visible showing the linear contour of the right eye © Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, Munich

Fig. 10. Antonello da Messina, Virgin of the Annunciation, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, Munich © Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, Munich 72

Fig. 12. Antonello da Messina, Virgin of the Annunciation, Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, Munich, infrared digital photograph, detail of the hands showing a linear underdrawing © M.C.Galassi

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Fig.13. Antonello da Messina, Crucifixion, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp © Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp

For the present research, the Antwerp Crucifixion (Fig. 13) was also examined using infrared digital photography. Among the works discussed here, the painting is the only one that shows – despite the small size (52.5 x 42.5 cm) – a narrative composition, depicted in an open landscape. Under infrared, the painting shows a fine and clear linear underdrawing that delineates freehand the bodies of the three crucified figures, with some shifting in the contours and a pentimento in the proper right foot of the thief on the left, which was originally drawn in a lower position (Fig. 14). It is also possible

to distinguish the arm contours through the transparent red of the Madonna’s proper right sleeve. The underdrawing is also visible in the drapery, above all in the Virgin’s red robe and blue mantle, both of which show a notable ‘Flemish’ character in the copious rendering of the folds. In this area, Antonello started his composition by sketching freehand, with a brush and a liquid medium, the complex system of the folds, adding some hatching to predetermine the main shadows (Figs. 15 and 16). Some light shifting and a pentimento are present in the placement of the folds (Fig. 17).60

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Fig. 15. Antonello da Messina, Crucifixion, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp, detail in the visible of the Virigin’s drapery © Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp Fig. 14. Antonello da Messina, Crucifixion, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp, infrared digital photograph, detail of the thief’s legs on the left, showing a linear underdrawing with shifted contours and a pentimento in the position of the lower foot © M.C.Galassi

Fig. 16. Antonello da Messina, Crucifixion, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp, infrared digital photograph, detail of the Virgins’s drapery showing a free-hand and hatched underdrawing © M.C.Galassi

Fig. 17. Antonello da Messina, Crucifixion, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp, infrared digital photograph, detail of the Virgis’s drapery showing a pentimento in the placement of the folds © M.C.Galassi

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Fig. 18. Antonello da Messina, Five studies of compositions (r) and Miscellaneous sketches (v), British Museum, London, detail © British Museum, London Fig. 19. Flemish School, 15th century, Seated Virgin in a domestic interior, Kupferstichkabinett, Dresden © Kupferstichkabinett, Dresden

The elaborated underdrawing shows a close resemblance to the drapery of the Seated Virgin in a domestic interior, in the already mentioned sheet of the British Museum, which probably belonged to a lost workshop modelbook of Antonello’s (Fig. 18). The elaboration of such a drapery, both in underdrawing and in drawings on paper, seems to derive from Northern models; in fact, although specific models have yet to be identified, scholars agree in considering the small study on the British Museum sheet as proof of contemporary Flemish painting’s impact on Antonello.61 In my opinion, the British Museum study may be associated to a pattern drawing of a Seated Virgin in a domestic interior, attributed to Rogier van der Weyden’s group (Kupferstichkabinett, Dresden, inv. 780, Fig. 19),62 suggesting that, in addition to the pattern from which the London Salvator Mundi was traced, other Flemish patterns on paper could have been present in Antonello’s workshop.

Antonello’s painting materials and method The few and still sporadic analyses carried out on Antonello’s painting materials suggest that the artist used gypsum ground layer and traditional pigments, such as ultramarine and azurite for the blues, vermilion and lakes for the reds, malachite and a blend of azurite and lead-tin yellow for the greens. The presence of a barbe at the edge in the early Crucifixion (Muzeul de Arta, Bucarest), the Salvator Mundi and the Portrait of a Man (both National Gallery, London),63 and the Piacenza Ecce Homo,64 is proof that the artist – at least in some cases – worked on already-framed panels. The London portrait shows, in addition, a series of round holes in the unpainted vertical borders, suggesting that vertical mouldings of the original frames, now lost, may have been attached to the front of the panel by means of rounded pegs, as was the custom in Flemish painting.65 The wood used by the painter has yet to be

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Fig. 20. Antonello da Messina, Ecce Homo, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, X-radiograph © The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

analysed thoroughly. The available data suggest that Antonello did not use poplar exclusively, as Italian painters usually did, but also other kinds of wood: fruit tree wood (perhaps peach) for the Bucharest Crucifixion;66 chestnut for the Abraham and the Three Angels (Museo della Magna Grecia, Reggio Calabria);67 limewood for the Saint Jerome in His Studio (National Gallery London),68 and for the Munich Virgin of the Annunciation; 69 perhaps oak for the Piacenza Ecce Homo.70As found by gas-chromatography in the Saint John the Evangelist (Uffizi, Florence), the London Salvator Mundi, the Pietà (Museo Correr, Venice), the London Saint Jerome in His Study, and the Louvre Christ at the Column, pure oil – both linseed and walnut – seems to have been Antonello’s favourite medium,71 but not the only one. The Benson Madonna exhibits a combined use of oil and tempera depending on the different coloured areas (oil in the green pillow, tempera in the red of the Child’s cloak), and the red robe in the Mellon Portrait of a Man has a tempera underlayer completed by an oil lake glaze on top.72 Only further analyses on Antonello’s medium will establish whether the 76

use of tempera is evidence enough to distinguish between execution by Antonello himself or his workshop, since many scholars have suggested that both Washington paintings could have been partially executed by Antonello’s collaborators. Since none of Antonello’s gonfalons have survived, we do not know whether Antonello also used the oil technique in this more conservative and popular type of production. Nevertheless, the already mentioned six-year guarantee that the artist gave for the gonfalon of the confraternity of the Spirito Santo in Noto in 1472 seems to be more appropriate for an oil rather than a tempera painting, because of the long time needed by the oil medium to dry, and its risk of turning yellow over time.73 We have insufficient information about the structure of Antonello’s paint layers. A cross section from the flesh area of the very damaged Pietà in the Museo Correr shows a thick and opaque lead white underpaint that has lost a final pink glaze.74 X-radiography, which shows the artist’s use of lead white paint to establish the structure and preliminary stages of the flesh tones, can be helpful to confirm the presence and the nature of such an underpaint, suggesting in the meantime a possible development by Antonello in his technique to increase volumetric effects. As Jill Dunkerton points out, a comparison of the radiography of the early Salting Madonna (around 1460) and the X-radiograph of the London Portrait of a Man shows a clear change from a flat lead white underpaint, lacking in volumetric effects, to a modulated underpaint (actually a real undermodelling), where the shadows left in reserve and the different amounts of lead white in the lights concur to set up the previous depiction of the chiaroscuro.75 The same improvement in underpaint modulation can be observed if we compare the X-radiograph of the 1470 Ecce Homo in New York (Fig. 20)76 which shows a flat light shape for the Christ’s head and torso, with the X-radiograph of either the 1474 Portrait of a Man in Berlin (inv.18a),77 or the later Louvre Christ at the Column, which exhibit a chiaroscuro very close to the final effect in the visible.78 The X-radiograph of the Genoese Ecce Homo (Fig. 21) also exhibits a modulated underpaint to achieve the volume of the face, which is emphasised in light tones by a larger amount of white lead, whereas the zones

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Fig. 22. Antonello da Messina, Portrait of a Man, Fondazione Mandralisca, Cefalù, detail © M.C.Galassi

Fig. 21. Antonello da Messina, Ecce Homo, Galleria Nazionale di Palazzo Spinola, Genoa X-radiograph © Galleria Nazionale di Palazzo Spinola, Genoa

around the eyes were left in reserve.79 For this reason I think the painting, the date of which is still debated, could have been executed some years after the New York version.80 Steromicroscopic examination of the well preserved Piacenza Ecce Homo readily reveals how Antonello completed the opaque underpaint of the flesh tone, executed with lead white and some grains of a red pigment, by overlaying a complex system of glazing.81 The transparent materials – sometimes reddish (probably a red lake), sometimes more brownish – complete both the chromatic scheme and the light system. The particular transparency and fluidity of the glazes suggest that an oil medium was used, with the probable addition of a resin.82 We cannot discern the number of coats using microscopy alone, even though the painting seems to show more than one – or a single but very thick – layer. The thickness of the glazing increases in the deepest shadows and, according to this glazing system, the forms are modelled from light to shadows by laying translucent films of coloured glazes on the bases of the opaque underpaint. The mastery with thick, probably multiple, layers of

glaze was no doubt one of Antonello’s skills thanks to which he achieved the lifelike modelling of his forms.83 No other fifteenth-century Italian painter seems to have had the deftness in handling glazes the thickness of Antonello’s, not even Giovanni Bellini, who experimented with the oil technique as early as Antonello did.84 A close inspection of those few Antonello paintings in fine condition today allows us to note that the painter often used coloured glazes not only as a finishing layer to improve the depth of the colours or to reinforce the shadows, but also as colour itself to reach the proper flesh tones over the light underpaint. The comparison of the Cefalù (c. 1470) and Berlin portrait (inv.18, dated 14…, the last two digits are abraded, but probably read 1478) may allow us to understand Antonello’s improvement of two features of his technique, namely the paint texture and the application of lead white highlights. On close scrutiny, the Cefalù portrait (Fig. 22) bears close similarities with the Eyckian technique in the compact and lustrous surface, very subtly blended pigments and a rich, transparent, and colour-saturated glaze in the shadows. The brushwork is perceptible only in the fine strokes which define the beard, and the features of the face are realised by delicate, smooth changes of the flesh colours,

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Fig. 23. Antonello da Messina, Portrait of a Man, bpk/ Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, detail

probably fused wet in wet (Plates 2 and 4). No highlights are visible on top. By contrast, the Berlin portrait (Fig. 23) shows more elaborate passages from the light to the shadow, and a sharper depiction of the facial features which seem to demonstrate a growing interest in the technique which Memling had elaborated in the portraits executed at the beginning of the 1470s.85 Although the surface does not exhibit any brushwork, we can recognise the presence of superimposed transparent layers which model the volume in the lights as well as in the shadows, up to the thinnest final highlights on the nose, under the eyes and around the lips (Plates 3 and 5).86 The Berlin portrait, the last of Antonello’s career, fittingly attests to his achievement of a complete mastery in oil techniques and a deep understanding of the method of oil glazing coming from a Flemish working practice, which appears more modern than the Eyckian one, as the nineteenth-century connoisseur Giovanni Battista Cavalcaselle recognised: 78

The mask is wonderfully relieved by contrast of light and shade. The outlines are fine and clean, the touch firmly delicate, the finish perfect; we see the reflections in the iris, the moisture of the orbit, the hairs with lashes, yet none of the labour of the brush. Polished lustre, rivalling that of metal, is combined with morbidity of flesh: clear light is blended imperceptibly into grey half-tint, and rich brown shadow with a medium crystalline in its purity. Colour of full substance in the prominence is worked over with a scumble in the transitions and transparent in darks, and general keeping is attained by a flush of glazing. It is the treatment of Van Eyck in the Arnolfini Couple of the National Gallery or the Jan de Leuwe at Vienna, with more modern appliances (sic) and more exquisite sparkle. 87 Nevertheless, as Jill Dunkerton points out, Antonello’s paintings sometime show particular defects that deserve mention because they probably stem from technical mistakes in dealing with the oil medium. The first of these is the so-called ‘ultramarine sickness’, a quite rare phenomenon producing changes in the blue of ultramarine, which turns irregularly grey. Probably caused by a presence of acids in the oil medium or in the varnish, this alteration is present in the blue robe of the London Salvator Mundi and in the blue mantle of the Munich and Palermo Virgin of the Annunciation.88 Another alteration in pigment colours has been noted in the shadows of the Child’s red cloak in the Benson Madonna, where the vermilion has turned grey due to a chemical change deriving from pigment bound in tempera rather than in oil. Still, another defect that has sometimes been noted when Antonello’s paintings are examined by microscopy is the presence of the socalled ‘premature drying cracks’, a sign that the different paint layers did not for some reason dry homogeneously. The phenomenon is apparent in the Genoa and Piacenza Ecce Homo, both of which present two networks of cracks: the deeper one, involving all the paint layers, was caused by movements of the wooden panel; the second, merely involving the underpaint, is the result of an excessively rapid drying of the underpaint itself.89 Irregularities in the cracks due to an improper drying of the paint layers have been observed in the London Salting

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Madonna, in the Uffizi Madonna and Child and in the Louvre Portrait of a Man, too, and it seems that only at the end of his career did Antonello acquire a thorough knowledge of how to handle the drying oil.90 We can speculate that some of Antonello’s problems may be traced to the addition of experimental drying factors to the binding (for example, zinc salt, as suggested in sources like the Strasburg Manuscript) in order to obtain faster drying and, in turn, to quickly apply the glazes on the underpaint. Nonetheless, his ‘premature drying crack’ could be the outcome of what, according to recent technical results that warrant further confirmation, seems to have been Antonello’s most remarkable mistake. Chemical analyses of the Pietà (Museo Correr, Venice), the Virgin and Child and the Saint John the Evangelist (both Uffizi, Florence) and the Louvre Christ at the Column demonstrate that the paint layers were directly applied on the gesso ground, since no traces of a priming were found in the cross sections91. As is well known, the priming layer, containing lead white in an oil medium, was a pivotal step in the oil technique, having the main function to isolate the ground and to prevent it from absorbing medium from the layers of oil paint above. Antonello seems to have neglected the importance of this technical detail, and most likely merely replaced the priming by adding some oil to the gypsum ground.92 Implications of the technical investigation of Antonello’s paintings Our knowledge of Antonello’s working process is still fragmentary, and more technical investigations of his oeuvre need to be carried out. Nevertheless, we can make some preliminary inferences from the available results in order to properly position the artist’s technique in the context of Flemish and Italian working traditions. Personally, I am convinced that no other fifteenth-century Italian painter had as deep a knowledge of Flemish painting technique, in terms of materials and procedures used, as Antonello. At the same time, it also seems clear that Antonello was free-spirited in his uptake of the Northern models, using them only partially, and revising them depending on his personal technical experimentation. The fact that the painter sometimes painted

already framed panels, following a peculiar Flemish practice, is a detail that deserves a special mention, since it tells us that Antonello was interested not only in imitating the final, visual effects of Flemish painting, but also in the Flemish technology used to prepare the supports. The London Portrait of a Man has vertical mouldings of the original frames applied to the front, following the wood grain, in conformity with methods used by Flemish painters, primarily Jan van Eyck, to frame their works. Nonetheless, the Italian master personally revisited van Eyck’s method, whereby the horizontal mouldings, and not the vertical ones, were attached to the panel crossing rather than following the wood grain.93 Only future examinations of Antonello’s supports will allow us to assess how exceptional the London portrait is with respect to Antonello’s overall production. The examination of Antonello’s underdrawing does not afford us definite evidence that he had a thorough knowledge of Flemish underdrawing; new data presented here, however, contrast with that putative ‘lack’ of underdrawing, which has often been claimed as proof that the artist was only a superficial imitator of Flemish models. To summarise, we can say that Antonello mostly used hardly detectible drawing media, probably a brown pigment with a high organic content, to delineate external and internal contours, sometimes adding diagonal and parallel hatching to produce the first effect of the main shadows. With some exceptions (see the Salvator Mundi and the Munich Virgin of the Annunciation), the underdrawing was executed freehand, as shifting and pentimenti demonstrate, but the use of common templates to place the first shape of the figure in the portraits and in the series of the Ecce Homo can be hypothesised. The fact that Maryan Ainsworth recently attributed the use of such templates also to Hans Memling,94 does not seem to be sufficient proof to demonstrate possible contact between the two artists. Likewise, even though the use of brown pigment has been observed in Petrus Christus’s underdrawing,95 we cannot conclude that a relationship existed between the two artists, since non-carbon inks were sporadically used in Italian underdrawing, too.96 Nevertheless, Antonello’s and Christus’s underdrawings bear close similarities: comparison of the ductus of

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the fine, diagonal brush strokes detected in some of Christus’s portraits (London, National Gallery and Los Angeles, County Museum of Art) with that observed in Antonello’s New York Ecce Homo97 yields telling evidence in this regard. That Christus and Antonello could have met, in Flanders or in Italy, is plausible and possible, but not supported by documented evidence.98 The results coming from the examination of Antonello’s underdrawing could provide additional arguments to uphold this supposition; at the same time, we can also surmise that Antonello may have possessed pattern drawings coming from Flemish workshops – from Christus’s workshop, too – from which he could have derived not only compositional ideas, but also peculiar drawing mannerisms. The certain derivation of the Salvator Mundi underdrawing from a Flemish model cartoon, as well as the noted similarity between the underdrawing of the Virgin’s robe in the Antwerp Crucifixion and the Dresden Flemish pattern drawing, can be viewed as proof enough of the presence of such a graphic material in Antonello’s workshop. Two facets of Antonello’s technique are entirely consistent with the Italian tradition: the use of the gypsum in the ground and of large amount of lead white in the underpaint. Even if the New York Ecce Homo and the London Salvator Mundi show a flat and scarcely radio-opaque underpaint, X-radiographs of other works demonstrate that the artist developed a technique based on a preliminary modelling of the forms by means of a modulated underpaint, with the shadows left in reserve and increasing amount of lead white in the lights. The main difference between Antonello’s and Flemish painting methods is in the quality of the underpaint itself, mostly flat and thin according to the Northern practice, modulated in the chiaroscuro and quite thick in the Italian painter’s works. During the last decade of his career, Antonello seems to have purposefully intensified the volumetric function of his underpaint, thanks to which he was able to achieve the sculptural features of his figures.99 By contrast, Antonello’s glazing system appears to be very closely related to that introduced by van Eyck and other Early Flemish painters: these artists, like Antonello, created the light system and obtained the final colours 80

by applying transparent glazes of varying thickness over opaque layers. Not only did Antonello deeply understand the Flemish glazing method, but he was also able to manage the appropriate materials in order to accomplish it, especially with a particularly fluid oil medium (perhaps with resins added) that allowed him to create the volumes by transparent and colour-saturated layers. The comparison of the Cefalù and Berlin portraits seems to indicate that during the 1470s the artist, starting from an Eyckian technique, was able to update his technical method on the base of Memling’s coeval examples.100 This meditation on Memling’s technique, which dominates the late Berlin portrait, already seems discernable in works executed in the mid seventies, like the Syracuse Annunciation (Galleria Regionale di Palazzo Bellomo), and the Munich Virgin of the Annunciation, which reveal a sort of research in progress, mainly in the way a combined system of dark and light transparent glazes were applied. In order to have achieved such a successful fusion of Italian and Flemish techniques, Antonello had to have experienced Flemish art first-hand. As Joanne Wright argues, Antonello’s training in the Colantonio workshop and his exposure thereafter to the artistic milieu of Alfonso’s court in Naples, do not seem to satisfactorily explain the artist’s mastery of procedures; otherwise, the fact that the most important painting executed in Naples during the 1470s, the still anonymous San Severino Altarpiece (Museo di Capodimonte, Naples), was carried out with a tempera technique,101 would bear out the claim that Colantonio’s legacy did not necessarily include knowledge of the oil technique. In my opinion, Antonello had not only a personal familiarity with the Eyckian technical method during the years of his education, but he also, as I have attempted to demonstrate, cultivated an interest in the Flemish technique throughout his career and, in particular, had the opportunity at the beginning of the 1470s to update and enrich his understanding of it, thanks to Memling’s examples. Thus, the period stretching from 1467 to 1471, when Antonello is not documented in Messina, may well have been a key moment for new exposure to Northern art. Where Antonello could have travelled during these

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years is an unsolved, and perhaps secondary question, since his movements probably should be regarded as the consequence of the mobility of artists which, as Till-Holger Borchert rightly points out, was a crucial phenomenon during the fifteenth century.102 Rome, Urbino, Padua, southern France, and Flanders, in addition to Naples, Milan, and Venice, may have been possible destinations of short journeys or longer working periods. In Italy, or abroad, Antonello surely had the opportunity – probably on many occasions – to meet Flemish painters, to exchange technical information, to discuss and share working procedures, recipes, and paint materials, perhaps even to see Northern colleagues at work. From the richness and the gloss of his glazing system, in fact, we can deduce that

Antonello possessed a more substantial and practical knowledge of the Flemish oil painting method than other Italian painters, perhaps in using heat-prepolymerised or other forms of modified oils, in handling drying factors, or in enhancing the fluidity of oils by adding resins. Nevertheless, some defects in the quality of the drying of his medium, as well as the absence of the priming layer, lead to the conviction that Antonello did not have the regard for the Flemish oil painting technique that he would have acquired had he trained personally in a Flemish workshop. Antonello seems to have been strongly attracted to the Flemish painting method, but without the deference of a zealous follower, using it as a means to enrich his personal, experimental approach.

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NOTES

I am grateful to Albert Châtelet, Keith Christiansen, Peter Klein, Claudio Seccaroni and Elizabeth Walmsley for reading my text and making valuable comments. 1 On the stylistic and iconographic relationship between Antonello and Flemish painting, see Penny Howell Jolly, ‘Jan Van Eyck and St Jerome. A Study of Eyckian Influence on Colantonio and Antonello da Messina in Quattrocento Naples’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1976); J. Bruyn, ‘Antonello en de Nederlanden’, Oud Holland, 96 (1982), pp. 240-43; Liana Castelfranchi Vegas, ‘Il problema delle fonti fiamminghe di Antonello’, in Antonello da Messina, Atti del Convegno di Studi tenuto a Messina dal 29 novembre al dicembre 1981 (Messina, 1987), pp. 45-46; Ellen Markgraf, Antonello da Messina und die Niederlande (Frankfurt am Main and New York, 1990) with previous bibliography; Bernard Aikema, De heilige Hieronymus in het studeervertrek of: Hoe Vlaams is Antonello da Messina? (Nijmegen, 2000). 2

Marco Antonio Michiel, Notizie d’opere del disegno, ed. by Cristina De Benedictis (Florence, 2000), p. 56. The English translation of the Michiel quotation is in Keith Christiansen, ‘The View from Italy’, in From Van Eyck to Brueghel. Early Netherlandish Painting in The Metropolitan Museum of Art, ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth and Keith Christiansen (New York, 1998), pp. 39-61, esp. p. 65. 3 Alessandro Marabottini, ‘Antonello: la vita e le opere’, in Antonello da Messina, exh. cat. (Messina, Museo Regionale, 1981), ed. by Alessandro Marabottini and Fiorella Sricchia Santoro, (Rome, 1981), pp. 27-51, esp. pp. 37-38; Castelfranchi Vegas, 1987, pp. 45-46. 4 Fiorella Sricchia Santoro, Antonello e l’Europa (Milano, 1986), pp. 35-78. On the artistic milieu at the court of Alfonso of Aragon: Gennaro Toscano, ‘Nàpoles y el Mediterráneo. Relaciones entre miniatura y pintura en la translaciòn de la casa de Anjou a la casa de Aragòn’, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo. Viajes de artistas e itinerarios de obras entre Italia, Francia y España en el siglo XV, exh. cat. (Madrid, Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza and Valencia, Museo de Bellas Artes, 2001), ed. by Mauro Natale (Madrid, 2001), pp. 79-99; Marina Belozerskaya, Rethinking the Renaissance. Burgundian arts across Europe (Cambridge, 2002), pp. 179-94; Joaquìn Yarza Luaces, ‘Flanders and the Kingdom of Aragon’, in The Age of Van Eyck. The Mediterranean World and Early Netherlandish Painting, 14301530, exh. cat. (Bruges, Groeningemuseum, 2002), ed. by Till-Holger Borchert (Ghent and Amsterdam, 2002), pp. 12833. 5 Joanne Wright, ‘Antonello da Messina. The Origins of His Style and Technique’, Art History, 3 (1980), pp. 41-60, esp. pp. 48-49; Joanne Wright, ‘Antonello in formazione: un riesame della Crocifissione di Bucarest’, Arte Veneta, 45 (1993), pp. 21-31, esp. p.29. 6

Jill Dunkerton, ‘Nord e Sud: tecniche pittoriche nella Venezia rinascimentale’, in Il Rinascimento a Venezia e la pittura del Nord ai tempi di Bellini, Dürer, Tiziano, exh. cat. (Venice, Palazzo Grassi, 1999- 2000) ed. by Bernard Aikema and Beverly Louise Brown (Milan, 1999), pp. 93-103, esp. pp. 96-99; Jill Dunkerton, ‘Antonello da Messina e la tecnica fiamminga’, in Ecce Homo. Antonello da Messina. Genova e Piacenza: due versioni a confronto, exh. cat. (Genoa, Galleria Nazionale di Palazzo Spinola, 2000), ed. by Farida Simonetti (Genoa, 2000), pp. 26-32.

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7 I cannot report, in this essay, the large bibliography related to the question of autography and chronology of Antonello’s early oeuvre. To have a general view on this issue, with different opinions, see El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, entries 59-60 by Mauro Natale; Fiorella Sricchia Santoro, ‘Dalla Sicilia agli Uffizi: storia e problemi di un Antonello ritrovato’, in Antonello agli Uffizi. Un acquisto dello Stato per il riscatto dell’eredità Bardini, ed. by Cristina Acidini and Antonio Paolucci (Florence, 2002), pp. 43-59. 8 See Mauro Lucco, ‘Burgundian Art for Italian Courts: Milan, Ferrara, Urbino’, in The Age of Van Eyck, pp. 109-14, esp. p. 112. 9 For the life and the activity of Antonello, see the fundamental monograph by Sricchia Santoro, 1986, with the transcription of documents that refer to the artist. 10 On this event, see Leonello Puppi, ‘Il viaggio e il soggiorno a Venezia di Antonello da Messina’, Museum Patavinum, 1 (1983), pp. 253-82, esp. p. 272. Isabella’s attempt to sell for her brother, Ippolito, Antonello’s portrait, when Michele Vianello’s collection was sold in auction, was in vain, since Marcantonio Michiel saw the painting (now lost) in the Venetian collection of Antonio Pasqualino when he visited the palace in 1532: Michiel, ed. 2000, p. 51. 11 Francesco Maurolico, Sicanarum rerum compendium (Messina, 1562), p. 186. 12 For Antonello’s old sources: Sricchia Santoro, 1986, pp. 11-16; Dominique Thiébaut, ‘La fortune critique d’Antonello de Messine’, in Le Christ à la colonne d’Antonello de Messine, Les dossiers du Musée du Louvre, ed. by Dominique Thiébaut (Paris, 1993), pp. 17-22. 13

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 174, doc. 5.

14

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, pp. 173-74, doc. 4.

15

For Antonello’s family and the artistic situation in Messina during the fifteenth century: Salvatore Tramontana, Antonello e la sua città (Palermo, 1981); Elvira Natoli, ‘Cultura artistica a Messina nella seconda metà del Quattrocento’, in Quaderni dell’Istituto di storia dell’arte medievale e moderna, Facoltà di Lettere e Filosofia Università di Messina, 12 (1988), pp. 5-12. 16

Tramontana, 1981, pp. 70-71.

17

F.Nicolini, L’arte napoletana del Rinascimento e la lettera di Pietro Summonte a Marcantonio Michiel (Naples, 1925), pp. 16062. 18

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 174, doc. 6.

19

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 174, doc. 7.

20

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 179, doc. 27.

21

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 180, doc. 34.

22

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 177, doc. 22.

23

Pietro Summonte, in fact, seems to be better informed about Colantonio than about Antonello. Writing on Colantonio to Michiel, who was collecting information for a project of artistic biographies, his mention of Antonello is short and allusive, ‘Costui [Colantonio] non arrivò per colpa delli tempi, alla perfezione del disegno delle cose antiche, sì come arrivò lo suo discepolo, Antonello da Messina, homo secon-

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do intendo, noto appresso a voi’ (Colantonio didn’t reach the perfection in drawing as his pupil Antonello – a painter that you know very well, as I see - , did): Nicolini, 1925, p. 62. 24

Tramontana, 1981, p. 95.

25 This is the judgment about the altarpiece by its donor, Pietro Bon, in a letter addressed to the Duke of Milan: see Giuseppe Consoli, ‘Ancora sull’Antonello de Sicilia. Precisazioni su alcuni documenti sforzeschi’, Arte Lombarda, 21 (1967), pp. 109-12, esp. p. 112, doc. V. 26

For the catalogue of Antonello’s paintings, see Liliana Arbace, Antonello da Messina. Catalogo completo dei dipinti (Firenze, 1993); Gioacchino Barbera, Antonello da Messina (Milano, 1998), where it is possible to find excellent reproductions of the paintings examined in this essay. 27 For the fortune of Flemish portraits in Italy and the dependence of Antonello portraiture on Eyckian models, see Paula Nuttall, ‘Lacking Only Breath. Italian Responses to Netherlandish Portraiture’, in The Age of Van Eyck, pp. 199202, esp. p. 202. 28

For the problem whether the landscape in the Berlin portrait is original, or a later addition on a dark background, as supposed by Roberto Longhi, see Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 170, with bibliography. Examination by infrared photography offered no proof of the presence of a dark paint under the landscape but, obviously, only a thorough analysis of the paint layer structure could yield persuasive arguments. 29 For Antonello’s production of small devotional paintings, see Dominique Thiébaut, ‘Dagli Ecce Homo al Cristo alla colonna’, in Ecce Homo Antonello da Messina (Genoa, 2000), pp. 18-25. 30 J. Marrow, Passion Iconography in Northern European Art of the Late Middle Ages and Early Renaissance (Kortrijk, 1979), pp. 19-27. 31

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 181, doc. 37.

32

Tramontana, 1981, p. 71.

33 Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 175, doc. 8; Tramontana, 1981, p. 47. 34

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 158.

35

Francesco Susinno, Le vite dei pittori messinesi (1724), ed. by V. Martinelli (Florence, 1960), pp. 24-25. 36

Consoli, 1967, p. 112, docs. IV-V.

37

On the Venetian sojourn, see Puppi, 1983.

38

On Antonello’s Venetian production and his Venetian workshop, see Giovanni Previtali, ‘Da Antonello da Messina a Jacopo di Antonello. I. La data del Cristo Benedicente della National Gallery di Londra’, Prospettiva, 20 (1980), pp. 27-34; Giovanni Previtali, ‘Da Antonello da Messina a Jacopo di Antonello. II. Il Cristo Deposto del Museo del Prado’, Prospettiva, 21 (1980), pp. 45-56. 39

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, pp. 133-34.

40 For the hypothesis that Jacobello may have collaborated with Antonello on the execution of some Venetian paintings, for example the landscapes of the Antwerp Crucifixion and the Berlin Portrait of a Man, see Sricchia Santoro, 1986, pp. 129, 170. 41 Previtali, 1980, II; Italian Paintings of the Fifteenth Century. The Collection of the National Gallery of Art. Systematic Catalogue, ed. by Miklós Boskovits and David Alan Brown (Oxford, 2003) pp. 36-45, entries by David Alan Brown. 42

Previtali, 1980, II, p. 54.

43 For the activity of Antonello’s workshop after his death, see Sricchia Santoro, 1986, pp. 140-48, who hypothesises that Salvo di Antonio could be the author of the copy of the Virgin of the Annunciation, and Antonio de Saliba of the copy of the Dead Christ Supported by Three Angels; Teresa Pugliatti, ‘Jacobello d’Antonio, Filius non Humani Pictoris’, Quaderni dell’Istituto di storia dell’arte medievale e moderna, Facoltà di Lettere e Filosofia Università di Messina, 13 (1989), pp. 5-13. 44

Sricchia Santoro, 1986, p. 147.

45 The Detroit Christ at the Column was examined using infrared reflectography by Molly Faries of Indiana University on 16 November 1984, and I am grateful to her for allowing me to examine her report. For the copies from the Christ at the Column, see Dominique Thiébaut, ‘Le style et la datation du Christ à la Colonne’, in Le Christ à la colonne d’Antonello de Messine (1993), pp. 86-90. 46

Dunkerton, 1999, p. 98.

47

Wright, 1980, fig. 22.

48

Elisabeth Martin, ‘Le Christ à la colonne. Etude matérialle. Contribution à l’étude technique’, in Le Christ à la colonne d’Antonello de Messine (1993), pp. 55-59. 49

Dunkerton, 1999, p. 98.

50

Sabina Vedovello, ‘L’intervento di restauro’, in Carpaccio, Bellini, Tura, Antonello e altri restauri quattrocenteschi della Pinacoteca del Museo Correr, exh. cat. (Venice, Museo Correr, 1993), ed. by Attilia Dorigato (Milan, 1993), entry 15, pp. 162-72, esp. p. 168. 51 Italian Paintings of the Fifteenth Century (2003), pp. 36, 45, entries by David Alan Brown. I thank Elizabeth Walmsley, Department of Painting Conservation, National Gallery of Art, Washington,D.C. for discussing with me my results of the technical investigation carried out on Antonello’s paintings in the National Gallery. 52 Maria Clelia Galassi, ‘Metodi progettuali ed esecutivi di Antonello. L’indagine sugli Ecce Homo di Genova e Piacenza’, in Ecce Homo. Antonello da Messina (Genoa, 2000), pp. 69-80. 53 I am grateful to Roberto Contini and Hannelore Nützmann, curators at the Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, and to Keith Christiansen, curator at The Metropolitan Museum of Art of New York, for providing the infrared photographs of the two paintings. 54 The Ecce Homo was examined using infrared reflectography by Dorothy Mahon at the Department of Painting Conservation of the Metropolitan Museum, in March 2002, and using infrared digital photography at the Metropolitan photo studio, in June 2002. I am grateful to Dorothy Mahon for discussing the matter with me and providing her results. Many thanks to Keith Christiansen for giving me the permission to publish this material. 55

E-mail from Dorothy Mahon, 19 June 2002.

56

I examined the painting, using the infrared reflectography equipment of Groningen University, with Molly Faries, Linda Jansen, Micha Leeflang, and Daantje Meuwissen on 30 October 2002. On the same day, the painting was examined using the infrared digital photographic equipment of the University of Genoa. I am particularly grateful to Molly Faries and the other friends of Groningen University for helping with my research on Antonello. Many thanks to Vincenzo Abbate, director of the Galleria Regionale di Palermo, for giving me the permission to study the painting. 57 I examined the painting using the infrared digital photographic equipment of the University of Genoa on 19 April 2004. I thank Silvia Ferino Pagden, curator at the Kunshistorisches Museum, for allowing me to study the paint-

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ing, and to Gerlinde Gruber, for assisting me during the examination.

77

Wright, 1980, fig. 22.

78

Martin, 1993, fig. 37.

58

I examined the painting, using the infrared reflectography equipment of Groningen University, and the infrared digital photographic equipment of the University of Genoa, with Molly Faries, Linda Jansen, Micha Leeflang, and Daantje Meuwissen on 30 October 2002. 59

I examined the painting using the infrared digital photographic equipment of the University of Genoa on 21 April 2005. 60 I examined the painting using the infrared digital photographic equipment of the University of Genoa on 29 January 2004. I thank Lizet Klaassen, head of Conservation of the Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, for giving me the possibility to study the painting. 61

Wright, 1980, pp. 49-50 writes about ‘a loose association’ between the sketch and Petrus Christus’s 1452 Annunciation (Staatliche Museen, Berlin); Drawing in the Italian Renaissance Workshop, exh. cat. (Nottingham, University Art Gallery, 1983), ed. by Frances Ames-Lewis and Joanne Wright (London, 1983), p. 135. 62 See Das Geheimnis des Jan van Eyck: die frühen niederländischen Zeichnungen und Gemälde in Dresden, exh. cat. (Dresden, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, 2005) ed. by Thomas Ketelsen and Uta Neidhardt, (Munich and Berlin, 2005), cat. 31. 63

Dunkerton, 2000, p. 28.

64

Personal observation of the author.

65

Giotto to Dürer. Early Renaissance Painting at The National Gallery, ed. by Jill Dunkerton, Susan Foister, Dillian Gordon and Nicholas Penny (New Haven and London, 1991), p. 155, fig. 117. 66

Wright, 1993, p. 21

67

‘Restauration de deux tableaux d’Antonello de Messine’, Mouseion, 49-50 (1940), pp. 123-29, 3sp. p. 123; ‘Schede di restauro’, Bollettino dell’Istituto Centrale del restauro, 14-15 (1953), p. 71. 68

Giotto to Dürer (1991), p. 318.

69

Wood identification by Peter Klein, University of Hamburg 70 Davide Gasparotto, ‘Il Cristo alla colonna della Collezione Alberoni di Piacenza. La vicenda storica e conservativa’, in Ecce Homo. Antonello da Messina, pp. 40-52, esp. p. 44. 71 See: Fabio Talarico, ‘Risultati delle analisi chimiche sulle due tavole’, in Antonello agli Uffizi (2002), p. 85 (for the Saint John the Evangelist: linseed oil); R&C Scientifica, ‘Sezioni stratigrafiche e riconoscimento dei pigmenti e dei leganti’, in Carpaccio, Bellini, Tura, Antonello (1993), pp. 218-19 (for the Pietà: linseed oil); R.White and J. Pilc, ‘Analyses of the Paint Media’, National Gallery Technical Bulletin, 14 (1993), p. 87 and Dunkerton, 2000, p. 29 (for the Salvator Mundi: walnut oil; for the Saint Jerome in His Study: walnut oil); Martin, 1993, p. 59 (for the Christ at the Column: linseed oil). 72 See entries by David Alan Brown in Italian Paintings of the Fifteenth Century. The Collection of the National Gallery of Art. Systematic Catalogue (2003), p. 36 (for the Benson Madonna) and p. 45 (for the Mellon Portrait). 73

On this matter, see Galassi, 2000, p. 76.

74

R&C Scientifica, 1993, pp. 218-19.

75

Dunkerton, 2000, p. 28.

76 I thank Dorothy Mahon for providing the X-radiography of the painting.

84

79

Franca Carboni, ‘Due Ecce homo di Antonello da Messina. Contributo allo studio della tecnica pittorica e della conservazione’, in Ecce Homo. Antonello da Messina, pp. 62-68, esp. p. 64. 80 For the problem in dating the series of the Ecce Homo, see Fiorella Sricchia Santoro, ‘Il tema dell’Ecce Homo nel percorso di Antonello’, in Ecce Homo. Antonello da Messina, pp. 9-13. 81

Carboni, 2000, p. 63. See esp. figs. 31 and 39.

82

I am grateful to Franca Carboni for discussing her microscopy results with me. 83 On Antonello’s peculiar understanding of the method of glazing, see the already quoted fundamental essay of Wright, 1980, esp. pp. 47-49. See also Michelangelo Muraro, ‘Antonello: perché Venezia?’, in Antonello da Messina, Atti del Convegno (1987), pp. 479-502. 84 For the early use of the oil technique in Venice, see Dunkerton, 1999, pp. 93-96. 85 On Memling’s technique see Maryan W. Ainsworth, ‘Minimal Means, Remarkable Results. Memling’s Portraits Painting Technique’, in Memling’s Portraits, exh. cat. (Madrid, Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza; Bruges, Groeningemuseum; and New York, The Frick Collection, 2005) ed. by Till-Holger Borchert (Ghent and Amsterdam, 2005), pp. 93-111. 86 I am grateful to Roberto Contini for providing the photographs of the Berlin portrait, especially taken for my research by Christoph Schmidt at the Gemäldegalerie Photo Studio. 87 Joseph A. Crowe and Giovanni Battista Cavalcaselle, A History of Painting in North Italy, 3 vols (London, 1918), 2, p. 425. 88

Dunkerton, 2000, pp. 29-30.

89

Carboni, 2000, pp. 63-64

90 Dunkerton, 1999, pp. 97-98 (for the Salting Madonna); Costanza Mora, Albertina Soavi, ‘Antonello da Messina, Madonna col Bambino e angeli. Relazione di restauro’, in Antonello agli Uffizi (2002), pp. 74-78, esp. p. 77 (for the Madonna and Child); Martin, 1993, p. 59, who noted the presence of a premature drying crack in the area of the hair of the Portrait of a Man. By contrast, the later Christ at the Column exhibits a perfect handling of the oil technique, with no traces of premature drying cracks. 91 R&C Scientifica, 1993, pp. 218-19 (for the Pietà); Talarico, 2002, p. 85 (for the two paintings at the Uffizi); Martin, 1993, p. 59 (for the Christ at the Column). 92

Malarico, 2002, p. 85.

93

On van Eyck frames: Hélène Verougstraete and Roger Van Schoute, ‘Frames and Supports of Some Eyckian Paintings’, in Investigating Jan Van Eyck, ed. by Susan Foister, Sue Jones and Delphine Cool (Turnhout, 2000), pp. 107-17, esp. p. 108. 94

Ainsworth, 2005, pp. 93, 97.

95

A dark brown pigment with a high organic content was used by Petrus Christus to underdraw the Portrait of a Man (Los Angeles County Museum of Art): Joe Fronek, ‘Painting Techniques, Their Effects and Changes in the Los Angeles Portrait of a Man by Christus’, in Petrus Christus in Renaissance Bruges. An Interdisciplinary Approach, ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth (New York and Turnhout, 1995), pp. 175-80, esp. p. 175.

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96 For the use of a brown pigment in the underdrawing of the Madonna and Two Angels Adoring the Child, attributed to the School of Leonardo (Detroit Institute of Arts), see Molly Faries, ‘Reshaping the Field: The Contribution of Technical Studies’, in Early Netherlandish Painting at the Crossroads. A Critical Look at Current Methodologies, ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth (New York, 2001), pp. 70-105, esp. pp. 73-74. For the use of iron-gall inks in Italian underdrawing see Jill Dunkerton, Ashok Roy and Marika Spring, ‘The Materials of Underdrawing’, in Art in the Making. Underdrawings in Renaissance Paintings, ed. by David Bomford (London, 2002), pp. 26-37, esp. pp. 31-32. 97 For the discussion of the underdrawing in Petrus Christus portraits of London and Los Angeles: Maryan W. Ainsworth, ‘The Art of Petrus Christus’, in Petrus Christus. Renaissance Master of Bruges, exh. cat. (New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1994), ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth (New York, 1994), pp. 25-65, esp. p. 51, figs. 67 and 68. 98

For the connection between Christus and Antonello, not only in the iconography but also in technical features, see Maryan W. Ainsworth, 1994, pp. 61-62, who noted close similarity between Christus’s Los Angeles Portrait of a Man and Antonello’s Salvator Mundi. The idea of an Italian sojourn by Christus was first proposed by G. Bazin, ‘Petrus Christus et les rapports entre l’Italie et la Flandre au milieu du XVe siècle’, Revue des arts, 2 (1952), pp. 195-208. Nevertheless, no documents can confirm this assumption, since the identification of Christus with that ‘Piero di Burges’ recorded at the Sforza court is unsure. On this issue, see Maximiliaan P. J. Martens, ‘Petrus Christus: A Cultural Biography’, in Petrus Christus. Renaissance Master of Bruges, pp. 15-23, esp. p. 16;

Colin Eisler, ‘Discussion’, in Petrus Christus in Renaissance Bruges. An Interdisciplinary Approach, pp. 97-98 (with previous bibliography). For the possibility that Christus could be the painter ‘Piero de Fiandra’ who in 1451 was paid for the execution of an altarpiece (now lost) for the Venetian Chiesa della Carità, see Mauro Lucco, ‘Un’eco fiamminga in Giovanni Bellini’, in Scritti per l’Istituto Germanico di Storia dell’Arte di Firenze (Firenze, 1997), pp. 199-202, esp. p. 199. For the Sicilian origin of two Christus paintings, the Lamentation (The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York) and the Death of the Virgin (Timken Art Gallery, San Diego), see entries 8 and 15 by Maryan W. Ainsworth in Petrus Christus. Renaissance Master of Bruges, pp. 106-11, 146-53. 99 On the differences between Petrus Christus’s and Antonello’s underpaint, see Fronek, 1995, p. 177. 100 For the interest of Antonello in Memling’s portrait, see Christiansen, 1998, p. 56. 101 S. Cocurullo, ‘Note sulla tecnica di esecuzione del Polittico di San Severino’, in Il Polittico di San Severino. Restauri e recuperi, exh. cat. (Naples, Museo di Capodimonte, 1989), ed. by Ferdinando Bologna (Naples, 1989), pp. 63-70. 102 Till-Holger Borchert, ‘The Mobility of Artists. Aspects of Cultural Transfer in Renaissance Europe’, in The Age of Van Eyck, pp. 33-45. On this issue, see also Mauro Natale, ‘El Mediterráneo que nos une’, in El Renacimiento Mediterráneo, pp. 19-45. The idea of linking Antonello to a broad European artistic culture, that came to the Mediterranean area from the Northern countries, was first expressed by Roberto Longhi, ‘Frammento siciliano’, Paragone, IV, 47 (1953), pp. 3-44, esp. pp. 20-30.

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Flying Pictorial Carpets: Tapestries’ Transalpine Agendas Colin Eisler New York University Institute of Fine Arts In Memory of Ellen Callmann (1926-2002) Woven within the warp and woof of European visual culture, pictorial tapestry was developed in ancient Greece, maintained by the Roman, Coptic, Byzantine worlds preserved by Islam, and its technique was brought northwards from Spain in Carolingian and Ottonian times. Paradoxically, pictorial weaving remains both the most neglected and most significant object and agent for large scale representational and ornamental transmission. Often vast in size and scale, tapestry was the pictorial lingua franca of the western world employing classical themes at precociously early dates compared with the use of these same themes in Italian art, more predictable scenes of faith and folkways. Imported weavings proved key to introducing many novel pictorial currents to the peninsula. Like the swift passage of a shuttle, the tapestry industry, after moving from the Near East to Spain, then went northward, where its manufacture took root in the Lowlands and northern France, providing extraordinarily profitable and popular exports from the fourteenth century on to England, Italy, and Spain, possibly second only to the profits from the export of wool and other textiles. Soon many French and Netherlandish weavers were active south of the Alps, a number of these artisans active in early Quattrocento Italy, where some may already have arrived at a considerably earlier date. There Northern weavers and musicians established confraternities of their own, such as the one dedicated to Saint Barbara in Florence.1 In times of war, tapestry sheltered knights within woven tents and when peace prevailed it enveloped their love within similarly woven pictorial curtains and figured bedcovers. The same costly textiles reinforced leaders’ statehood by hanging in baldaquins above thrones

and covering the walls of judgement and other civic chambers. No other pictorial medium has ever come close to these weavings’ versatility and flexibility. While tapestry was the costliest technique, it proved the biggest bargain over the long haul, assuming the triple threats of depredation by moth, damp, and flame were kept at bay. North of the Alps, where fine wools abounded, tapestry weaving proved a major industry starting at least as early as the fourteenth century, providing a major source of revenue for the Lowlands and northern France. Soon many French and Netherlandish weavers were active south of the Alps, probably from the very early Quattrocento, if not much earlier. In Mantua these artisans were known to have come in 1420 at the bequest of Gianfrancesco Gonzaga.2 His court, with those of Ferrara and Milan, followed by Florence, Venice and Naples, were ever Northern-oriented for their concerted campaigns toward achieving the apparatus and grandeur of Burgundian magnificence. While Northern patrons were exposed to Giotto’s stoical achievement at a very early date, that Florentine painter and his followers, known to have been active in Naples, Milan and the South of the France, his monumental manner left scarcely a dent in terms of heritage or influence. Quite the reverse is true for another Trecento master, Simone Martini, active during the Babylonian Exile at Avignon. There his art and that of his Sienese associates proved far more sympathetic to the Northern tradition, their narrative skills and graceful, lyrical manner closer to transalpine Gothic taste. In the much discussed question of interEuropean influences, far,far too much emphasis is placed upon the importance of panel painting, and in the way in which NetherFLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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landish art, in particular – admittedly widely collected in Italy – impacted upon pictorial production of that peninsula. It was imported tapestry, infinitely more than panel painting, that proved a key source for shifts in Quattrocento arts toward a new visuality. Whereas a few hundred (at most) important Netherlandish pictures went to Italy at that time, several thousand tapestries were sent southward, along with the many more thousand square feet of weavings prepared on the peninsula by Northern artisans active in Mantua, Ferrara, Florence, Siena and other centres. Although many of the major important early tapestries are readily viewable in European and American collections, unless these are installed in romantic historical recreations, in revivals of their medieval and Renaissance settings, as in the spaces provided by The Cloisters (New York), the Musée Cluny (Paris), the Musée de la Renaissance Francaise (Ecouen), or within Wawel Castle (Poland), these essential weavings are too seldom seen for what they are: among Western Europe’s most all-encompassing and monumental forms of pictorialism. Two twentieth-century scholars, both with French ties, came closest to appreciating the complexities of technique in terms of visual transmission and special role: the great French art historian Henri Focillon (1881-1943), and the Canadian philosopher Marshall McLuhan (1911-80). Both analysts understood the complex interaction of technique and communication. The first, in his La vie des formes dans l’art (1934) stressed the way in which one medium, if outstanding in prestige and primacy, dictated the ways in which most others were perceived, and even the way in which the other media were manipulated. The second writer’s apercu, ‘The medium is the message’, like most truths, has been long reduced to a clichéd obviousness in no way mitigating against its validity. In the case of tapestry, extreme cost and affluent context made this pictorial or decorative weaving the archetypal messenger/agent of power, sacralizing its content, owner, and site alike. Most magnificent of large scale pictorial techniques, this medium cannot but convey a victorious message. A lost medieval poem by the Rhinelander, Biegger von Neckarsteinach, entitled Der Umbehanc (The Tapestry), gives some idea of the 88

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prominence and eloquence of the tapestry as vital image and narrative concept, the title alone sufficing to convey qualities of abundant event and dramatic communication.3 Ever a corporate endeavour, tapestry began with a small-scale artist’s design which was then enlarged into an actual size working drawing (the cartoon). This guided the weavers in their labours, usually placed immediately below the loom’s working surface. These several processes of translation and multiple execution lent the product a certain anonymity, one of ‘non’ – if not ‘anti’ – individuality. Complex multiple transitions involved in pictorial weavings’ manufacture, along with a seeming absence of individual participation, endowed the result with a certain seamlessness and distinctly authoritarian impersonality. Like Veronica’s veil or acheiropoetic images from classical mythology – those dropped from the heavens, untouched by human hands – tapestries, more than many a painting, may exert a powerful if elusive quality of mystery in which the pictorial seems hidden within, or emerging from, the alien fibre. All these peculiar, almost impersonal characteristics and determinants, so woven into tapestries’ manufacture, lend the pictorial textile medium a uniquely authoritative, albeit often close to totalitarian dimension, ever endearing such weavings to royal manufacture. Where the far more ‘democratic’, intimate character of multiples such as the woodcut will always be appreciated for its easily comprehensible, economical and communicative role, tapestries remain intrinsically and un-reconstructedly ‘politically incorrect’. Necessarily conservative in subject, aristocratic in association and almost prohibitive in cost, these exclusive characteristics all proclaim monumental weavings’ advocacy of the power of the purse. In the North, and often in Italy, tapestries’ flexibility long outshone painting in ceremonial value. Weaving participated intimately (and in more extroverted fashion) in weddings, funerals, triumphal entries, church holidays and other events on an ecclesiastical, domestic and governmental/ceremonial level, more than proved possible for any medium other than music.4 Often used for, or designed as part of, a propagandistic parade, that didactic dimension native to the weavings’ function came readily to tapestries, whether lining the walls

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of town halls, palaces, churches or the residences of the rich. Until the eighteenth century, tapestry often participated in the passing parade, taken out for temporary exterior display. Hangings, even if initially conceived for altogether different purposes, seemed specifically designed for witness by those thronging the streets, on their way to or from city gate or cathedral, participating in a triumphal entry. Though early weaving’s portability is an obvious factor in its popularity, the key quality of that ready transport has been neglected. This lies in tapestries’ subjects’ and techniques’ uncanny flexibility for function within shifting contexts, moving between the sacred to the secular without loss of significance, so adding spiritual and physical fibre to almost any event, bridging gaps between church and state, or private and public sectors. This medium was designed for cinematic witness, to be seen by the victor, church or state official, or the man or woman in the street, accessible in church, palace, town hall or parade. Pictorial weavings provided instantly changeable ‘frescoes’ of biblical, chivalric, classical, and fashionably rustic genres. Many woven subjects, especially from Antiquity, and of courtly and peasant genres, were far from popular among Italy’s painters and their patrons. But these proved highly desirable when coming from a foreign, noble, pricey and hence prestigious woven source. Most tapestries’ historical, allegorical or secular subjects seem, consciously or unconsciously, designed for multi-applicability. Thus the enormous Angers Apocalypse cycle, although initially commissioned for massively domestic, propagandistically militant embellishment, to be displayed within the ruling ducal chateau, could prove perfectly at home within Angers cathedral at a far later date. A similar capacity for surviving, and indeed thriving upon, shifting contexts would be true for the Neuf Preux (Nine Heroes, The Cloisters, New York) a typically versatile,effective combination of the sacred and profane, and of the distant and recent past, including three biblical, three classical and three medieval heroes. Early tapestries also reflected the innumerable lost frescoes of northern Europe5 which so often provided their sources of inspiration. The same cold, damp climate that contributed to the popularity of insulating woven wall-coverings, also led to the deterioration of the many

monumental frescoes which influenced the tapestries’ design. This curiously compensatory pattern of ‘lost painting and found weaving’ is yet another of the many intricately reciprocal aspects native to the genesis of early tapestry’s complex character. Issued in unofficial editions, often copied over and over again, weavings constitute the most monumental and impressive of all ‘multiples’, seldom if ever victim to the artificial, dealer-driven controlled limitation and desideratum of the supposedly “pricelessly unique”. No other art form is quite as highly prized without always having an obvious auteur. High Renaissance and later tapestries went into many re-weavings over the centuries, often without any one looming winning special favour as ‘the original’. This may be best observed in the ongoing value of the multiple weavings of Raphael’s Acts of the Apostles, initially destined for the Sistine Chapel. Only in the early sixteenth century, with the increasing technical virtuosity of the weavers’ and dyers’ arts, made possible by the employment of an ever widening colour range (along with the inclusion of silken and metallic goldand silver- covered threads) tapestries come to an extremely close approximation of the complex illusionism and richly varied colouring of later Renaissance painting north and south of the Alps. Not even Leonardo’s design for a woven Adam and Eve, with its demandingly subtle chiaroscuro seemed to have deterred the skills of the Netherlandish tapissiers’ skills.6 Wall hangings’ free-flowing narrative and decorative brilliance were soon translated into Italian fresco, the latter providing a readily affordable semi-equivalent to the splendid interior decoration effected by the installation of “four-walled” tapestry suites. These textileinspired wall paintings employed a high horizon line to best exploit their costly source/ medium, now emulated in fresco and, at times, in panel paintings both large and small. Tapestry never lost its great popularity until the decline of absolutism,with the fall of Catholic monarchical rule. With the Cromwellian revolution and the decapitation of Charles I (who established English monumental weaving works at his royally sponsored centre at Mortlake, staffed by Flemish artisans), and the temporary collapse of French royal reign at and after the Revolution, the state tapestry works at Aubusson, Beauvais and FLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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Gobelins fell into relative disuse. But with the Restoration and the early nineteenth century religious revival, the British Church Building Act and other conservative measures, woven commissions returned to view. That complex medievalism of the Socialist/Protestant William Morris and his Pre-Raphaelite circle, along with the fin-de-siècle Aesthetic Movement saw an impassioned return to the Arts and Crafts, with tapestry quite literally looming large. As late as the 1920s and 30s, painters such as Vuillard created faux-tapestries to decorate interiors, for example, the walls of Misia Sert’s exquisite Parisian dining room. Suitably the greatest – if least known – recreation of huge pictorial weaving took place in America, to meet the monumental needs of those ponderous palaces of capitalism, the Grand Hotels of the New World’s Belle Epoque. Built in gargantuan variations of the French Renaissance Chateau style, or erected by merging Grand Canal palazzi with Palladian villas, these massively luxurious hostelries’ yawning public spaces could only be satisfactorily covered by suitably opulent, vast tapestries.7 Frescoes would never,never do. Predictably, the world’s greatest new collections of medieval and later tapestry were also formed in the United States, assembled by the very richest of the rich. Major inventors, railway and oil magnates, press lords, war profiteers, and bankers such as Cyrus McCormick, J. P. Morgan, ‘Commodore’ Vanderbilt and Joseph Widener, along with their later generations and the rising fortunes of Hearsts, Whitneys, Rockefellers and Lehmans, all saw to it that their names were woven into the provenance of the ultimate textiles so terminating the awe-inspiring roster of royal, noble or merely fabulously wealthy owners. So, by vicarious inheritance, through re-possession of weavings from the ruling houses of western Europe, America’s new Lords of Creation legitimised their wealth, authenticating its roots, to be now viewed as a cultural birthright; their New World magnificence to be understood as a divinely righteous entitlement, springing from the branches of the Old. Even in areas totally unsuited to tapestry, most notably in pre-air-conditioned Florida, American millionaires followed the thrifty Treand Quattrocento Florentine adaptation of faux-tapestried interiors. Their walls were fres90

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coed in the ‘woven manner’ of the Palazzo Davanzati as decorated in the late fourteenth or early fifteenth century, its tapestry-like murals heavily restored in the late nineteenth century.8 Since this palace was also the show room of a hugely successful Italian antiques dealer to the American market, a steady flow of millionaires admired its carefully “strengthened” wall paintings. In terms of the reciprocal north/south character of the woven medium, it is worth noting that the Palazzo Davanzati included tapestry-inspired friezes taken from the French medieval chanson de geste known as the Chastelaine de Vergi.9 A similar subject, in tapestry, is found in Padua’s Museo Civico, its weaving probably coming to Italy in the early Quattrocento. For some voracious Floridian collectors of renaissance and baroque art such as the Ringlings of circus fame, trompe-l’oeil recreations of weavings would not do, so their solution was to buy Rubens’ great ‘cartoons on canvas’, the painted preparatory studies for the Descalzas Reales tapestry cycle. Falling victim to Florida’s climate, the paintings’ appearance, if not their fabric, was recently refreshed by conservation. Despite pioneering nineteenth and earlier twentieth century inventory studies of Eugène Müntz among others, along with Aby Warburg’s stimulating exploration of the popularity of Netherlandish tapestries in Quattrocento Florence,10 and far more recent, welcome achievements, such as Adolph Cavallo’s fine Metropolitan Museum Catalogue (1993) and Tom Campbell’s two great exhibitions at the same institution (2002 and 2004), as well as the fine work of G. Campori (L’arazzeria estense, Modena, 1876), and the far more recent study by N. Forti Grazzini, L’arazzo ferrarese (Milan, 1982), exploration of tapestry’s role in medieval times and the Renaissance still remain the stepchild of visual art’s history. The medium’s uninhibitedly ornate, selfconfident splendour has been too long seen as politically and aesthetically ‘incorrect’. Viewed as the proverbial ‘second-hand rose’, this essential pictorial achievement has long suffered under the Modernist curse of the evils of the decorative. The textile medium has also been mistakenly decried as ‘derivative or ‘applied’, these shibboleths of the habitually destructive, now mercifully passé Purism, along with the

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too often mistaken faith that ‘less is more’ contributed to the killing of any valid appreciation of the manifold roles of tapestry. Weavings’ significance was also long neglected due to a persistently sexist misperception of its manufacture as ‘women’s work’, automatically making such textile study unworthy of masculine scholarly pursuit. Yet men, not women, were in fact the actual tapissiers. The famous medieval Bayeux Tapestry (Musée de la Reine Mathilde) is, of course, no tapestry, but an embroidery, stitched by Queen Mathilde c.1080. A major art form and art force since Antiquity, tapestry enjoyed a vigorously ongoing classical association long after any semblance of the ancient weaving’s appearance could have been known. Literary references helped keep the image of Greek and Roman tapestry alive. Most familiar were the descriptions by Homer in the Iliad III (xvi, 224, ix, 200, xxiv, 230, 645) and in his Odyssey (iv.298, vii.337, xx, 150) where Penelope weaves, unravels and reweaves a battle scene to keep her unwelcome suitors at bay.11 Archetypally virtuous, Penelope was selected by Boccaccio as worthy of admission to his select Nine Great Women. For Petrarch, she became more than a symbol of marital fidelity, her constancy guaranteeing her a seat upon his Triumphal Chariot of Chastity. The Homeric theme of Penelope at her loom remained popular in the Renaissance, depicted upon the front of a Quattrocento cassone in the Lanckaronski collection, and found painted on others in the Musée Cluny and elsewhere.12 A form of Italian bridal furniture, cassoni were hope chests containing some of the woman’s clothing and bedding. Acting as both surrogate and symbolic bride, this painted furniture proclaimed by subject and content, her class, character, and dowry. Particularly important in view of tapestry’s revival and prestige were those ancient texts concerning the textile’s significance as gift of spectacular beauty and great value, for presentation and display at weddings, victories and other major events. Catullus’ Argonautica (LXIV, 250-70) includes a uniquely lengthy ekphrasis of a tapestried bedcover devoted to the turbulent, tragic romance of Theseus and Ariadne.13 Could the art of Titian have been made manifest without Rome’s greatest lyric

poet providing these radiantly erotic descriptions? That Catullus was mentioned by St Jerome may have contributed to the general acceptance of his distinctly un-Patristic verse. Pictorial hangings were also important in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (VI, 70-128) as narrated in the Contest between Athena and Arachne. Proud if tactless, Arachne’s fabrication of an irreverent take on the Loves of the Gods in her tapestried version of Europa’s Sea Journey lead to her conversion into a spider. Arachne’s satirical chef d’oeuvre is depicted in the background of Velazquez’ splendidly furnished studio, included in the artist’s setting for Las Meninas (Prado). Clearly the meaning of the weaving operates on several levels: as the quintessence of the Antique pictorial achievement, and possibly as a Paragone. The hanging also functions morally, as a warning against excessive creative pride - hubris – with poor Arachne paying all too heavily for her satirical woven exposé. Hangings, whether curtains, baldaquins, or wall coverings, were all traditional accompaniments to authority, as seen in the January page of the Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry (Musée Condé, Chantilly; Plate 6). Here the Limbourg brothers show their ducal patron seated before a suitably intimidating woven battle scene, so continuing Penelope’s topos. Since at least the early fourteenth century, Northern tapestry was exported throughout Europe often monumental in size and well described by the German term of Wandteppiche, or wall-carpets. Figured weavings assumed additional symbolic powers South of the Alps where their presence conveyed the legendary wealth and almost magical authority of Burgundian dukes, along with the dynasty’sclaims to the very bluest of blood. So the possession of tapestries, necessarily Northern in origin, endowed their Italian owners with visual reinforcement for their desire and claims to transalpine prestige. Inventories attest to the massive quantities of these weavings found in most Italian papal and ruling houses, especially in Ferrara, Bologna, Florence, Mantua, Milan, Rome and Naples. It was the evocative pictorial powers exerted by the presence of such hangings in Italy that was first explored with such characteristic sensitivity and brilliance by Aby Warburg.14 By translating tapestry design formulae into fresco or, upon FLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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rare occasions, into other media – painting on panel or canvas15 – a complex cycle of reciprocity and inter-dependency was established in Italian Renaissance art. Usually infinitely lower in price than weaving, wall painting could be up-graded in the eyes of patron and viewer alike when presented as faux-tapestry. Under such circumstances, murals dissolve into woven metaphors, so bespeaking a far more exclusive discourse, by implication one held upon a far costlier, desirable plateau. Of the many later Trecento frescoes suggesting a free adaptation of the Northern tapestry aesthetic is The Triumph of Death (Sclafani, Sicily), as well as another fresco of the same subject, a vast scene ascribed to Traini at the Camposanto (Pisa), dating from c. 1340. In fact, it would be hard to comprehend the visual line of attack demanded by that daunting, enormous Pisan reliquary space, with great walls enclosing a field of sacred earth, had the tapestry concept not been so firmly fixed in the minds of its image-organisers, along with the Camposanto’s patrons and painters.16 Those seemingly endless mural spaces called for a suitably ambitious, gigantic, narrative programme whose execution took place over at least two centuries. Pisa, it should be remembered, long under Medici domination, was the port of entry for enormous quantities of Northern goods, including tapestries and paintings. Ships bearing such costly goods, including the great Portinari Altarpiece (Uffizi), then sailed down the Arno for Florentine disembarkation. Tapestry’s pictorial powers are so strong that they can often constitute a hand-woven camera picta, a four-sided wall-to-wall-to-ceiling covering. Gothic in origin, such a pictorial enclosure is found in France and northernmost Italy, at the Torre Aquila (Trent), fragments at Pavia, and in descriptions of lost decorations. Best known may be the wall treatments, the frescoed suites of games, hunting and other courtly entertainments that were provided by Northern painters active at the Papal Palace in Avignon. These scenes were themselves often modelled upon far costlier hangings. Hundreds of lost secular subjects frescoed in a faux-tapestry style were to be found on the walls of long destroyed northern Italian hunting and other pleasure palaces of the late Trecento and earlier Quattrocento. Some of 92

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these fictive ‘weavings’ were painted for the country retreats of the Colleoni, Este, and Visconti, many of them great tapestry collectors.17 Such frescoes, like the ones at the Castello Visconteo in Pavia, were very well described but few traces survive. They included images of wild animals, hunting, jousting, and fishing – all genre topics frequently found in woven form.18 With marriages such as Gian Galeazzo Visconti’s to Isabella of Valois in 1360, many tapestries must have been included in Lombardy-bound Northern dowries. Gentile da Fabriano, and his famous apprentice Jacopo Bellini, were employed by the Colleoni near Padua. They first designed a lavish chapel for the condottiere family which had many Gothic features suggesting those of tapestries, true too for the Colleoni’s tapestry-like hunting frescoes. Of unknown authorship, these were painted on the walls of their castello at Malapaga. Related frescoes were also to be seen in the chapel of Galeazzo Maria Sforza’s castello in Milan.19 Jacopo Bellini was certainly impressed by the large-scale Northern tapestry approach to landscape, and it proved to be an important pictorial source for his own panoramic views found in Drawing Books (British Library and Louvre). Two surviving early Italian fresco cycles, dating from the earlier Quattrocento, deserve recognition as clearly inspired by Northern tapestry. The first is in the Marches, and the second in Lombardy, both found in ecclesiastical structures. These faux-tapestried chambers were frescoed by Lorenzo and Jacopo Salimbeni, in the Oratory of Saint John in Urbino (Fig.1) and by the Zavattari in Monza’s Chapel of Theodolinda (Fig. 2).20 Dating from 1416, the Urbinate cycle covers the inner walls of its Oratory.21 Far from coincidentally, the centre’s Marchigian court would prove to be Italy’s most concentrated centre for Netherlandish art patronage toward the mid-Quattrocento, when under the leadership/patronage of Federico da Montefeltro. He, like so many condottiere, with other men of great recent wealth, was a tapestry enthusiast, a taste doubtless shared by his Sforza wife.22 The Marches’ leading painter, Gentile da Fabriano, was unusually close to Northern art, especially that of the Limbourg brothers (Plate 6). One of the talented quartet certainly came

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Fig. 1. Lorenzo Salimbeni and Jacopo Salimbeni, Preaching of St John the Baptist. Oratorio di S. Giovanni Battista, Urbino © Scala/Art Resource, NY

to Italy, probably before 1416, when three of the four brothers were known to have died, along with their ducal patron, Jean de Berry, all probably felled by the plague.23 The Oratory’s narrative is conveyed by fauxfrescoed tapestries, the walls filled with references to a fashionable Northern court vocabulary of c. 1400, very possibly inspired by weavings in local ducal possession. The images’ somewhat archaic appearance is not unusual for tapestry-based works since the weavings themselves were often cherished for their deliberately ‘old fashioned’ quality, one conferring a similarly ancient origin upon their frequently nouveaux-riches owners. The desirability of such overtly out-of-date images may best be explained by a paraphrase of the old Bostonian joke: one never buys one’s tapestries, one has simply always had them. Another factor contributing to the enduring popularity of older tapestries in Italy was the perpetual survival or revival of Dante’s incomparable works.24 Never ‘in’ or ‘out’ of fashion, the poet left a heritage of such profoundly

beautiful medieval images that older tapestries, in particular, could be seen as a tribute to, or mirror of, his art. Similarly, Petrarch’s panoramic triumphal processions, as much rooted in the visuality of weaving, as in the vocabulary of Antiquity, contributed to the ongoing popularity of the older-fashioned tapestry. The other early surviving translation of tapestry into fresco is found in the splendid Chapel of Theodolinda in Monza’s Cathedral, a cycle devoted to the thrice-married Longobard queen, daughter of King Garibald of Bavaria (Fig. 2). Suitably, this internationallyoriented monarch has recently had her name used by a language school in Ravenna, with a website of wwww.teodolina.net. By Franceschino Zavattari of Milan (who belonged to a dynasty of painters of the same surname, mostly active in the same city, along with Monza and Pavia), the chapel’s frescoes were executed with the help of two of his four artist sons – Gregorio and Giovanni. The cycle was commissioned by Gian Maria Visconti, first Duke of Milan.25 The Monza frescoes may FLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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Fig. 2. Zavattari family, Meeting between Autari and Theodolinda, the court and Autari with the Scepter. Duomo, Monza © Scala/Art Resource, NY

have been completed in the 1440s, possibly 1444-6.26 Artists enriched the Theodolinda murals by embellishing the backgrounds with a treatment reflecting the lavish textured effects of the costliest tapestry’s richesse. The walls are given the appearance of having been ‘woven’ in shimmering silken gold and silver thread, suitable to their sainted heroine’s Northern origin. Some of these effects could also have been derived from richly worked transalpine panel painting or manuscript backgrounds. Where few Italian painters could have enjoyed ready access to costly imported manuscripts (unless they themselves worked in that medium), many tapestries were in a semi-public domain, often hanging in accessible civic spaces, ready for aesthetic appropriation.27 Monza’s frescoes wrap their way around the chapel’s corners in a perpetual, dynamic denial of architectural restriction. The body of a horse is even seen starting on one wall and ending around the corner, on the adjacent wall. Fabricators of faux- tapestries, the Zavattari ‘lined’ the walls of the much-married Theodolina’s chapel with simulacra of such textiles. Its strip upon strip of narrative, horizontal, and almost rotulus –like in organisation recalls that of a far earlier, so-called tapestry, the Bayeux embroideries stitched by another Northern queen.28 94

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The same feature of a horse having to straddle a corner is seen again in Pisanello’s great, if abraded, Arthurian fresco cycle for the Gonzaga palace in Mantua. This led Joanna Woods-Marsden to conclude that the major chivalric series was also painted in emulation of tapestry. She observed: The tournament scene emulates the effects of […] tapestries in both its grandiose scale and its jewel-like surface. Murals may well have been understood by Quattrocento signori as substitutes for Northern tapestries, which were in a more luxurious way than paint of [sic] decorating large expanses of wall. Indeed, frescoes commissioned by Bartolommeo Colleoni for one of the piano nobile rooms in his castle at Malapaga a few years later were even painted in imitation of a set of hunting tapestries. Woods-Marsden noted that at about the time of Pisanello’s painting the Arthurian frescoes for the Gonzaga in the 1440s, the family was temporarily in financial disarray, making it impossible to acquire costly tapestries in their habitually extravagant fashion.29 Frescoes, whether at Monza, or Urbino, or Pisa, told their tales without regard to spatial dictates, enveloping the viewer in an allencompassing recitation where the witness was

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surrounded by a faux-textile format. Aspects of the painted space at Monza, and Pisanello’s Arthurian scene at Mantua’s Palazzo Ducale, anticipated the illusionistic approach of the Mantegna’s camera picta, a reception room for the same residence. Here the definitive taste-maker may have been the brilliant duchess rather than the great painter. Where the artist’s aesthetic encompassed the Byzantine and the neo-Classical as well as the transalpine, the power and brains behind the Mantuan throne belonged to Barbara von Brandenburg. Her Prussian origin may have lead Mantegna to modify his habitual classicism, favouring the somewhat Gothic eccentricity which led to his ‘tapestried’ camera picta - the ducal reception and bedroom of the family palace. Barbara is known to have been in touch with an important Flemish weaver, Rinaldo Boteram who, after corresponding with her from Brussels in 1466, was active at her Mantuan court, also working for the d’Este in Ferrara and for the Republic of Venice.30 Among Europe’s leading entrepreneurs in the visual arts, Netherlandish tapestry manufacturers, painfully aware of the down- as well as of the up-side of the prohibitive cost of their wares, also exported faux-weavings to Italy. Most of these were painted on canvas, acting as far more readily affordable simulacra of their luxury export. Sold throughout the Italian and Spanish peninsulas, these fictive figured textiles must have played a major role in disseminating the Northern approach to many genres, including landscape. They are recorded as far south as Naples, where such painted cloths, forming a Passion cycle, were created in the manner of Rogier van der Weyden. With tapestry’s constant popularity, additional cheaper ways for their production were also pursued later in the fifteenth century, including the hand-painting of facial features, a practice frowned upon by the weaver’s guild. Yet such collaboration between painter and weaver also made tapestries far more affordable and widespread. Still less expensive than the painted textiles were tapestry-like hangings mass-produced by printing wood blocks on linen. Only one large wood block survives that seems to have been used for this purpose, a Crucifixion fragment of c. 1370 known as the Bois Protat (Bibliothèque

Nationale, Paris, Cabinet des Estampes). At about the time of the Bois carving and printing, printed linen bedcovers showing twentytwo very small scenes from woodcuts of the life of Tristan – their captions in the Sicilian vernacular – display the arms of two prominent Florentine families, the Acciauoli and the Guiccardini.31 In all likelihood many larger wood blocks carved with related scenes would also have been employed. Florence, with Ferrara, Mantua, Siena, and many other Italian centres, yearned for Northern identification, for religious, political and social reasons, expressing this desire by becoming among Italy’s most enthusiastic proponent of tapestry and all its rich associations. When the fifteen year-old Galeazzo Maria, Count of Pavia and eldest son of the Sforza duke, Francesco, visited Florence with the Sienese Piccolomini Pope Pius II in April and May of 1459, their entry was celebrated by the display of omnipresent tapestries. These lavish weavings were first seen by the distinguished visitors at the ringhiera installed before the Palazzo Vecchio. The civic reception bench and area was covered by mille fleurs weavings, the work of Lieven de Bruges, who had already prepared no less that 1300 square cubits of historical tapestries for the civic palace two years earlier.32 Upon the young count’s arrival at the Medici Palace, its grimly defensive rusticated façade was tactfully obscured from the eyes of Florence’s great future ally, covered by suitably festive Northern weavings. Galeazzo Maria was used to this deployment of costly late medieval textiles since his ancestral court was far closer to Northern practices than was Florence. Pavia, the source of his title, was a university centre with an unusually cosmopolitan student body including many Northerners. Archives and fresco fragments point to a transalpine approach to the city’s interior decoration, with special emphasis upon nature studies.33 Politically-inspired, Medici appropriation of the splendor of French kings and Burgundian dukes was seldom seen to better advantage than in the family’s small but splendid palace chapel. This sanctuary, with all other such domestic sacred spaces, required papal privilege for its establishment. An elegantly devotional setting, the chapel, as stressed by Rab Hatfield, was also used as a reception chamber, where Cosimo welcomed the young Count of Pavia.34 FLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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Fig. 3. Michelozzo di Bartolomeo, Palazzo Medici Riccardi, Interior of the Chapel with frescoes by Benozzo Gozzoli © Scala/Art Resource, NY

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After receiving his initial greeting in that festive, as yet unfrescoed but probably tapestrylined, chapel, Galeazzo Maria was led to his immediately adjacent grand bedchamber. This had been graciously vacated by Piero de’ Medici in deference to such a distinguished visitor. Here the walls, ceiling and bed hangings were all embellished by tapestries, silks, velvets or embroideries.35 In many ways, the Florentine reception celebrations stressing Northern woven pictorialism were as much in the Pope’s honour as that of the young count’s. Of all powerful Italians, Pius II may have been the one closest to the Northern ethos. That the Medici Chapel’s later, festively frescoed wall paintings by Benozzo Gozzoli (Fig. 3) were commemorative of the Count of Pavia’s visit was first proposed by Jacques Mesnil.36 These murals were begun shortly after the powerful young guest’s departure, executed in true fresco, tempera and oil, in only forty-six days. Diane Cole Ahl has shown how the continuous narrative and pageant-like appearance of the Gozzoli frescoes were derived from Northern wall hangings such as the huge Hunting Cycle from Chatsworth (Victoria and Albert Museum), and other tapestries in Berne.37 Writing of the Medici Chapel’s walls, with one magus on each, Rab Hatfield noted how, ‘Intentional or not, the arrangement of this early “road picture” is quite ingenious as it takes us full circle from sinister to dexter […]’.38 So cinematic a ‘road- show’ approach is absolutely central to early weaving for, with one magus per wall, the chapel’s cleverly continuous narrative is the quintessence of the often propagandistic ‘tapestry esthetic’.39 ‘It is disheartening to realise that perhaps the most felicitous aspect of the fresco’s symbolism may not have been intended’, Hatfield wrote, commenting upon the progression in age of the Magi as they are followed around the Chapel walls.40 Yet there is no need for the American scholar’s dismay since nothing could be more conservative than Gozzoli’s pictorialism. Boundless ambition, so typical of the Medici, led to their identification with the Magi, for material as well as spiritual reasons. Male members of the family belonged to the devotional Compagnia dei Magi, attached to their Dominican-sponsored church of San Marco.41 Gozzoli, with his late Gothic “woven pictorial” formulae was, nevertheless, endowing the

chapel walls with an aura of subtle, almost intangible transalpine modernity embedded within the fictive warp and woof of the murals. Here, once again, the Medici were up-dating their ever ambitious power claims by back-dating their domestic settings, following the Northern saying, ‘reculer pour mieux sauter’, so establishing themselves as ‘the once and past’ and ‘the once and future’ leading family of Florence. Such politically inspired Medician patronage, employing calculatedly historicising powers, made it seem almost impossible to imagine a time, whether past, present or future, that Florence could be free from their grasp. Gombrich found Gentile da Fabriano’s Strozzi Altar of 1423 (Uffizi) to have provided a conservative source for the Gozzoli cycle but a common tapestry origin would be the likelier for both works.42 A far older and long richer Florentine family than the Medici, the Strozzi also looked northwards, to a magically carpeted, tapestried world for their images. This was especially true for the Altar’s pictorial organisation with its high horizon line and flower-entwined Ghibertian Gothic frame. The Medici Palace chapel includes an altarpiece of an Adoration in the Forest (now in the Berlin Museum), (Fig. 4), by Fra Filippo Lippi, where the floral treatment also points to a Northern tapestry derivation. Such transalpine referencing was not only en suite with the family’s taste but also underscored the scene’s inclusion of a Northern saint, Bernard of Clairvaux, adopted as patron of the Florentine republic.43 Quoting from the Cistercian’s First Sermon for Christmas Eve – ‘On the Fonts of the Saviour’ – Hatfield noted that its initial paragraph provided ‘the probable source of the torrents and stream we see in the right background. Other discussions of mountains, trees, briars and streams, as well as […] lilies, roses, flowers of the field, and more […] found in Bernard’s sermons for Christmas […]’ for which the saint had a special vision of the Nativity.44 Bernard wrote, ‘You will find in woods more than in books […] Trees and stones will teach you what you can never learn from masters’.45 Many of the landscape elements in Lippi’s altar and Gozzoli’s walls are drawn from visual sources just as Northern as Bernard’s words, taken from the Netherlandish tapestries so superabundant in mid-fifteenth century Florentine possession. FLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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Fig. 4. Fra Filippo Lippi, Adoration in the Forest, bpk/Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin. Photo: Jörg P. Anders

It may well prove that the Revelations of St Bernard, like those of St Bridgit,46 were shaped by the outer as well as the inner eye, contributing to images’ communication with such vivacity in their texts. Some of their visions, as is known for those of the Swedish saint, were themselves inspired by works of art seen on an Italian journey or witnessed at home. Hatfield wrote ‘As far as we can determine, Benozzo’s 98

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frescoes are illustrations and little more’, yet that illustrative narrative function proved essential for most pre-Modern, pre-Daguerrean art, providing images to illuminate and extend the word, whether spoken or written. So, most early depictions follow St John’s opening line: ‘In the beginning was the word’. The visual arts almost always fulfilled an “illustrative” function. Falling under that luminary rubric should

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be understood as positive, not pejorative. Only one early alternative to the ‘illustrative’ is to be found – when that image depicts a uniquely individual mystical experience, one couched in necessarily “unrealistic” or “conceptual” terms. Without the abundant, specifically contemporary portraiture found on the other chapel walls, two Gozzoli panels of shepherds (Fig. 5) point to Northern tapestry derivation. These frescoes are situated above the doorways on the east and west walls to the immediate left and right of the sanctuary, placed at the far sides of Filippo Lippi’s Mystical Adoration. While the rustic figures are evidently monumentally midQuattrocento in style, their relationship to their landscape setting is extremely unusual and suggests lost weavings as the images’ source. As recognised by Ahl47 these frescoed panels are devoted to the biblical theme of the ox (on the west wall), knowing his master and thus, by implication, salvation, while the ass (on the east wall) is solely concerned with his master’s crib, source of his next meal. But as the ox is looking away, Gozzoli would seem to have reversed his source, presumably a treasured Northern tapestry in Medici possession. This reversal may also prove true for the placement of the shepherds who, as observed by Hatfield, are also ‘looking the wrong way’.48 Could this, once again, indicate the flipping of a cartoon or tapestry source? Cosmic in quality and reference, each magus symbolic of one third of the world, the Medici chapel’s quasi-tapestried walls teem with family portraits and that of their painter. The altarpiece and its chapel convey two distinct messages: one, the universal quality of Christianity, the faith of the King of Kings; the other, the universal goals of Cosimo de’ Medici, his name signifying the cosmos. That same universal meaning was shared by a pictorial format unusually highly developed in Northern Europe near the year 1400, the circular composition or tondo, especially popular in the courts of the Valois brothers. Though found in Italy as a polyptych component, or in secular use, as deschi da parto, painted round trays for sweetmeats to be brought to the mothers of the new-born, this format was seldom seen as an independent pictorial area comparable to that found in the North.

Fig. 5. Benozzo Gozzoli, Procession of the Magi, detail. Shepherds with a red ox, Palazzo Medici Riccardi, Florence © Scala/Art Resource, NY

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Fig. 6. Domenico Veneziano, Adoration of the Magi, bpk/Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin. Photo: Jörg P. Anders

Painters in the Medici employ, seemingly more than any others, selected the fashionable Northern circular format for several extraordinarily rich and large depictions of the Adoration of the Magi.49 These unusually grand Epiphany tondi, related to the courtly vocabulary of the tapestry, were housed in the family palace, the one by Botticelli now in London’s National Gallery. Latest in date, this is also the least conservative in style. First of the series, one that is both inventive and old-fashioned, is ascribed to a collaboration between Fra Angelico and Filippo Lippi, the tondo now in the Kress Collection (National Gallery of Art, Washington).50 One probably dating between the other two, is by Domenico Veneziano (Gemäldegalerie, Berlin), (Fig. 6).51 Here Ames-Lewis has detected Medici portraits. The scene is by far the closest to the approach of the Limbourg brothers and to that of their Italian 100

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followers, such as Gentile da Fabriano and Pisanello. It was the Council of Ferrara/Mantua, probably attended by Domenico Veneziano, that may have inspired his Berlin tondo and occasioned his much desired meeting with the Medici. Such a magnificent event, with its confluence of leaders of church and state from east and west, north and south, must have been celebrated by the display of acres of tapestry, both imported from the Lowlands and woven in Ferrara by Netherlandish workers. All three tondi are rife with transalpine pictorial references, their artists clearly instructed to reflect the courtliest of all manners, in the style too long designated as the International, one close to that of the painters of Burgundy and Paris active c. 1400.52 The theme of the Adoration of the Magi, with its emphasis upon cosmic recognition and Christian unity may, in

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Fig. 7. Paolo Uccello, Hunters in a Wood, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford. Photo © Erich Lessing/Art Resource, NY

both the tondi and later, in the Gozzoli chapel frescoes, relate to plans for a new Crusade. Traditionally, such holy wars were fought at Burgundian instigation, thus a large number of Netherlandish and French nobility enjoyed titles to and from the Holy Land, one of Rene d’Anjou’s crowns that of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Discussion of such a Crusade was brought up at the Council of Mantua in 1459, under Pius II, near the time of his, and the Count of Pavia’s, Florentine visit when Pius was on his way to the Council.53 The pope was uniquely close to northern Europe, having resided in Basel for many years, and maintaining unusually cordial diplomatic relations with German and Austrian leaders. Crowned poet laureate to the Holy Roman Emperor in Augsburg, this pope saw himself as apostle of humanism to transalpine Europe.54 Another instance of tapestry’s influence upon Italian art is to be found in the three massive panels for the Medici Palace that show major battle scenes in Florentine military history and also convey keen awareness of a woven aesthetic. Painted by Paolo Uccello, they are now divided among the Louvre, London’s National Gallery and the Uffizi. Along with many of the Florentine’s other works, the three martial scenes should also be understood as having a tapestried dimension, so indicated by their treatment of space and sense of continuity from one great panel to the next. The Gothic references of the Uccello battle scenes imply close

consultation and communication of the woven medium as found in Burgundian and other Northern tapestries, and Battaglia verses. Gebhardt’s recent reconstruction brings the Uccello Battle panels down from a squeezedin, close-to-ceiling spalliere placement to a far lower, continuously horizontal site, to be seen only three or so feet overhead, just above a wainscoting. The London Battle was to the left, the Florentine one at the centre and the Parisian panel at the right.55 So triumphal a panorama points to “rationalised tapestry” and to its installation, injecting a shrewdly placed series of falling lances, foreshortened fallen warriors and other perspectivally situated elements to contribute a sense of depth. That Uccello was used to working en suite with a Northern point of view is documented by his providing the predella to Joos van Ghent’s Institution of the Eucharist (Galleria Nazionale delle Marche, Urbino) for the centre’s Confraternity of Corpus Domini. It was there, at the court of Federico da Montefeltro, that the largest single documented Quattrocento concentration of Netherlandish paintings prevailed. Evidently, Uccello, along with his passion for perspective, took over some of the Northern textiles’ screen-like approaches toward a panoramic effect for several works, seen again, on a very small scale, in his Hunters in a Wood (Ashmolean Museum, Oxford) (Fig. 7). Here, as in another nocturne, the Pisanello Vision of FLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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Saint Eustace (National Gallery, London), the very small painting is magically enlarged in power and authority by its pictorial echoing of a monumental art form – the tapestry. Just this combination of Gothic narrative with the new construction of space made Uccello the man of the moment, not so much for the now somewhat exaggerated science of his perspective but for its chivalry. Ingenious, the Medici integration of Northern references was a vital part of the family’s strategies. Both archaic and avant-garde, Uccello’s three-part military cycle provided the same double-directed viewpoint as the Gozzoli frecoes for the family chapel and for the Medici epiphanic tondi by Angelico with Lippi, by Domenico Veneziano, and by Botticelli. Janus-like, the Medici, assisted by some of their favourite artists, followed that popular Etruscan god’s characteristic two-facedness. They too could look backwards and forwards simultaneously, enhancing their powers by so complex a bipolar vision, at once privileged with the mystique and glamour of time-hallowed romance, equally fortified with the new/old mystique of Neo-Platonism. With its transalpine web of banks and factors, the Medici assumed a Northern heritage by appropriating a mythic Burgundian ‘aesthetic bloodline’, one at first far more readily achieved by object-purchase than by marriage. Since several of the family’s far flung financial centres were situated where tapestry was manufactured or traded, especially in Bruges, Geneva, and Lyons, this made it easy for the Medici to buy as many weavings as they wished or could afford. Correspondence between the family and one of their agents in this area, named Fruoxino, survives.56 Considerably later, when the Medici directed their own textile and tapestry works in Florence, they exported such goods for purchase or exchange to the North. In the fifteenth century, several other ruling Italian families moved towards establishing their own tapestry works, the elite medium maintaining its artistic and symbolic currency.57 An almost indefinable prestige accrued to the sponsorship of such textile production, true too for the court-subsidised monopoly on the manufacture of fine Orientalizing ceramics, the characteristic blue and white Medici Ware.

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With the first imported and then domestically woven tapestry, the Medici tapestry collecting and weaving followed the pan-European network of their banks. Soon their Eastern-inspired porcelains, manufactured in Florence, were to point to potentially Asian dominion. Though the leading early patriarch was called Cosimo, only in the next century, with two Medici popes – Leo X and Clement VII – would the family’s vast claims and boundless ambitions come close to complete fruition, a fantasy made real with the marriage between Catherine and Henri II. In fin-de-siècle Florence, such painters as Botticelli and Verrocchio produced monumental images designed for transcription to banners. These devices, some suggesting tapestry, were for jousts, that Northern chivalric sport long popular in the Veneto, where the Serenissima’s armed combats, staged in the Piazza di San Marco, were so vividly drafted in the Drawing Books of Jacopo Bellini (British Museum and Louvre). The joust took on a new role in Florence, very possibly inspired by those sponsored by Borso d’Este,58 the Ferrarese family ever among Italy’s most romantically Gothic-identified families, owners of tapestry and fresco cycles of Northern chivalry. Recreating themselves in Franco-Burgundian guise, the Medici also assumed the ways of the most fashionably humanistic manner, neoPlatonism. They called upon the poetics of Poliziano and his circle for some of their jousts’ romantic themes and Northern-inspired emblems. Assuming the dangerous delights of such mounted combat, with its accompanying chivalric conceits, the Medici embraced the emotional extremes of Gothic courtly love. Their festivities now rejoiced in the occult, neo-Northern and neo-Platonic literary assumption of emblems and devices.59 These events employed many imprese, and such competitions required artists to create an implication of ancient lineage. First most effectively achieved by Uccello, Filippo Lippi, and Gozzoli, this chivalric goal was continued by Pollaiuolo, Verrocchio, and Botticelli. The last specialised in the preparation of a dazzling world of faux-tapestries, of fictive banners, of ‘stained cloths’ painted in run-proof colours on both sides, suggesting woven images, to supplement the actual tapestries abounding in the Medici collection.

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Fig. 8. Sandro Botticelli, Birth of Venus, tempera on linen, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence © Scala/Art Resource, NY

Botticelli produced a painted bed tester or sopracielo with a figure of Fortuna for Lorenzo de’ Medici, this too suggesting a simulacrum of costlier figural weaving.60 Lorenzo also owned ‘four stained cloths’, one of these a version of Botticelli’s famed Calumny of Apelles – presumably all of these works enjoyed tapestry references.61 Many of the painterly conventions found in Botticelli’s Birth of Venus come close to those seen in Northern tapestry (Fig. 8). The Florentine master’s exposure to, and emulation of, the woven aesthetic was first detected by Jacques Mesnil in 1938, a scholar born in the region where the tapestry industry was most widely established in later medieval times – that of modern day Belgium. Writing of Venus, Mesnil observed that like so many of the Florentine master’s classical subjects, Botticelli’s “enjoyed, above all else, a decorative character close to that of tapestry. In these paintings perspective plays no role whatever. Architecture is absent. Decorative verdure forms the background, or, if water is needed, by the inclusion, as in the Birth of Venus, of schematized wavelets,

one superimposed above the other, these taking on a purely decorative character. French and Flemish tapestries, so many owned by Florentine families and specially by the Medici, served as Botticelli’s sources. These weavings added a touch of class to Tuscan interiors. ”62 The painter’s exquisitely economical overall abstract/decorative treatment of the Birth of Venus also conveys a woven surface, particularly true for the oddly streaky application of gold in the immediate foreground, an effect very close to that of precious metal-wrapped threads woven into tapestries. Surprisingly pale and flat in presentation, unusual even for Botticelli, the Birth of Venus suggests that the artist is recreating a fanciful antique image, one which may have been meant to be understood as following the ekphrasis of an ancient tapestry.63 Gombrich picked up on Mesnil’s tapestry-tied perspective for Botticelli’s scene, commenting upon the possible relevance of such earlier weavings as a Tournai tapestry showing The Court of Venus (Musée des Arts Décoratifs, Paris) for the Florentine image. FLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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Though there is little, if any, formal resemblance between the two from the figural viewpoint, both backgrounds are quite similar.64 By noting such Northern associations for the communication of classical subjects, this is not to suggest that Quattrocento artists did not also scan surviving antiquities as clues and determinants of their renderings of the same themes.65 In view of the lengths to which Botticelli went to recreate tapestry references in some of his classical subjects, the original, recently rediscovered location of his Primavera as located in central Florence rather than in any one of the family’s several villas, is of special interest, so constituting yet another festive, fictive ‘tapestry’ enriching the family’s urban setting.66 Judging by technical studies at the time of the painting’s conservation, the Primavera design seems to have been very fully worked out, from what would appear to have been a highly finished cartoon, like the one a weaver would have worked on for a tapestry.67 If, as suggested by recent scholarship, the Primavera hung above a sofa bed (letuccio) on the first floor of the younger Lorenzo de Medici’s urban residence on the Via Larga (now Via Cavour), such a physical association with domestic furniture – so often surrounded by tapestry – would help explain the way in which Botticelli’s scene is presented, with such a strikingly mille-fleurs quality to its verdured background.68 That Botticelli designed actual tapestries is scarcely surprisingly in view of his own style. Analogies were already drawn between Botticelli’s art and textiles by Herbert Horne in 1908 when he described his Dante pages as demonstrating ‘the felicity with which Botticelli is able to weave his inventions into a lovely tissue of swift, sensitive line’.69 An inevitable distance between the designing hand and the early weavers’ product contributed an abstract quality to medieval and to earlier Renaissance tapestries. Documentation for the same practice is found for far less likely candidates such as Leonardo and Verrocchio. A vertical tapestry of an Athena (ex-collection Vicomte de Baudreuil) is distinctly Botticelli-like in approach, probably belonging to a suite such as one designed by the Florentine artist for the Medici.70 The goddess holds a helmet mak104

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ing its wearer invisible, which Pluto then gave to Perseus when Athena sent him to kill the Medusa. Combining the styles of Botticelli and Mantegna, the tapestry bears the arms of Guy de Baudreuil [Banderul], abbot of the Benedictine monastery of St Pierre (Corbin, Le Morvan), formerly in the Duchies of Burgundy and Nivernais. Guy’s motto, SVB SOLE SVB VMBRA, is repeated three times on the tapestry.71 A Verrocchiesque shield hanging from a tree is Athena’s aegis with the head of Medusa.72 Among the wisest statements the late Sir John Pope-Hennessy may ever have made was, ‘It is excusable to take a forgery for an original, but inexcusable to hold an original to be a forgery’.73 So it takes courage, if not foolhardiness, to find something a shade suspect about Athena’s somewhat pre-Raphaelite appearance (at least in reproduction). Most of her figural and emblematic components are in awkward scale to one another. Moreover, the introduction of overtly Pollaiuolesque and Verrocchiesque elements in a work purportedly by Botticelli points to the possibility of a date closer to 1891 than 1391 in what may prove a historicising pastiche. Detroit’s Eros Triumphant (from the Marczell von Nemes collection) represents stylistic worlds in collision (Plate 7). While the powerful, heroic figure of Eros is distinctly Pollaiuolesque, in the spirit of the Florentine artist’s large engraving of a gladiatorial combat of the mid-1470’s (and not Mantegnesque, as is so often suggested), the love-god is backed by a conventional mille fleurs carpeting taken from any later fifteenth century weaver’s repertoire.74 It is telling that no single surviving Northern work of art should present quite so dramatic and discordant a juxtaposition of Quattrocento and late Gothic imagery. Only monumental weaving may lend itself to triumphantly selfassured layerings of two utterly alien traditions as in this ‘flying carpet’, one actually furnished with medieval wings attached to a Renaissance Eros’s shoulders. Unlike the Athena, the far more overt, bold proclamation of divers sources for the genesis of this weaving is more a guarantee of authenticity than the reverse. High Renaissance Rome showed a special affinity for tapestry design, predictably when permeated by powerful references to the

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Fig. 9. Raphael and workshop, The Cross Appearing to Constantine the Great, Sala di Costantino, Vatican Palace © Scala / Art Resource, NY

authority of the antique. Raphael excelled in designing for this medium when he devised the magnificent Acts of the Apostles suite for the Sistine Chapel.75 In the Quattrocento, the chapel had already been extensively decorated by fauxtapestries on all four walls.76 Hung on the lower zone of the Sistine Chapel, Raphael’s cycle is probably the most re-issued biblical series in the history of weaving, countless editions emerging since the early sixteenth century. For the ceiling of the frescoed Stanza d’Eliodoro, Raphael introduced a mock-tapestry covering. According to Vasari, a bedazzled palafreniere was completely taken in by the trompe l’oeil qualities of a ‘tapestry’ painted by Giovanni da Udine on the closing wall of the Vatican loggie. Faux-tapestries were painted by Pinturicchio for the Appartamento Borgia, some of these seemingly rolled up. Similar treatments were to be found in the Sala dei Misteri and the Sala delle Art Liberali.77 On a far more intimate scale, Raphael and his circle turned to the domestic implications of tapestry for the ‘woven ceiling’ of the Villa Farnesina. Here a magnificent trompe-l’oeil depiction of the Wedding of Cupid and Psyche seems to shield the viewer from the elements,

the villa’s vaulting supposedly uncovered but yet protected by its artfully frescoed faux-arras. Greatest of all surviving interiors to be covered by fictive tapestry is the Vatican’s colossal early Cinquecento Sala di Costantino, the work of Raphael and his studio, with the hand of Giulio Romano particularly in evidence.78 The Sala’s painters provided four gigantic illusionistic hangings, seemingly suspended from each of the Sala’s four vast walls (Fig. 9).79 These fictive weavings celebrate the first Christian emperor’s life, depicting Constantine’ baptism, donation, adlocutio and triumph over Maxentius. Stupendous in size, the Sala’s “woven wall” paintings are created in fresco and oil. By seemingly denying their medium, they present a declaration of independence from the four underlying, supporting walls. These simulacra of tapestry extend all the way to the top of each wall, where the faux-hangings wave along the uppermost border, just where similarly suspended ‘weavings’ would behave in the same irregular way. Painted for Leo X and completed under the second Medici pope, Clement VII, this huge cycle once again reflects the family’s passion FLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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for the textile medium, whether ‘true or false’, in ‘real’ or fictive form. Leo’s device, that of confronted lions, runs along the very top of each wall, shown as if woven within the tapestry borders. With the Sala di Costantino, the illusionistic recreation of tapestry reached its apogee. Here, as already seen on far smaller scale in other painted weavings, these frescoes employ McLuhan’s phrase, conveying both the medium and message of victory. Paradoxically, with the increasing technical virtuosity of tapestry design in its duplication of painting, the less important was its impact upon the other visual arts. Ever more successfully approximating the condition and effect of the fresco or oil painting, tapestry, by use of a constantly expanding variety of colours and more subtle chiaroscuro effects, was reduced to the purely (or impurely) reproductive, losing any instantly recognisable life of its own. But for the copious quantities of gold and silver threads, and the use of silk, weavings, for all their gorgeously shimmering surfaces, came to be little more than a flexible, uncannily faithful recreation of same size achievements in other media. Four disparate but equally critical examples of tapestry’s complex travels and far flung, often reciprocal, visual concerns will conclude this survey of the influence of ‘flying frescoes’. This quartet of instances ranges in date from the Quattrocento, to the French Renaissance, to Baroque Britain, to key periods of Napoleonic and Prussian empire-building. All these tapestried adventures involve major painter/designers and Northern reproductive weavers. By far the most important early cycle of tapestries that Napoleon sought to ‘return’ to his Musée Napoleon, for installation in the Louvre, was an early fifteenth century reproductive series woven in Italy by the tapisseur Giacchetto di Benedetto of Arras. He came to Siena in 1441, remaining active there until 1458.80 Surprisingly, this large cycle was based upon the city’s most famous early Trecento frescoed chamber. Giachetto’s weavings reproducing no less seminal a work of art than the celebrated Good and Bad Government cycle painted for the Palazzo Pubblico by Ambrogio Lorenzetti, completed in 1339. In the fresco’s very high horizon line and unprecedented genre details, there is something about the pro106

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fusion of such everyday elements, along with their diminutive scale and detail, which would have been of special appeal to the North, and may very possibly have partially originated there. The weavings were prepared with the assistance of an obscure local painter, Lodovico da Luna, whose task lay in the making of the very large cartoons on linen rather than paper, since the latter was both costly and hard to assemble in the requisite large sheets until later times.81 The tapestries were long treasured in Siena (where their exact function remains unknown) until Napoleon’s day. Smit made the plausible suggestion that the weavings were prepared for installation in a governmental building in an area under Sienese control, acting as a visual reminder of the Republic’s dominion in lieu of the Lorenzettti frescoes, their presence a pictorial and symbolic extension of Siena’s Palazzo Pubblico.82 No ruler since Antiquity may have been quite as extraordinarily aware of art’s propagandistic powers as Napoleon, founder of his own Musée installed within the Louvre, this to be further enriched by his well-selected loot. Since the Sienese woven cycle was of French manufacture, ‘repatriation’ may have been seen as their rightful destiny. Tragically, such chauvinisme led to their loss, since the barge bearing the cycle from Siena to Paris probably sank in a Mediterranean storm.83 A second reproductive tapestry cycle, woven at the royal tapestry works at Fontainebleau in the succeeding century, deserves special consideration.84 More than a flying carpet, this series (of which only six tapestries survive; Kunsthistorisches Museum,Vienna) enabled its recipients to reconstruct sections of an entire innovational architectural interior, once again of revolutionary Italian design. Here the visual issues convey overt nationalism and internationalism alike, for the cycle was based upon a major monument, the king’s celebrated and surprisingly personal galerie at Fontainebleau. Pioneering in its intricate union of pictorial and sculptural embellishment, this space was the joint labour of two leading Italian artists, the Florentine Rosso Fiorentino and the Bolognese Francesco Primaticcio. Coming close to a Gesammtkunstwerk, the galerie was illuminated by Benvenuto Cellini’s massive silver sculptural torchères, which were not, of

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course, included in woven recreations of the passages’ side walls. Nor were its end walls seemingly ever reproduced in tapestry. Francois’ galerie (possibly for dance, dining or ceremony) combined the second and third dimensions in the most original of Italianate fashions, bringing to northern Europe an unprecedented media experience. Possibly as its artists were working in an alien environment, they created a style based upon a synergy between painting and fictive sculpture that had not yet been achieved in Italy and may have been stimulated in part by works seen in France. The gallery’s pictorial and sculptural fields encoded so many references to the king’s life and character that scholars have been haggling over the galerie’s significance for centuries. In terms of the passage’s reproductive weavings, what really mattered was Francois’ desire to let fellow rulers re-create aspects of his uniquely inspired patronage on their own turf. Re-installation of the hangings in parallel spaces allowed their recipients’ partial sharing of the ‘Fontainebleau experience’. Here, yet again, tapestry functions as translation. Weavings’ singularly flexible parameters make it far easier for the Northern viewer to follow (if not fully comprehend), the spatial complexities of the aesthetically revolutionary royal French gallery. As recreated in woven form, the Gallic walls, re-installed in an accurate architectural hanging, took on something of the character of a secular and stylistically evangelical Santa Casa di Loreto, flying throughout the Continent, conveying the gospel of a radical Kunstanschauung in the propagandistic service of a newly humanistic, Italianate monarchy. A third key example of transforming tapestries, in this instance originating with simulacra painted on canvas by no less an artist than Mantegna, is represented by his nine-part trionfi cycle (Hampton Court).85 This Roman victorious series in semi-grisaille was meant to be understood as weavings miraculously surviving from classical antiquity, painted for the Gonzaga court with its capacity to identify itself with ancient imperialism. In all likelihood Mantegna, as the leading fifteenth century neoclassical painter, envisioned his great series (often reproduced in print form) as recreations of Roman tapestries celebrating a military victory, based upon descriptions from classical literature.

Just as it took a devout Fleming, one steeped in his native Antwerp’s tapestry industry, Sir Peter Paul Rubens, to urge his English royal Catholic patron to purchase the Raphael tapestry cartoons, (seemingly from a Genoese source), so did the same great painter probably advise Charles I to acquire Mantegna’s fauxweavings at the great seventeenth century Gonzaga bankruptcy sale, to be bought from the family for whom the Fleming had worked during his Italian years. Rubens doubtless played a key role at the king’s Flemish operated tapestry works at Mortlake which would reproduced the Mantegna cycle in tapestry form.86 The powerful, almost universal appeal of the Trionfi was so strong that the great series proved among the very few works in the magnificent, recently assembled royal collection to have been specifically retained for England at Cromwell’s wish. Reflecting the mixed blessings of nationalism, and once again focused upon the transport of tapestries from one region to another, the nineteenth century founding of Berlin’s Museumsinsel, with all its imperialist echoes of triumphal trophies, gave monumental weaving an extraordinarily prominent political role as was so often the case. London’s mushrooming museum system was due largely to the interests of Queen Victoria’s beloved Prince Consort, Albert of Saxe-Coburg. Later, the couple’s daughter, the Empress Frederick, resolved to rival the symbolically twinned empires of art and territory rising so effortlessly across the Channel under her parental aegis. As the chief glory of the Victory and Albert Museum was its possession of Raphael’s cartoons for his Acts of the Apostles (these magnificent designs sent from Rome to the Lowlands for weaving), the best Berlin could do was to acquire another set of tapestries of the same design -their almost inevitable source, an English collection! The cycle was installed within an independent, basilica-like gallery upon the Prussian capital’s formidable Museumsinsel. Bought as symbols of German supremacy, Berlin’s Sistine series after Raphael fell victim to Allied bombings in World War II. Designed in Rome for the Vatican, woven in the Lowlands, treasured in England, bought for Berlin and destroyed by British and American FLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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bombs, the complex origin, execution, varying ownership and fate of the German Acts of the Apostles may present the most dramatic instance of tapestry’s cosmic experiences and too often tragic transalpine agendas. A terminal tale of pictorial weavings’ intricate origins and travels is that of the Barberini cycle. This topos is provided by a vast series of Baroque tapestries (Philadelphia Museum of Art) – among the very largest of all surviving post-medieval weavings, these were initially projected for the French court. Like the fictive wall hangings for the great frescoed Sala di Costantino (Vatican), part of this cycle was ordered by a papal family, but one of later date, by the Barberini, similarly devoted to the life of the first Christian emperor. In design as well as execution, the series represents an extraordinarily complex interaction between Italy and the north and, in terms of ownership, extending to the New World. A collaboration between Peter Paul Rubens and Pietro da Cortona, the Barberini cycle may be regarded as the major manifestation of multifaceted international Baroque cooperation among artists, artisans and patrons of different nations. Initiated in Paris, the first panels were woven there by Flemings in French royal employ, following twelve designs by Rubens. This series went into many subsequent editions. The initial hangings were presented as a diplomatic gift to the cardinal Maffeo Barberini. He then had the series expanded in Rome where Pietro da Cortona designed the supplementary cartoons. Additional studies by Rubens for the same cycle, never previously executed, were also woven in Rome, along with Cortona’s, by the newly established Barberini Flemish tapestry works.87 Unlike Rubens’ designs first woven in Paris, Cortona’s were never re-issued. In the late nineteenth century, five of the major hangings from the Barberini collection

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that were woven in Rome, and one belonging to the Paris-woven series moved to Washington, D.C., purchased to decorate the palazzo of a Pennsylvanian millionaire, Charles M. Foulke. An institution then known as The Pennsylvania Museum and School of Industrial Art exhibited the series in 1896, the catalogue written by its owner. Before 1913, Foulke’s tapestries were acquired by another American, John R. McLean. With the rise of Fascism and the ever livelier campanilismo of national patrimony, Mussolini supposedly claimed this great cycle for Rome in the sure and certain event of the Axis’ supremacy. The financial acumen and philanthropic drive of two art-loving Pennsylvanian coal miner’s sons, the Kress brothers, founders of a hugely profitable Five and Ten Cent chain, made their Foundation’s purchase of the Barberini tapestries, already in America, possible. Samuel and Rush Kress’ interest in European culture sprang in part from their belief in a putative descent from the Nurnberg Renaissance merchant princes of the same name. Like the swallows of Capistrano, the monumental Barberini tapestries, among the greatest Baroque achievements outside Europe, returned to Philadelphia’s art museum where they had already been exhibited once before, in 1896. But they are now to be found installed in the City of Brotherly Love’s later art museum, a great Parthenon (needless to say far, far larger than the original), mostly built in the Depression and rising above a vast flight of stairs, cresting Fairmount Park. So the Baroque cycle of tapestries designed by the major masters of Flanders and of Rome were now restored by the Kress brothers to the state where their family fortune was founded. Have any such pictorial carpets flown quite so far, or followed quite so complex an itinerary? Or proved quite so dramatic an intersection of secular and Christian values?

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NOTES

This paper was delivered at the session held in Ellen Callmann’s memory at the Renaissance Society meeting in New York in 2004. It hopes to supplement such excellent studies as those of Joanna Woods-Marsden, in her The Gonzaga of Mantua and Pisanello’s Arthurian Frescoes (Princeton, 1988) and Diane Cole Ahl’s brilliant exploration of Benozzo Gozzoli’s frescoes in the Medici Palace chapel in her monograph on that master (Yale University Press, 1996). Both these fine scholars dealt extensively with the influence of tapestry on painting in Quattrocento Italy. This is a subject pioneered by Aby Warburg and Jacques Mesnil. Much valuable work has been done by Sir Ernst Gombrich. Weaving’s imprint on High Renaissance art has been explored by John Shearman and Rolf Quednau. The purpose of this study is one of panoramic assemblage, to create in tapestry-like fashion, the ‘big picture’ of a major topos so that one may, as in a weaving lined chamber, experience this rich and beautiful subject in the round. I am very grateful to Clare Hills Nova, Research Librarian at the Institute of Fine Arts of New York University, and to Lorraine Karafel for many invaluable references. Ingrid Alexander-Skipnes has been of the greatest editorial assistance. Tom Campbell’s superb tapestry exhibitions and their catalogues for the Metropolitan Museum of art have made him a one-man renaissance of that woven medium and a worthy successor to the great Edith Standen. 1 See M. Battistini, La Confrère de Sainte Barbe des Flamandes à Florence (Brussels, 1931). 2 A. Bertolotti, Le arti minori alla corte di Mantova nei secoli XV, XVI e XVII (Milan, 1889), p. 215. 3 M.O’C. Walshe, Medieval German Literature – A Survey (Cambridge, 1962), p. 107 4 See Jeffrey Chipps Smith, ‘Portable Propaganda – Tapestries as Princely Metaphors at the Courts of Philip the Good and Charles the Bold’, Art Journal, 48 (1989), pp. 12329. For the role of music in such events, see Reinhard Strohm, Music in Late Medieval Bruges (Oxford, 1985). 5 See the forthcoming study of early Netherlandish frescoes prepared by Carina Fryckland, to be published by Brepols. 6 Giorgio Vasari, ‘Life of Leonardo’ in Le vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori ed architettori, ed. by Gaetano Milani, 9 vols. (Florence, 1878-85) 4, p. 22. 7 See Alice M. Zriebiec, ‘The American Tapestry Manufacturers: Origin and Development, 1893-1933’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, New York University, Institute of Fine Arts, 1980). 8 See the house designed by Addison Mizener for Joshua S. Cosden at Palm Beach. It was decorated by the Fratelli Angeli, reproducing the Palazzo Davanzati’s Sala dei Papagalli. Reproduced by Roberta Ferrazza, Palazzo Davanzati e le collezioni di Elia Volpi (Florence, 1994), fig. 218. 9 See Walter Bombe ‘Die Novelle der Kastellanin von Vergi in einem Freskenfolge des Palazzo Davizzi-Davanzati zu Florenz’,(1902), Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz I (1912-17), pp.1-25. See Ferrazza, Palazzo Davanzati, figs. 27-29, also plates 29-30 in colour.

10 ‘Flandrische Kunst und florentinische Fruhrenaissance’ (l902) reprinted in his Gesammelte Schriften, I (Leipzig, 1932), pp. 185-206, See also M. Lamartin, Correspondance de la filiale des Bruges des;Medicis, Brussels, 1931. See also Raymond Adrien de Roover with Florence de Roover, The Rise of the Medici Bank 1397-1494 (Cambridge, 1963). 11 For tapestries in antiquity see Camillo Rodon y Font, El arte de la tapiceria en la antiguedad (Badalon, 1918). See also Louis de Ronchaud, La tapisserie dans l’antiquité: le peplos d’Athene la decoration intérieure du Parthenon restitué d’après une passage d’Euripede (Paris, 1884). See also John Magruder Mansfield, The Role of Athena and the Panathenaic peplos (Michigan, Microfilm, 1996). Useful surveys are those of Wolfgang Fritz Volbach, and in William H. Smith, Dictionary of Classical Antiquities (London, 185l), pp.1097-98. 12 For the Lanckoronski cassone see Paul Schubring, Cassoni (Vienna, 1915), cat. no. 245, plate LV. It is also given Number 252 on p. 257. His plates and numbers are confusing and very hard to use. The cassone of the subject in the Cluny Museum is his p. 137, plate CIX, pp. 133, 137. See his useful Section 2 ‘Der griechische Mythos’, pp. 184-202. 13 In the Loeb Library volume devoted to that poet, see Tibullus ff. trans. by F.W. Conrad et al. (Cambridge, 1962), LXIV, 50-26, pp.100-17. 14 New note about his Altfrankische or whatever article or simple ref. to earlier note about it here. 15 See Diane Wolfthal, The Beginnings of Netherlandish Canvas Painting, 1400-1530 (Cambridge, 1989). 16 See Sheldon Cheek, ‘Gozzoli, the Camposanto,and the Pisan Renaissance:A Documentary Study of the Old Testament Cycle’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, New York University, Institute of Fine Arts, 2000). See also Diane Cole Ahl, ‘Master Benozzo de Lese of Florence, Painter in the Campo Santo’, in Benozzo Gozzoli: The Artist and his Workshop (New Haven and London, 1996), pp.157-94. 17 See Werner Gundersheimer, Art and Life at the Court of Ercole d’Este (Geneva, 1972), pp. 67-72. Also E. S.Welch, ‘Galeazzo Maria Sforza and the Castello di Pavia, 1469’, Art Bulletin, 71 (1989), pp. 352-75. For the Colleoni frescoes see V. Polli, Il Castello des Colleoni a Malapaga e i suoi affreschi (Bergamo, 1975), plates 44-46. 18 Destroyed by the French in the Siege of Pavia in 1527, the frescoes are recorded in Stefano Breventano’s Istoria delle antichità, nobilità,e delle cose notabili della città di Pavia (Bologna, 2000), Book 1, p. 70. 19 See G. Marangoni, ‘La Capella di Galeazzo Maria Sforza nel Castello Sforzesco’, Bolletino d’Arte, n.s.(1921-22), pp. 17686, 227-36. 20 R. Negri, La cappella di Teodolinda a Monza (Milan and Geneva, 1968). 21 For Salimbeni see Penelope A Dunford, ‘The iconography of the frescoes in the Oratory of Saint John in Urbino’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 36 (1973), pp. 367-73. 22 Among his collection of hangings was a grand Trojan cycle; information courtesy of Tom Campbell.

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23 For recent belief that most Italian influence on Northern art was due to the travel of Italian paintings northwards, rather than Northern artists southwards, see Victor M. Schmidt, ‘Northern artists and Italian art during the late Middle Ages: Jean Pucelle and the Limbourg brothers reconsidered’, Italy and the Low Countries – Artistic Relations. The Fifteenth Century, ed. by Victor M. Schmidt et al. (Florence, 1999), pp. 21-38. To my mind there is no need for a firm ‘either/or’ approach in this connection since both alternatives were possible. For the ease and profusion of artists’ travels see the fundamental work by Georg Troescher, Kunst und Kunstlerwanderungen in Mitteleuropa, 800-1800 (Baden-Baden, 1953-54). 24 This writer is much indebted to Max C. Marmor’s magisterial account ‘From Purgatory to the Primavera: Some Observations on Botticelli and Dante’, Artibus et historiae, 48 (2003), pp. 199-213, for ‘raising my consciousness’ as to the way in which Florentine art and life was saturated by Dante. 25

For the Zavattari, see G.Algeri, Gli Zavattari:una famiglia di pittori e la cultura tardogotica in Lombardia (Rome, 1981). 26 Restoration has made the final digit of the ‘1444’ in the fourth register hard to read. See the fine entry by Janice Shell, ‘Zavattari’, The Dictionary of Art, ed. by Jane Turner, 33 vols. (New York, 1996) 33, pp. 624-26. 27 For Northern chivalric manuscripts in Italian Quattrocento libraries, see Joanna Woods-Marsden, The Gonzaga of Mantua and Pisanello’s Arthurian Frescoes (Princeton, 1988), pp. 22-26, and notes 40-83. 28

The Visconti and Sforza libraries abounded in Northern Chivalric literature, in tales such as the Lancelot du Lac et al. 29

Woods-Marsden, pp. 89-94, 113.

30 See Hillie Smit, ‘Some biographical notes on Rinaldo Boteram, weaver and merchant of Flemish tapestries in fifteenth century Italy’, Aux Quatre Vents – a Festschrift for Bert W. Meijer (Florence, 2002), p. 182. 31 P. Rajna, ‘Intorno a due antiche coperte con figurazioni tratte dalle storie di Tristano’, Romania, 42 (1913), pp. 51779. 32

See Diane Cole Ahl, p. 112.

33

See E. S.Welch, ‘Galeazzo Maria Sforza’, pp. 352-75.

34

Rab Hatfield, ‘Cosimo de’ Medici and the Chapel of his Palace’, Cosimo il Vecchio de’Medici, 1389-1464, ed. by Francis Ames Lewis (Oxford, 1992), pp. 221-45. See also Hatfield’s ‘Some unknown descriptions of the Medici Palace in 1459’, Art Bulletin, 52 (1970), pp. 232-49. 35

Hatfield, p. 227, note 33.

36

Jacopo Mesnil, ‘Sigismondo Malatesta e Galeazzo Maria Sforza in un affresco del Gozzoli’, Rassegna d’Arte, 9 (1909), pp. 74-75. 37

See Diane Cole Ahl, p. 170.

38

Hatfield, 1970, p. 232.

39

Colin Eisler, Jean Duvet (New York, 1977).

40

Hatfield, 1970, p. 232.

41

See Hatfield, ‘The Compagnia de’ Magi’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 33 (1970), pp. 107-61. 42

Ernst Gombrich, ‘The early Medici as patrons of art’, Norm and Form (London, 1966), p. 50. 43 Cited by Hatfield, p. 241. From L. Menzies, The Saints in Italy: A Book of Reference to the Saints in Italian Art and Dedication (London, 1924), p. 66 44

110

Hatfield, 1992, p. 230.

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45

Hatfield, 1992, p. 242.

46

See Carl Nordenfalk, ‘Saint Bridget of Sweden as Represented in Illuminated Manuscripts’, De Artibus Opuscula XL, Essays in Honour of Erwin Panofsky (New York, 1961), pp. 371-93. 47

Ahl, p. 98

48

Hatfield, 1970, p. 231.

49

See Moritz Hauptman, Der Tondo: Usprung, Bedeutung und Geschichte des italienischen Rundbildes in Relief und Maleri (Frankfurt, 1936), and the recent monograph on the same subject by Roberta J. M. Olson, The Florentine Tondo (New York and Oxford, 2000). The three Medici tondi are found in the inventory published by E. Müntz, Les collections des Medicis au XVe siècle (Paris,1888), pp. 60, 62, 64. 50 See Colin Eisler, ‘The Athlete of Virtue’, De Artibus Opuscula XL, Essays in Honour of Erwin Panofsky, I (New York, 1961), pp. 82-97. 51 F. Ames-Lewis, ‘Domenico Veneziano and the Medici’, Jahrbuch der Berliner Museen, 21 (1979), pp. 67-90. 52

See Rab Hatfield’s study of these tondi.

53

See Joseph Gill, The Council of Florence (Cambridge, 1959). See also Lotte Brand Phillip, The Ghent Altarpiece and the Art of Jan van Eyck (Princeton, 1971), chapter 5, ‘The Jerusalem Ideal and the Court of Philip the Good’, pp. 180-92. 54 Georg Voigt, Enea Silvio Piccolomini als Papst Pius der Zweite, und sein Zeitalter, 3 vols(Berlin, 1856), 2, pp. 342-358. 55 It has been suggested that the three scenes may have been ordered by Lionardo Bartolommeo Salimbeni (1407-79). According to Paul Joannides, ‘Paolo Uccello’s “Rout of San Romano”: A New Observation’, Burlington Magazine, 131(1989), pp. 214-16, the series was always seen just below the ceiling in the Camera di Lorenzo. But in a more recent article by Volker Gebhardt in the same publication, ‘Some Problems in the Reconstruction of Uccello’s “Rout of San Romano”’, 133 (1991), pp.179-85, Gebhardt takes issue with Ioannides’ views. 56 One of the letters from Fruoxino to Giovanni de’ Medici, dated 22 June 1448, was first published by J. del Badia, ‘Sulla parola “Arazzo”’, Archivio Storico Italiano, ser. 5, 25 (1900), p. 89. Giovanni was distressed by the degree of violence in some of the proposed tapestry acquisitions. 57 For the Medici works see Candace Adelson, ‘The Tapestry Patronage of Cosimo I de’ Medici, 1545-1553’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, New York University, Institute of Fine Arts, 1990). 58

See Woods-Marsden, p. 135, note 68.

59

See Francis Ames-Lewis, ‘Early Medicean devices’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 42 (1979), pp. 126-40. 60

Fol. 46r.

61 Herbert Horne, Botticelli (Princeton, 1980), p. 183, and Appendix 11, Document xxix, fol. 56 r. Also p. 268, folio 46 r. 62

Jacques Mesnil, Botticelli (Paris, 1938), p. 66.

63

For ancient depictions of this subject see Lexikon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae, II, I, Aphrodisias-Athena VIII A. ‘Geburt der Aphrodite’, p.113, and E. Simon, Die Geburt der Aphrodite (Berlin, 1959), pp. 50-66. From the same source, VIII, I, Thespiades -Zodiacus, see XVI, pp. 219 ‘Geburt der Venus’ which lists surviving ancient visual sources. 64 E. H. Gombrich, ‘Botticelli Mythologies: A Study in the Neoplatonic Symbolism of his Circle’, Journal of the Warburg

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and Courtauld Institutes, 8 (1945), pp. 7-60. He reproduced the tapestry on p. 9, fig. b, and discussed its role on p. 19. 65 See Horst Bredekamp, Sandro Botticelli, La Primavera: Florenz als Garten der Venus (Frankfurt, 1988). On p. 22ff. this scholar stresses the significance of the antiquities owned by the Marchese del Bufalo, studied by Botticelli during his Roman sojourn. For that important collection see H. Wrede, Der Antikengarten der del Bufalo bei der Fontana dei Trevi (Mainz, 1982), Trierer Winckelmannprogramme, 4. 67 See U. Baldini, Primavera. The restoration of Botticelli’s Masterpiece (New York, 1986), p. 40ff. 68 See W. Smith, ‘On the original location of Primavera’, Art Bulletin 57 (1975), pp. 31-40. See also Michael Rohlmann’s links between that tapestry and the marriage of Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici to Semiramide Appiani in 1482: ‘Botticelli’s “Primavera”: Zu Anlass, Adressant und Funktion von mythologischen Gemalden im Florentiner Quattrocento’, Artibus et Historiae 17 (1996), pp. 97-133. See also F. Zollner, ‘Zu den Quellen und zur Ikonographie von Sandro Botticelli’s “Primavera”’, Wiener Jahrbuch zur Kunstgeschichte, 50 (1997), pp. 131-58, 357-66. 69

Horne, p. 254 (Princeton reprint, 1980).

70

See S. Settis, ‘Citarea su’ una impresa di bronconi’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 34 (1971), pp. 135-77. The tapestry was first published by Müntz as the frontispiece, reproduced in colour, for the first volume of Andre Michel’s Histoire de l’Art pendant la Renaissance (Paris, 1889); see also p. 718. See also Horne, p. 161. 71

The tapestry was exhibited in Paris at the Exposition de l’Art Italien (1935), cat. no. 1752, dated c. 1520. For the presumed Baudreuil series see Philippe des Forts, ‘Les Tapisseries de Gui de Baudreuil, Abbe de Saint-Martin-aux-Bois’, Congrès archéologique des France, LXXIIe Session, tenue à Beauvais en 1905, pp. 555-60. 72 Horne, 1980, p.162 refers to a painting in the Pitti and to a ‘cartoon’ in the Uffizi relating to the tapestry neither of which this writer has seen. On p. 163 he expresses severe doubts as to the quality of the ‘cartoon’. 73 74

Said to the writer of this article.

Portiere-like in size, measuring 9 ft 6 in x 36 in, the tapestry is dated c. 1500-20, and described as designed in northern France but woven in the Netherlands in the fine catalogue by Alan Phipps Darr, Tracey Albainy and Melanie Holcombe (Woven Splendor, Five Centuries of European Tapestry in the Detroit Institute of Arts, cat. no.5, pp. 28-29, 1996). Charles Sterling, ‘La Pietàde Tarascon et les peintres Dombet’, La revue du Louvre et des Musées de France, 16 (1966), pp. 3-26. Page 24 may have come nearer the truth when he placed the hanging in the circle of the Master of the Retable of Boulbon, a painter possi-

bly influenced by Piero della Francesca. Whether that idea is valid or not will never be known, but it does point to a very considerably earlier dating and in that regard Sterling would certainly appear to be correct. 75 See John White and John Shearman, ‘Raphael’s Tapestries and their Cartoons’, Art Bulletin, 40 (1958), Part One, pp. 193-231, Part Two, pp. 298-323. Also John Shearman, Raphael’s cartoons in the collection of Her Majesty the Queen, and the Tapestries for the Sistine Chapel (London, 1972). 76 See Shearman, 1972, pp. 4-5 for a discussion of these fictive tapestries and their precedents, as well as real tapestries hung in the Sistine Chapel before the time of the Raphael series. 77 Rolf Quednau, ‘Die Sala di Costantino im Vatikanischen Palast zur Dekoration der beiden Medici Päpste Leo X und Clemens VII’, Studien zur Kunstgeschichte, 13 (Hildesheim and New York, 1979) p. 621, note 480. 78 See Quednau, ‘Sala di Costantino’, pp. 148-50; these pages, and the notes, refer to the frescoes as painted tapestries. 79 See Quednau, Section G, ‘Die Gemalten Teppiche’, pp. 148-50 for accounts of earlier scholarship dealing with the illusionist tapestries. 80 For a recent survey of these tapestries’ genesis see Hillie Smit, ‘”Un si bello et onorato mistero”. Flemish weavers employed by the city government of Siena (1438-1480)’, Italy and the Low Countries (1999), pp. 69-79. 81

Smit, note 29.

82

Smit, note 18.

83 Edna Southard, The Frescoes in Siena’s Palazzo Pubblico 1289-1539 (New York, 1979), pp. 268-70. 84 All six tapestries are in Vienna. For their recent discussion see Thomas P. Campbell, Tapestry in the Renaissance (New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2002), cat. no. 55, pp. 470-476. 85 See Andrew Martindale, The Triumphs of Julius Caesar by Andrea Mantegna in the Collection of Her Majesty the Queen at Hampton Court (London, 1979). For a recent study of the literary sources for the Virgil (Georgics III) in particular, see Stephen J. Campbell, ‘Mantegna’s Triumph: The Cultural Politics of Imitation all’antica at the court of Mantua, 14901530’, in Artists at Court: Image-Making and Identity, 13001550, ed. by Stephen J. Campbell (Boston, 2004), pp. 91-105. 86 I am indebted to Tom Campbell for the information concerning the series’ weaving in tapestry form. 87 See David DuBon, Tapestries from the Samuel H. Kress Foundation at the Philadelphia Museum of Art (London, 1964).

FLYING PICTORIAL CARPETS

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Agostino Chigi’s Flemish Connection Ingrid D. Rowland University of Notre Dame School of Architecture, Rome campus The Uffizi Gallery is not only a repository of great Italian art, but also of great Flemish art, commissioned by members of the Medici family or by their agents over several generations: Hugo van der Goes’ splendid Portinari altarpiece, for example, was brought back to Florence by Tommaso Portinari, the Medici bank’s agent in Bruges in the mid-fifteenth century (Plate 1). There Portinari joined a sizeable colony of Italian expatriates, most of whom seem to have developed a pronounced taste for the local style of oil painting as well as the income to commission work from the very best masters. To eyes trained on egg tempera and frescoed plaster, the glistening surfaces of Flemish painting must have seemed incomparably rich, and the tiny brushstrokes incomparably precise. Ancient Greek and Roman writers had praised works of art for their ‘shininess’ and their likeness to life; so did the critics of the fifteenth and sixteenth century.1 Flemish painting exhibited both qualities in glorious abundance. In the gallery’s opposite wing, the huge, dramatic battle scenes by Peter Paul Rubens were painted during the reign of a Medici, Cosimo II, who was no longer a banker, like his distant ancestors Cosimo il Vecchio and Lorenzo il Magnifico, but a Grand Duke, whose Duchess had been born a princess in France.2 Both masters of oil painting in their own time, van der Goes, with his crystalline precision and uncanny sense of space, and Rubens, with his voluptuous textures, brought a new sensibility to Florentine painting, and that ripple effect can be tracked on the walls of the Uffizi as well, in the tiny, moveable paintings that provided the international art market with its primary stock in trade.3 In the 1490s the Medici firm began to do business with a Sienese banker named Mariano Chigi.4 The two banking houses interacted with one another in their native Tuscany but especially in Rome, where all of them used the title mercator Romanam curiam sequens, ‘mer-

chant following the Roman Curia’, and hoped, if possible, that their pursuit of the Roman Curia would land them contracts with highplaced Cardinals or, best of all, the Pope.5 Mariano Chigi interested the Medici in the 1490s because of his excellent connections with the Borgia Pope, Alexander VI, a relationship based on Borgia’s own long dealings with another Sienese firm, the Heirs of Ambrogio Spannocchi.6 Ambrogio Spannocchi, the firm’s patriarch, knew Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia when the latter was Cardinal Vice-Chancellor, chief financial officer of the Roman Curia, an office that Borgia held for thirty years before becoming Pope.7 The Borgia papacy promised less fortunate times for the Medici, who needed all the friends they could find by the 1490s; their fortunes at home in Florence were falling fast, and they had more hope of recouping their losses in Rome.8 Lorenzo Il Magnifico may have been a brilliant, ruthless politician, but he was no financial wizard, and when he died in 1492, he left behind a state that was neither particularly solvent nor particularly grateful to him for having transformed a republic into his own family’s private fiefdom.9 It may not be surprising that the Medici’s first known transaction with Mariano Chigi and his sons was to hand over a consignment of furniture in 1496; pawning it for a large amount of ready cash: two thousand two hundred gold ducats.10 It was an exchange that would become a habit, a habit that still persisted twenty years later, when the Medici had returned to power in Florence and Lorenzo’s son, Cardinal Giovanni, used Chigi money to secure his election as Pope Leo X.11 The hands into which the Medici agent, Leonardo di Bartolomeo Bartolini, entrusted the Medici furniture in 1496 belonged to Mariano Chigi’s eldest son, Agostino, and to his third son, Lorenzo, but Agostino was clearly the dominant partner, and not just for this transaction, or just among his siblings. In 1491, AGOSTINO CHIGI’S FLEMISH CONNECTION

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at twenty-four, Agostino was drawing up a contract between his father and his mentor Stefano Ghinucci, a scribe who was evidently also a participant; five years later he was moving the Banco Chigi in new directions with a vertiginous speed that did not provide his cautious father, Mariano, with a sense of total comfort.12 The force of Agostino’s large personality had emerged early. First he rebelled against the enforced course of instruction in ‘humane studies’ by which Mariano Chigi hoped to mark his sons as gentlemen.13 As a result, Agostino’s business letters acquired nothing approaching a literary style; they were direct, to the point, and leavened if anything by hoary old Tuscan clichés: ‘if there’s no will, there’s no way’; ‘sit around waiting for the macaroni to fall on the cheese for you’, and one line of lapidary understatement ‘non sono sí povero’ – ‘I’m not that hard up’, written when he was well on the way to becoming the richest man in Italy, if not all of Europe.14 Studious Lorenzo Chigi, on the other hand, hoped to leave banking for a literary career, and so did a third brother, Angelo; Mariano sent all three down to Rome to make their fortunes in the papal state.15 However Agostino resisted his schoolwork, he liked history and alchemy, and would later show extraordinary taste in art and music.16 But more than anything else, Agostino Chigi loved making money. He loved the abstract mathematics of markets and exchange rates as much as he loved money’s concrete ramifications: ships loaded deep with Flemish cloth, cartloads of Tuscan grain, Venetian jewels, construction sites, racehorses. He made money in all the usual ways, and in ways almost unheard of before him. Indeed, he made money so quickly that some of his contemporaries ascribed his success to his alchemical operations, although alchemists were otherwise known for being poor, not rich.17 In a sense, though, Agostino did indeed perform a kind of alchemy, because he made his fortune by transmuting a humble crystal into gold. That transmutation came about as follows. When they first began to deal with Agostino Chigi, the Medici had been dabbling for more than twenty years in a commodity that put them at the centre of the cloth industry: alum, a mineral used to desiccate wool before dyeing.18 Until the conquest of Constantino114

AGOSTINO CHIGI’S FLEMISH CONNECTION

ple by the Ottoman Turks in 1453, Western Europeans procured most of their alum from Asia Minor; the arrival of Mehmet the Conqueror pushed them to look for sources closer to home. In 1460, alum deposits were discovered in the hilly region of Tolfa, north of Rome, an area whose deposits of iron and copper had been important since Etruscan times, and the Medici bank, in the very last years of its great helmsman Cosimo the Elder, knew how to spot an opportunity. When the Roman Curia took over the Tolfa alum mines as a source of revenue for a new Crusade, the Medici obtained the right to administer the alum works on the Pope’s behalf.19 From the Middle Ages into the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, Italian bankers, the Medici and the Chigi included, were largely merchant bankers who dealt in goods as well as money.20 The most reliable of these goods, the literal bread and butter of their existence, was grain. But if grain, livestock, wine, and other locally produced commodities guaranteed a steady income, they offered relatively small margins of profit.21 On the side, therefore, merchant bankers invested in riskier enterprises, of which the most ubiquitous was cloth, an industry of international proportions that stretched from the Cotswolds in Western England, where shaggy English sheep yielded the highest grade of wool, to Xian, the Chinese terminus of the Silk Road.22 Metals, gems, salt, spices, and other luxuries offered the same kinds of profits and risks on a less colossal scale; so could works of art, and, from the sixteenth century onward, firearms.23 These were the transactions that induced bankers to send agents farther afield than their own towns, and it was particularly to monitor the Flemish cloth industry that the Medici sent Tommaso Portinari to do their business in Bruges.24 Closer to home, the Medici bank continued to take a certain interest in alum, which was rare in most of Europe but abundant along the volcano-riddled Italian peninsula. In 1472, confirming his family’s reputation for crude violence in business as in statesmanship, Lorenzo de’ Medici subjected the neighbouring city of Volterra to a brutal siege, largely to confiscate its alum beds.25 But as merchant bankers, he and his agents seem to have dealt with the mineral no differently than they dealt with any other luxury goods to be acquired and sold

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again. The stunning triptych that their agent Tommaso Portinari brought back from Flanders probably caused more of a stir in Florence than alum in any form. If nothing else, transporting the Portinari Altarpiece intact must have been a great deal more difficult than moving sacks of glassy alum, baked to the consistency of powder.26 With the decline in the Medici’s fortunes in the 1490s, the Tolfa alum works became an expensive investment, and they relinquished their lease from the Curia the next time it expired. It passed to a Sienese firm, the Heirs of Ambrogio Spannocchi, whose position as Depositors General for the Apostolic Chamber made them the chief bankers for the Borgia papacy.27 In addition to watching the Tolfa alum mines, Giulio and Antonio Spannocchi, the two Heirs of Ambrogio, had been watching Agostino Chigi with friendly interest. When he offered in 1501 to purchase three-fifths of their Tolfa lease, they agreed; at thirty-five he was well-established, well-connected, and breathtakingly aggressive.28 In the same year, much to the bemusement of his father Mariano, Agostino Chigi also made bids with the Neapolitan humanist Jacopo Sannazzaro for the alum fields of Agnano to the north of Naples, and with the city council of his native Siena for the alum of Massa and Monteritondo; by the end of the year, without attracting particular notice, he had obtained some degree of control over every alum field in Italy.29 He exercised this control with remarkable skill. Far more than his predecessors, he took an active interest in the actual process of the alum business, from its initial extraction in open-pit mines to its processing and transport.30 At the same time he looked beyond the alum industry itself to its pivotal place in the intricate mechanism of the international cloth market. The agents he sent to Flanders on behalf of the Banco Chigi dealt only secondarily in cloth; their chief business was to make Tolfa alum the alum of choice.31 Chigi influenced this choice in several ways: one was to improve the product itself. His biographer, Fabio Chigi, reports that he hired Turkish consultants from the mines of Asia Minor to improve operations at Tolfa; Agostino’s own letters and archival records in Siena and Rome show that he placed his greatest trust in a cunning, versatile local engineer, Van-

noccio di Paolo Biringucci, who would eventually write the first-ever treatise on metallurgy.32 That work, On Pyrotechnics, published in 1540, waxed eloquent over the inexhaustible bounty of Tolfa’s hills and the excellence of its alum.33 In addition, like his contemporary and colleague from Augsburg, Johann Jakob Fugger, Chigi provided housing for his workers, buildings so sturdily constructed that many of them are still in use today (as is Johann Jakob Fugger’s home for Augsburg’s aged, the Fuggerei).34 Chigi also built a church in Tolfa to house an image of the Blessed Virgin had appeared in a tree in 1501 just as the miners opened a new vein of alum.35 As a matter of fact, Chigi probably commissioned her as well. In the autumn of 1503, Pope Alexander VI and his son Cesare went for a dinner party at the home of Cardinal Adriano Castellesi. Something they ate disagreed with them; a few days later the Pope was dead, and syphilitic Cesare never quite regained his old spirits either.36 The conclave of October produced one of those old, experienced Popes who was not expected to last long, Pius III, the former Francesco Piccolomini of Siena, a dyspeptic old cardinal with a bad leg.37 Because of the new Pope’s Sienese loyalties, the Spannocchi retained their position as papal bankers and sank huge sums into the Pope’s coronation ceremony, confident that they would make back the money through favourable deals over the course of his papacy.38 But the pontiff’s leg was so bad that Pius never made it to his coronation; he died after a reign of twenty-six days. The College of Cardinals settled into its second conclave of 1503 and resigned itself to electing the implacable figure that the choice of Pius III had meant to keep at bay: fierce, hyperactive Cardinal Giuliano Della Rovere, who was also ensconced for the conclave in the Sistine Chapel’s lucky spot just under Perugino’s fresco of Christ handing St Peter the keys of papal authority.39 But Cardinal Giuliano never believed in unaided luck; he offered his fellow cardinals huge amounts of Agostino Chigi’s money in exchange for votes, mostly on trips to the latrine where they could all talk more freely.40 When, with the help of God and Mammon, Cardinal Giuliano emerged in a puff of white smoke in December 1503 as Julius II, he chose a Genoese firm, AGOSTINO CHIGI’S FLEMISH CONNECTION

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the Sauli, to replace the Spannocchi as chief bankers to the Curia.41 With their cash flow so summarily interrupted, the Spannocchi, Chigi’s partners in the Tolfa alum lease, went suddenly bankrupt. In line with traditional banking practice, they expected Chigi to help them along with a temporary loan; but instead he bought them out.42 Two years into his alum venture, he owned the commodity in a way that no one had ever imagined before him. Chigi did his best to turn that ownership into a monopoly. He shut down every one of his fields but Tolfa, keeping supply low and prices high. To transport his product, he procured a long-term personal lease to one of Siena’s ports, Porto Ercole, and made its attractive little bay the exclusive emporium where Tolfa alum was loaded onto ships bound for the rest of Europe.43 On each ship, an employee from the Banco Chigi (a young man, usually called ‘iuvenis’ in contracts, sometimes ‘homo’) followed along with letters and invoices for the merchant bankers who worked as Chigi’s agents or procuratores in Naples, Valencia, Antwerp, Bruges, and London.44 Wherever possible, Tuscan bankers used their own families to staff their offices at home and abroad. Thus among Mariano Chigi’s sons, Agostino, the eldest and by far the most gifted, ran the bank’s Roman branch, the second brother, Francesco, managed local grain operations out of Viterbo, while Mariano and his youngest son Sigismondo maintained the office in Siena; poor Lorenzo was killed in a freak accident in 1500 when lighting struck the Vatican Palace and another brother, Angelo, died young in Rome while attempting, like Lorenzo, to exchange banking for the life of a scholar.45 The Chigi’s travelling agent to Naples was Mariano’s nephew and Agostino’s cousin, Cristofano di Benedetto Chigi; their fixed agent in Bruges until 1510 was Agostino’s brother-in-law Galeazzo Saraceni.46 If no relatives were available to serve abroad, colleagues and neighbours provided a merchant banker’s next resort. Agostino Chigi’s agent in London and the Low Countries was a young man from Siena named Antonio di Giacomo Salvini. On the face of it, shared ties to Siena, a city where neither Agostino nor Antonio di Giacomo lived nor worked, may seem ironic, nostalgic, or anachronistic, but in fact they served to forge a kind of a priori trust, what 116

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sociologist Robert Putnam terms the ‘thin trust’ that made cooperation and civic life in early modern Italy possible beyond the limits of family, especially in situations where large sums of money and personal fortunes were involved.47 Antonio di Giacomo, fortunately, was also a friend of Siena’s self-appointed chronicler, a gossipy, graphomaniac parish priest named Sigismondo Tizio, whose tenvolume Historia Senensium is one of the more extraordinary books to have been written in the sixteenth century.48 Paid by the city council of Siena to draft a history of the city, Tizio began with the Etruscans, moved through the Middle Ages and only left off writing in 1528 because death carried him off one day at the age of seventy. He crammed the chronicle’s six volumes with information of every kind: copying Etruscan inscriptions, papal bulls, pictures, broadsheets, reports from Asia, Africa, and the cities of Europe, all the while reporting every barbed comment and bit of malicious gossip to come his way with the recurring phrases: ‘Sunt qui dicant’ (there are those who say), and ‘non defuere qui dicerent’ (there was no lack of those who said), and ‘Rumoribus spargebat’ (it was spread on rumour). When Antonio di Giacomo Salvini wrote to Father Sigismondo to tell him what it was like to travel to Holland and Flanders as an agent of Agostino Chigi, Tizio took down the information verbatim. Not only, then, can we reconstruct Antonio di Giacomo’s journeys from the bald numbers set down in the records of the Banco Chigi and repeatedly mentioned in Agostino Chigi’s letters, we also have Antonio di Giacomo’s own side of the tale, the story of a young man on a lonely trip far from home, working for an extremely demanding boss. Antonio’s travels may have been lonely but they were hardly unsupervised; from Rome, the eagle eye of Agostino Chigi followed his every move. This is how Sigismondo Tizio introduces the pair to his readers, writing in 1509:49 In the meantime a certain Sienese man made a fortune and added to it incredibly: Agostino, the son of the banker Mariano Chigi. He was once apprenticed to the Spannocchi firm; I don’t know how he succeeded to the Spannocchi’s lease on the alum of Tolfa when they went bankrupt, but he was a great

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and wealthy man of the highest intelligence, for he shut down all the alum mines in Italy and abroad so that the income and fees from his goods would be more profitable. Through specially designated agents and representatives, therefore, Agostino sent out alum for sale to Flanders, Holland, and Zeeland and other parts of the world, so that he had already become the first and richest merchant in Christendom. He sent Antonio Salvini, a young Sienese learned in Latin and Greek (and our friend) to Holland on account of alum; he stayed there for some time and sent us letters in which he described Holland, Zeeland and neighbouring regions, and also the origin of the Rhine river and its course, better than anyone else, and kept us informed: the beginning of his letter was like this: The population is so dense everywhere that it would be a marvel to anyone that so many people can live together in one place; the people are very fair and the women easily surpass all the others in France and Germany for their beauty, and they work in shops and drive machinery as men do in our country. The people are friendly to travellers and very religious, so that you will see them going to Mass more often than elsewhere; there are more monasteries and convents in Holland than in all of France and Germany put together. They indulge extensively in drinking parties, and their custom is such that if you refuse an invitation to drink with someone you have made an enemy on the spot. They spend most of the day singing and dancing. If there is any time left over they work on their textiles, which they make as fine-spun and splendid as can be. They drink beer made from hops with extraordinary eagerness. They know nothing about wine, figs, almonds, oil and things of this sort, although merchants import everything. Their towns and villages are closer together than anywhere else in the world. Thus if you were to see the number of their wealthy monasteries, their magnificent churches, the beauty of their buildings, their precious furnishings, their vessels and utensils, almost all of them in bronze, or their homes filled with every luxury, their splendid and rich way of

living, or their pleasant orchards, their green meadows, their abundant streams, their ponds, or the great ocean, you would hardly put any place in Italy before them. Now we enjoy long days and there are few hours when we are without sunlight, nor is it ever so dark that we cannot read without a light. And we never suffer from the heat of summer. Yet the same land, they say, from September to April is covered by water, snow and ice. And because many places are low and stagnant and water cannot flow out, they use certain machines that the wind moves around...and they construct dikes of sand and straw. Agostino Chigi’s interest in Antonio di Giacomo did not run, like Sigismondo Tizio’s, to tales of strange lands and peoples. He intended for Antonio to help him convince the King of England, Henry VII, to buy alum from Tolfa rather than Spain, and when he discovered in 1510 that Antonio was not only inflating his expense accounts in England but also dealing on the side in Turkish and Spanish alum, Chigi submitted the accounts to arbitration in a London court.50 The English arbitrators decided that Antonio had been skimming off profits, sometimes inflating his expenses on the road by a factor of two. It was not a prudent move on Antonio’s part. In a letter of 16 January 1510, Agostino confided to his brother:51 About this matter of Antonio di Giacomo [...] this working against him by means of the officials and courts there doesn’t seem a good plan to me, because let’s be clear that if it comes to making a compromise, and litigating, and finding a thousand places to stall for time, we won’t have what’s ours. Therefore I’m of the opinion that it should be carried out by excommunication and interdict [...] and in that way the sentence will be executed quickly and he’ll be forced to pay us. Otherwise he’ll keep us in court all this year and we’ll double our expenses. With Julius II in office, Agostino had no trouble procuring the excommunication. Antonio di Giacomo began paying up immediately. Most of the payments were certainly made in cash.52 AGOSTINO CHIGI’S FLEMISH CONNECTION

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But did they take any other form? Did Antonio di Giacomo bring back paintings or other works of art from his travels; those fine tapestries, the vessels he mentions, the tableware, or tiny sculptures? It is hard to think that he did not. Another Chigi debtor, Alessandro Franci, eventually settled his obligations by a massive shipment of cloth.53 The contracts preserved for Agostino Chigi in the Archivio di Stato of Rome and for his associate Benigno Egidi in the Archivio di Stato in Naples concentrated on hiring ships to move large amounts of alum and cloth, the big transactions on which smaller commodities would then ride piggy-back.54 Individual bills of trade are harder to come by in the records of the Banco Chigi – the Medici document of 1497 is a rare example – and as yet the bank has yielded nothing like the amazing cache of records that allows such careful reconstruction of the dealings undertaken some generations earlier and on a smaller scale by Francesco di Marco Datini, the Merchant of Prato.55 But there is ample reason to make such an exploration: we know that Agostino fell so passionately in love with oil painting in Venice that he returned to Rome with a Venetian artist in tow, Sebastiano Luciani, soon to be nicknamed ‘Sebastiano del Piombo’.56 Raphael’s frescoes and his own reputation as an inveterate swain – sunt qui dicant! – show that Agostino Chigi nurtured an equally passionate interest in women, often painted with as little clothing as possible.57 Could he have been left unmoved by Antonio di Giacomo’s descriptions of Northern women? One only has to think of

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how English women struck another sixteenthcentury Italian, Giordano Bruno: ‘non sono donne, sono ninfe, sono dive, son fatte di divina sostanza’ (‘they are not women: they are nymphs, they are goddesses, they are made of divine substance’).58 Unfortunately, however, Chigi’s collection of painting, sculpture, and portable luxuries was dispersed by the mid-sixteenth century.59 A certain number of paintings can now be tentatively placed back with him, but they are works by Italian artists, and not surprisingly. Chigi was famous as an innovative and patriotic patron of the arts, who singled out Sienese and Tuscan painters, writers and musicians for attention, including Sodoma, Baldassare Peruzzi, Vannoccio Biringucci, and the singers from the Sienese Accademia dei Rozzi.60 On the other hand, the examples of Raphael of Urbino, the Venetian Sebastiano del Piombo, the Catalan poet Chariteo, the Spanish mathematician Juan de Ortega and the Dalmatian philosopher Giorgio Benigno Salviati show that the Tuscan emphasis of Chigi’s patronage was far from universal, and a generation of Chigi agents abroad in the Low Countries, including family members, are unlikely to have come home to Siena without souvenirs.61 Recent research has revealed how Giovanni da Udine’s frescoes for Agostino Chigi’s loggia of Cupid and Psyche make conspicuous display of the plants, and especially the food plants, of the New World.62 There is every reason to suppose that in the near future any discussion of Agostino’s Flemish connection will have an impressive set of images to go with it.

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NOTES

1 ‘Shininess’ comes from a casual conversation with Richard Neer, discussing Greek aglaos and related words. 2 Henri IV at the Battle of Ivry and The Triumphal Entrance of Henri IV into Paris, Galleria Nazionale degli Uffizi, Gallery 41. 3 For the early modern market in easel painting, see Francis Haskell, Patrons and Painters: A Study in the Relations between Italian Art and Society in the Age of the Baroque, revised second edition (New Haven and London, 1980). 4

A transcript of the 1496 contract between Piero de’ Medici, Leonardo di Zanobi Bartolini, and the Chigi is preserved in Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Archivio Chigi 11453, cc. 11r-12v; see also Ingrid D. Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi in Cod. Chigi R.V.c, fols. 1-122 v; An Annotated Edition (Vatican City, 2001), p. 76. 5 For mercatores Romanam curiam sequentes, see Melissa Meriam Bullard, ‘“Mercatores florentini romanam curiam sequentes” in the Early Sixteenth Century’, Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 6 (1976), pp. 51-71; Peter Partner, The Pope’s Men: The Papal Civil Service in the Renaissance, (Oxford, 1990); Felix Gilbert, The Pope, his Banker, and Venice (Cambridge, MA, 1980). 6 Ubaldo Morandi, ‘Gli Spannocchi: Piccoli proprietari terrieri, artigiani, piccoli, medi e grandi mercanti-banchieri’, in Studi in onore di Federigo Melis, III (Naples, 1978), pp. 103-20. 7 Antonio Spannocchi managed the salt tax (Dogana del Sale) for the papal state from 1500 until his own death in 1503, within days of Pope Alexander VI; Archivio di Stato di Roma, Mandati Camerali 856, cc. 92r, 94r, 104v; see also Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 17-18. For his service with his brother Giulio as Depositario Generale, chief tax collector for the Apostolic Chamber, see Archivio di Stato di Roma, Mandati Camerali 857, c. 23r; Morandi, ‘Gli Spannocchi’, p. 113; Gilbert, The Pope, his Banker, and Venice, pp. 74-75; Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 2728. 8 The Medici’s falling fortunes are traced by Lauro Martines, April Blood: Florence and the Plot Against the Medici (Oxford, 2003). 9 Martines, April Blood, supplies the most damning recent portrait of Lorenzo’s violence and mismanagement. 10 BAV, Archivio Chigi 11453, c. 11r, Loan to Piero de’ Medici, 2 June 1496; cc. 27r -29v, Loan to Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici, 6 November 1501. 11

See Gilbert, The Pope, his Banker, and Venice, p. 146, n. 10. Chigi almost certainly also furnished money to Leo’s chief rival at the conclave, Cardinal Raffaele Riario. For loans to Leo X, see, e.g., BAV, Archivio Chigi 11453, cc. 317r -318v (6 October 1516). 12 The contract is preserved in the Vatican Library, Archivio Chigi 8863. See also Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, p. 4. 13

21v:

See Chigi a.I.1, c. ‘Civiliter a puero institutus, ut adolescentiam in litteris peregit, patriis adaugendis divitiis inhians, promptius ad negocia, quam ad studia disciplinarum ostendit ingenium. Igitur a patre Romam missus Negotiationem instituit anno MCDLXXXXV cum Stephano Ghinuccio. Res

adeo feliciter cessit, ut in Patriam non amplius regressus’. (He was brought up properly from his boyhood so that he spent his adolescence in the study of letters, but, avid to increase the family fortunes, he showed more talent for business than for academic studies. Therefore his father sent him to Rome, where he set up a company in 1495 with Stefano Ghinucci. The enterprise went so well that he never returned home again for long.) Sigismondo Tizio also notes Agostino’s reputation for imperfect command of ‘letters’, BAV, MS Chigi G.II.27, c. 112r: ‘licteris modice conspersus fuerat’, cited below. 14 Chigi G.II.37, c. 112r. For Chigi’s own statements, see Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, p. 7: ‘dove non si pò, non si vole’ (if there’s no will, there’s no way); p. 207: ‘aspetare ch’ e’ macaroni ti caschino nel cascio’ (sit around waiting for the macaroni to fall on the cheese for you), p. 23: ‘non sono sí povero’ (I’m not that hard up). 15

Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 8-9.

16

BAV, MS Chigi a.I.1, cc. 30r -314: ‘Fautor bonarum artium’. See also Rowland ‘Render Unto Caesar the Things which are Caesar’s: Humanism and the Arts in the Patronage of Agostino Chigi’, Renaissance Quarterly, 39 (1986); 673-728; Roberto Bartalini, ‘Sodoma a Palazzo Chigi’, in C. Acidini Luchinat, L. Bellosi, M. Boskovits, P.P. Donati and B. Santi, eds., Scritti per l’Istituto Germanico di Storia dell’Arte di Firenze, Florence 1997, pp. 233-38; ‘Sodoma, the Chigi and the Vatican Stanze’, The Burlington Magazine, 143 (2001), pp. 244-53; ‘Sodoma, il soffitto di Palazzo Chigi e i volgarizzamenti di Ovidio’, in M. Di Giampaolo and E. Saccomanni, eds., Per Sylvie Béguin. Scritti di storia dell’arte (Naples, 2001), pp. 157-65. 17 Fabio Chigi, Commentaria, MS Chigi a.I.1, c. 30v: ‘Chimicae quidem studiosum fuisse opinati sunt, typisque mandarunt […] facile arguuntur, cum divitiae eius, quod unicum habebant argumentum, a legitima negotiatione processerunt’ (some believed that he was a student of chemistry and said so in print [...] but they argue superficially because his riches, the only evidence they had, derived from his legitimate business); Isidoro Ugurgieri Azzolini reports in Le Pompe Sanesi (Pistoia, Pier’Antonio Fortunati, 1649), p. 523: ‘Agostino Chigi […] si dilettò d’Alchimia, ed alcuni vogliono, che con quella facesse molti acquisti, con i quali poi trafficano acquistasse le tante ricchezze, che godette’ (Agostino Chigi […] dabbled in alchemy, and some would have it that by its aid he made many acquisitions, and trafficking in these he acquired the great riches which he enjoyed). 18 Vannoccio Biringucci, De la pirotechnia. Libri X (Venice, 1511), II.6. See also the modern edition by Aldo Mieli, Vannoccio Biringucci, De la pirotechnia (1540). Edizione critica (Bari, 1914). 19 Agostino Bureca, ed., Il Santuario della Madonna di Cibona alle Allumiere: Tutela e valorizzazione di un monumento (Rome, 2005), p. 16. 20

Gilbert, The Pope, his Banker, and Venice, pp. 64-77.

21

The price of grain is discussed with examples by Jean Delumeau, Vita economica e sociale di Roma nel Cinquecento (Florence, 1979), pp. 138-72; 185-98; Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 75-76. See also BAV, Archivio Chigi 3665, Document 34, 23 August 1494.

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Gilbert, The Pope, his Banker, and Venice.

23 Carlo Cipolla, Vele e cannoni 1400-1700 (Bologna, 1999),

translation of Guns and Sails in the Early Phase of European Expansion. 24 For Tommaso Portinari, see Paula Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence. The Impact of Netherlandish Painting, 1400-1500 (New Haven and London, 2004). 25 Enrico Fiumi, L’impresa di Lorenzo de’ Medici contro Volterra (1472) (Florence, 1948). The leader of the Florentine troops, Federico da Montefeltro, Count of Urbino, became Duke for this cruel victory. 26

Agostino Chigi’s protégé, Vannoccio Biringucci, describes how alum was processed at Tolfa in his Della Pirotecnia (Venice, 1540), Book II, ch. 6. 27 The most comprehensive documentation of the Spannocchi’s alum dealings is Archivio di Stato di Siena, Archivio Sergardi-Spannocchi-Biringucci A/1, Document 47; see also Archivio di Stato di Roma, Ospedale di San Rocco, Busta 110, c. 66r, and Busta 109, cc. 19r, 20r. 28

Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 26-

27. 29

Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 32-

35. 30 Alum processing at Tolfa is described by an eyewitness, Vannoccio Biringucci, in Della Pirotecnia, II. 6. See also Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 32-35 with bibliography. 31

In addition to the passage from Sigismondo Tizio cited here, see Fabio Chigi, MS Chigi a.I.1, c. 152r: ‘Immo totum hoc ipsum negocium Aluminis, quo admodum ditata est Pontificis Camera, ex unica Augustini solertia fluxisse dicitur, qui ut proventus, et sibi, et Pontifici adaugeret, advocavit e Turcarum regionibus peritos viros, qui alumina minore impendio, maiore fructu rite confiserent, nec amplius ad externis vi nostras oras adveherentur. Ideoque impetravit a Pontifice ut sibi soli munus illud mandaretur facta caeteris Principibus prohibitione, ne conficerent, emerent aut venderent aliunde quesitum. Ita ex bulla Julii II quam refert Leo in illa quam supra diximus, aliique Pontifices Paulus III anno 1546 Julius III anno 1553, Pius IIII anno 1561’. (Indeed this whole business, which was contracted to the Papal Chamber, is said to have flowed solely from the cleverness of Agostino, who, in order to increase the income for himself and for the Pope, advocated that experts be summoned from Turkey to produce alum at less expense and higher yield, and that it no longer be brought to our shores by the efforts of outsiders. To this end he requested that the Pope entrust that gift to him alone, issuing a prohibition to other Princes that they not produce, buy, sell, or seek alum from any other source. This can be seen in a bull of Julius II to which Pope Leo X refers and other Popes: Paul III in 1546, Julius III in 1553, and Pius IV in 1561). 32 For Agostino’s hiring of Turkish alum processors, see Fabio Chigi, MS Chigi a.I.1, c. 152r (cited in the previous note): ‘advocavit e Turcarum regionibus peritos viros, qui alumina minore impendio, maiore fructu rite confiserent’ (he summoned experts from the region of Turkey who could process alum with less expense and better results.) 33

Chigi’s improvements to the alum business were thoroughgoing, involving improvements to its extraction, processing, and marketing. Gilbert, The Pope, his Banker, and Venice, 70-85; Ottorino Montenovesi, ‘Agostino Chigi, banchiere e appaltatore dell’ allume di Tolfa’, Archivio della R. Società Romana di Storia Patria, 60 (1937), pp. 111-40; G. Zippel, ‘L’allume di Tolfa e il suo commercio’, Archivio dell R. Società Romana di Storia Patria, 30 (1907), pp. 389-482; Jean Delumeau, L’alun de Rome (Chambèry, 1962), pp. 97-105,

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and, with a conspicuous Fascist agenda, Gino Barbieri, Industria e politica mineraia nello Stato pontificio dal ‘400 al ‘600: lineamenti (Rome, 1940), pp. 112-61. 34 Filippo Maria Mignanti, Santuari della regione di Tolfa (Rome, 1936), pp. 189-90; Mario di Carlo, Nello di Giulio, Piero Franceschini, Carlo Moretti, Fulvio Torreti, La società dell’allume: cultura, materiale, economia e territorio di un piccolo borgo (Rome, 1984); Ottorino Morra: Tolfa: profilo storico e guida illustrata, Civitavecchia (1979); R. Rinaldi, Le lumiere, Vol. I (storia dalle origini al 1826), (Allumiere, 1978); Comune di Allumiere, Allumiere, natura-storia-archeologia (Allumiere, 1997). 35 Agostino Bureca, ed., Il Santuario della Madonna di Cibona alle Allumiere: Tutela e valorizzazione di un monumento (Rome, 2005), pp. 15-16; Filippo Maria Mignanti, Santuari della regione di Tolfa, note 23. 36 Ludwig Freiherr von Pastor, Storia dei Papi dalla fine del Medioevo, Italian translation of Geschichte der Päpste revised by Angelo Mercati (Rome, 1957), Vol. III, pp. 572-77. 37

Pastor, Storia dei Papi, Vol. III, pp. 650-59.

38

Gilbert, The Pope, pp. 74-75; Sigismondo Tizio, Historia Senensium, MS Chigi G.II.36, c. 375v; Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 43-45. 39 Pastor, Vol. III, pp. 659-63 (English ed., History of the Popes, trans. by Frederick Ignatius Antrobus (London, 1923), Vol. VI, pp. 203-10. 40 Gilbert, The Pope, pp. 75-76; Pastor, Storia dei Papi, Vol. III, p. 662 (History of the Popes, Vol. VI, p. 209). 41 Gilbert, The Pope, pp. 74-75, Tizio, G.II.36, cc. 375r-v; Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, p. 44. 42 Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 6, 44-

47. 43 BAV, Chigi a.I.1, cc. 37v-38v: Portus Herculis Administratio. 44 Agostino Chigi’s instructions to his agent (procurator) Francesco Tommasi are preserved in Archivio di Stato di Roma, Ospedale di San Rocco, Busta 109, cc. 68r-v, and published in Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, p. 131, n. 2. BAV, Archivio Chigi 11453 preserves many examples of bank employees accompanying shipments of alum, e.g. c. 127r-v: ‘Quod Patronus et Magister navis teneatur et obbligatus sit portare super dictam eius navim unum hominem pro supracarigo, et custodia dicti aluminis, cui teneatur dare victum ad eius mensam usque ad dictum portum Exclusarum omnibus suis sumptibus, et expensis salvo semper in principio, medio, et fine praesentis contractus quolibet iusto impedimento, et casu fortuito’ (that the Owner and Master of the ship be held and obligated to carry aboard said ship one man for the lading and guarding of said alum, to whom he shall be held to provide board at his own table as far as said port of Sluys, all at his own cost and expense, always barring some justified impediment to the beginning, middle, or end of this contract, and fortuitous chance); cc. 140v-141r: ‘teneatur, et obligatus sit super dictam eius navim portare unum Juvenem pro supracarico dictorum aluminum, cui dare victum ad eius mensam usque ad dictum portum Exclusarum omnibus dicti Roderici sumptibus’ (he shall be bound and obligated to carry aboard his ship one Young Man for the lading of said alum, to whom he shall provide board at his table as far as said port of Sluys, all at the expense of said Rodericus); c. 144r: ‘teneatur, et obligatus sit super dictam eius navim portare unum Juvenem pro supracarico dictorum aluminum, cui teneatur dare victum ad eius Mensam usque ad dictum portum Exclusarum omnibus dicti Domini Joannis Patroni sumptibus, et expensis’ (he shall be bound and obligated to carry aboard his ship one Young Man for the lading of said alum, to whom he shall be bound to provide board at his Table as far as said

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46 For the biography of Cristofano di Benedetto Chigi, see BAV, MS Chigi a.I.1, c. 60r-v.

omnia duplices vestes non fastidimus. At eadem terra ut aiunt a Septembri in Haprilem aquis nive et glacie universa fere tegitur. Et quia loca multum depressa sunt et stagnantes aque in declive minus effluere queunt: machinis quibusdam quas ventus circumagit aquas pluvias ve campos pagosque tegant e fossis educunt et eminentioribus alveis quod [c. 113v] campis altiores cespite et aggeribus struxerunt in mare emictunt, cum occeano etiam perpetuo decertant, quem ex harena et paleis confecto aggere, ab agris excludunt.’

47 Robert D. Putnam, Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community (New York, 2000).

35.

port of Sluys, all at the cost and expense of said Signor Joannes the Owner). 45 Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 8-9. For the biography of Lorenzo di Mariano Chigi, see BAV, MS Chigi a.I.1, c. 21r; Francesco di Mariano, c. 58r-v; Sigismondo, cc. 45r -57v.

48 The standard biography of Sigismondo Tizio is still that of Paolo Piccolomini, La vita a le opere di Sigismondo Tizio (Florence, 1902). The name ‘Tizio’ is modern, derived from his Latin signature, ‘Sigismundus Titius’, but his real name was obviously Ticci. 49 Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, MS G.II.37, c. 112r: ‘Creverat interea et nimias opes auxerat Vir quidam Senensis Augustinus nomine Mariani trapezite filius ex Chisiorum familia. Hic olim ad nummulariam Spannocchiorum senensium educatus, nescio quo modo in conductione aluminum Tulphae provenctus Apostolice Camere Spannocchiis successit decoquentibus. Magnus et opulentus effectus vir ingenii sagacissimi: Clauserant enim iam diu pontifices cunctas et in Italia et foris aluminis fodinas, ut provenctus et locationes merces fecundior esset atque uberior: Augustinus igitur aluminis ubertatem et in Flandriam Olandiam atque Zelandiam, tum ad diversas mundi oras negociatoribus atque institoribus destinatis, venalem transmictebat, ita ut iam primus atque opulentior inter mercatores christiani orbis efficeretur. Direxerat enim Antonium Salvinum iuvenem Senensem et latina et greca lingua ornatum nobis autem amicum in Olandiam eorumdem aluminum gratia, qui aliquamdiu ibi consistens nobis licteras transmisit quibus et Olandiam et Selandiam et finitimas regiones atque urbes necnon Rheni fluminis originem et cursum optime preter ceteros descripsit et certiores nos fecit. Initium autem epistule fiat huiusmodi […]’, c. 112v: ‘Populus vero ita ubique frequens est ut cuique mirum sit in eo solo tantum plebis coalescere hominum corpora. Preterea et candida sunt Mulieres vero pulchritudine; ceteras omnes Gallie et Germanie facile superant, que mercature et machinis incumbunt ut apud nos viri solent. Gens est peregrinorum amica atque in religionem pronior propter quod sacris addictos frequentiores quam usquam alibi reperias: ut plura in Hollandia virorum mulierumque monasteria quam in universa Gallia et Germania esse glorientur. Genio tamen et crapulo largius indulgent. Et ita apud hos potandi mos inolevit ut si ab aliquo provocatus bibere recusaveris statim inimicus haberis et contra te quasi educatur ensis quo accin[c]ti incedunt omnes: ut tibi bibendum omnino tamtumdem sit etiam si rumparis medius: Hinc crebre rixe et sepiuscule visuntur cedes. Maior dies [c. 113r] pars his immensa cantus et coreis consumitur: Siquid temporis superest telis texendis impendunt quas tenuissimas et nobilissimas efficiunt. Tissimam seu birram ordeo frumento ve excocto confectam avidissime potant. Virium Hispani et Galli afferunt vitem, namque ficum amigdalam oleum punicam et cetera id genus nesciunt, negotiatores tamen apportant omnia. Habent pagos et oppida frequentiora quam usque videre sit Terra omnis ita passim irrigua est ubique navi ubique curru ubique equo vehi queas […] Si itaque ditium ubique monasteriorum numerum: si magnifica templa si edificiorum puchritudinem, si pretiosam suppellectilem, si vasa et utensilia fere omnia erea, si bonis omnibus refertas domos, si splendidissimum et lautum vivendi genus, si amenos ubique lucos, si vernantia prata, si creberrimos amnes, si stagna, si magnum occeanum haud exiguum regionis partem alluentem conspicias: haud tantum in omnibus Italas terras preferas. Longa nunc fruimur luce et paucis horis solis aspectu caremus: Nec tam obscuris umquam obducimur tenebris ni celum nubilum sit ut licteras sine fumalium luce legere nequeamus. Ardores vero istos vestros sentimus numquam. Et cum apud vos estu sitiunt

50

Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, pp. 131-

51 BAV, MS Chigi R.V.c, c. 40r: ‘Sopra a questa chosa d’antonio di Iachomo di qua non ho chomodità mandare chosa nissuna del debito suo, […] e questo agitare chontra di lui per via de li ofiziali o d’altri Tribunali di chostì non mi pare a proposito, perché quello abiamo chiaro s’averà a mettare in chonpromesso, e litighare, e trovare mille ponti da dilantare, non abbiamo il nostro. E perhò so’ in parere si debbi eseghuire per via dela schomunicha e ghravatoria […] e chosi si supp[l]irà presto e sarà forzato pagharci: altrimenti ci terrà in praticha tutto questo anno e duplicharemo spesa’. 52 For Chigi’s use of excommunication as an economic tool, see ‘si debbi eseghuire per via dela schomunicha e ghravatoria’ in the previous note – Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, p. 47; for Antonio di Giacomo’s payment, pp. 58, 59. 53 Rowland, The Correspondence of Agostino Chigi, p. 157. See also BAV, Archivio Chigi 11453, cc. 246v-248r, 4 February [1510], a payment by Antonio di Giacomo to Agostino Chigi. 54 Some of Chigi’s Neapolitan transactions are recorded in BAV, Archivio Chigi 11453, 297r - 300r (5 October 1513), cc. 339v- 340v (6 November 1518), c. 341r -v (16 November 1518), 342r (18 January 1519). Only three ledgers from the era of Agostino Chigi preserved in the Fondo Banchieri Antichi of the State Archive in Naples survived Allied bombing in World War II; one of them, from the Ravaschiero bank, contains a number of documents with the Chigi and Benigno Egidi: Archivio di Stato di Napoli, Banchieri Antichi, Busta 1, cc. 55r, 186v, 234v, 239v, 255v. 55 The Datini archive contains some 150,000 letters; see its website, http://www.istitutodatini.it, especially http://www. istitutodatini.it/schede/archivio/eng/arc-dat2.htm. 56

BAV, Chigi a.I.1, cc. 30v-31r.

57

See Rowland, ‘Render Unto Caesar’, p. 730.

58

Giordano Bruno, La cena de le ceneri (London, 1584), from the letter of dedication. 59 Fabio Chigi accuses Agostino’s son Lorenzo Leone of dissipating his father’s fortune, MS Chigi a.I.1, c. 62v: ‘Caeterum Laurentii mores quales fuerint, paternae prudentiae deterrima (quod ait ille) comparatione claruerunt: si quidem nullius vir Ingenii, per omnem aetatem, quae longa nimium fuit, patriaeque opes, qua Urbis direptionibus, qua Germaniae, Flandriaeque novitatibus inminutas, dissipavit omnino incuria, servorum furtis, luxuque sane inepto. Litibus prosequendis nequiquam idoneus fuit, quae satis arduae agebantur [...] Ideoque Johannes Antonius Capisuccius Cardinalis Uxoris frater bonis ei interdixit, suoque iure administravit, adeo ut ruri demum obaeratus mortuus sit anno MDLXXIII die XI Octobris, ac sepultus in Sacello d. Mariae de populo quo ipse testamento decreverat’. (As for the nature of Lorenzo’s habits, as he said himself, they distinguished themselves as deplorable in comparsion with his father’s prudence; indeed, he was a man who exhibited no talent in any part of his overlong life. What of his father’s wealth had not already been reduced by the Sack of Rome or the political developments in Germany and Flanders he dissipated utterly, by his lack of

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care, his servants’ thieving, and his stupid extravagance. He was entirely unfit to prosecute lawsuits, which are difficult to manage [...] and so his wife’s brother, Cardinal Capizucchi, forbade [Lorenzo] his property and administered it himself, so that finally he died in the country, penniless, on 11 October 1573). 60

122

See note 16.

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61 Ingrid D. Rowland, The Culture of the High Renaissance: Ancients and Moderns in Sixteenth-century Rome (Cambridge and New York, 1998), pp. 218, 241-42. 62 Giulia Caneva, Il mondo di Cerere nella loggia di Psiche: Villa La Farnesina sede dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei (Rome, 1992).

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Mainz at the Crossroads of Utrecht and Venice: Erhard Reuwich and the Peregrinatio in terram sanctam (1486) Elizabeth Ross University of Florida In the spring of 1483, Bernhard von Breydenbach, a canon at the Cathedral of Mainz, recruited the painter Erhard Reuwich of Utrecht for an artistic adventure – a pilgrimage to research the peoples, places, plants, and animals of the Holy Land. The pair travelled with other Germans through Venice and the Mediterranean to Jerusalem, Mount Sinai, Cairo, and Alexandria, and then back to Venice. Upon their return to Mainz, Breydenbach helped write and edit, and Reuwich illustrated and printed, three editions of an account of their journey, a book known as Peregrinatio in terram sanctam (Journey to the Holy Land). The story of the Peregrinatio project describes the artistic journey of a painter from the Netherlands who migrated to the cradle of European printing, where he used the new print media to interpret the cultures of Venice and the eastern Mediterranean. After the Latin and German editions of 1486, a Dutch edition appeared from Reuwich’s press in 1488, and the linguistic evidence suggests that the artist himself was responsible for the translation into Dutch.1 Through this translation, Reuwich made his experiences available to a popular audience in his home region. Venice looms large in the Peregrinatio, both literally as depicted in the book’s largest cityscape and metaphorically as glorified as a bulwark against Muslim expansion. Reuwich’s encounter with that city is both an independent subplot in the larger story and an integral element in the book’s framing of the Latin pilgrims’ encounter with the Muslim Levant. Two of the Peregrinatio’s prints feature Venice: the city view and the complex frontispiece featuring a Venetian woman (Figs. 12). In this frontispiece in particular, we see two of the major cultural forces of the era – the magnificence of Venice and the nascent medium of print – interacting in the designs of a Dutch painter.

Reuwich set a new benchmark for technical achievement with his woodcuts, particularly the five (of a total of seven) city views which were printed with multiple plates on sheets glued together, so that they folded out to be much longer than the book.2 The panorama of Venice folds out to 1.62 metres in length and a map of the Holy Land stretches from Damascus to the Sudan around the first topographically accurate view of Jerusalem. In addition to the pilgrimage account, the text contains supplementary information on the geography of the Holy Land; the history and errors of Islam; and Muslim assaults on the Christian strongholds of Constantinople, Negroponte, and Rhodes. Comments by the author in the book’s introductory materials make clear that one purpose of the work was to raise alarm about the Muslim occupation of the Holy Land, and these additional texts largely support that goal. The artist illustrated these supplementary texts with images of Egyptian Muslims, a Turkish military band, a Jew, Greeks, Syrian Christians, and Ethiopians. He also published two images from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and a page of Holy Land animals, in addition to the frontispiece. In conception and execution, the Peregrinatio was one of the most ambitious endeavours of the early printing industry. The foldout format of Reuwich’s prints, their scale, their content, and the copious amounts of information and detail they contain would have been strikingly novel to contemporary audiences. The text tells us that the painter was invited to join the pilgrimage so that the book’s illustrations would be based on firsthand experience of the Holy Land, and the author emphasises several times that the painter made his own drawings of the cities according to what he saw.3 Such an undertaking was unprecedented. Not only is the Peregrinatio the first printed travel book

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Fig. 1a. Erhard Reuwich, View of Venice from Peregrinatio Latin, British Library C.14.13, fol. 13r, 14r, 15r, 16r, hand-coloured woodcut on vellum

Fig. 1b. Erhard Reuwich, View of Venice from Peregrinatio Latin, British Library C.14.14, fol. 17r, 18r, 19v, 20r hand-coloured woodcut on vellum

with illustrations, but certainly no one had ever brought an artist on a dangerous, arduous journey halfway around the known world so that a book could have illustrations from life. Breydenbach also conceived his new book at a moment when the form of a printed book – its design, its content, its function, its credibility – had not yet coalesced into the norms we now take for granted, and the legal and economic institutions that developed together with books, such as copyright protection, had not yet come into being.4 The nature of the commission for a new type of printed work encouraged Reuwich to imagine new ways of using the woodcut medium. The idea and form of a frontispiece, for example, had not yet stabilised as a pictorial hook to draw readers and 124

as a label to identify books that had just begun to circulate far from their origin, through their publishers’ distribution networks. In designing a pictorial introduction for the Peregrinatio, Reuwich fashioned an amalgam of Northern and Venetian sources to serve a function tailored for his project. Rolling foliage threatens to overwhelm the symbolic content of the frontispiece: three coats of arms surround a woman on a socle in a splendid, décolleté dress. The lady gestures in the direction of the arms of Bernhard von Breydenbach, which float beside her as an assemblage of a shield, a helm, an animal crest, a streaming banderole, and frondescence. At the same time, on her other side, ornament from the arms of Count Johann von Solms-

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Fig. 2. Erhard Reuwich, Frontispiece from Peregrinatio Latin, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, fol. 1v, woodcut

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Lich brushes her skirt, making a gentle plea for her attention. The arms of Philip von Bicken, somewhat smaller and more wilted than the others, sit at the foot of her platform.5 The count was a young friend of Breydenbach’s and the highest-ranking member of the party; he served as the group’s noble leader and very likely financed much of the journey.6 Bicken served as an administrator for the count’s family and accompanied the young noble as counsellor and companion.7 The refinement of the design and the cutting of the block, both unparalleled in contemporary woodcuts, make possible a play between naturalistic foliage and decorative vegetation, and the artist allows this showcase of skill to rival both the message of the heraldry and the featured lady.8 Despite the distractions of ornamental and artistic embellishments, the prominence of the lady – at the centre, on a pedestal, framed in a niche – leaves no doubt about her importance, while raising many questions about her identity and meaning. The artist constructs a play between ornamental and naturalistic forms across the page that reminds us of the origins of organic decoration as an abstraction and exaggeration of actual vegetation. The lady’s pedestal rests on a narrow band of ground planted with clumps of different types of vegetation – meagre specimens, but of the earth, not an illustrator’s abstraction. The coats of arms float improbably in the shallow space between the picture plane and the blank backdrop, just as the arms’ acanthus hovers between graphic embellishment and tangible element. Slim vines coil up the columns at the side of the print, blossom into curly leaves, and then thicken into gnarling, weighty limbs that a brood of industrious putti secure with rope to the top of the frame. As the leaves cascade from the heads of the columns onto the puttis’ arbour, they have a conventional shape. By the time they reach the centre of the page, where the boughs from each column intersect, they have transformed into the distinctive forms of the rose on the left and pomegranate on the right. Where the shrines that housed sculpture groups (and painted imitations of these shrines, most famously, Rogier van der Weyden’s Descent from the Cross) often have tracery across the corners at the top in the period, Reuwich draws short, wispy twigs, as if the columns’ vines grow to 126

Fig. 3. Erhard Reuwich, Frontispiece from Bernhard von Breydenbach, Gart der Gesundheit (Peter Schöffer, Mainz, 1485), Hunt Institute for Botanical Documentation, Carnegie Mellon University, CA G244, fol. 1v, handcoloured woodcut

adhere to the orthogonals of the frame. Yet, the organic frame does not take shape without the intervention of the putti-gardeners, who are at once entirely natural with the innocence of youth and nudity, and at the same time a reminder of the artifice that enables the composition. The architecture of the page develops Reuwich’s composition for the frontispiece of another book created in collaboration with Breydenbach, an herbal called the Gart der Gesundheit (Garden of Health) (Fig. 3).9 In that woodcut, eminent physicians gathered on a patch of lawn between framing columns that sprout plumes of acanthus instead of sculpted capitals. (The convocation represents the authors of the text, the Classical, Muslim, and Christian doctors who contributed to the knowledge

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collected in the Gart.) For the Peregrinatio, Reuwich greatly enlivens the organic growth, though the clarity of that moment of metamorphosis from ornament to vegetation suffers. Understanding this artistic conceit does much to cut through the confusing thicket of forms that has overgrown the page. On the level of technique, graphic energy is the basic means by which Reuwich projects animation and organic fullness. While on the level of subject matter, the unchecked growth of foliage creates ambiguity over whether the vegetation stems from a natural bounty or the vigour of the artist’s stylus. We watch the page’s artistic forms grow out of the hybrid of nature and artifice. This conceit would not be possible without the artist’s unprecedented finesse in fleshing out the woodcut design. His shading and hatching allows bodies and leaves to bend and undulate in depth – not just as a graphic design across the picture plane – and the small strokes of modelling add energy to their movement. On the bodies of the putti and the face of the woman, in particular, the style of hatching suggests Reuwich attempted to transfer the techniques of a draughtsman onto the woodblock. The block itself would have been cut by a specialist after Reuwich’s design, so that we can even more easily imagine Reuwich following his training as a painter in creating that design, freed from the preconceptions that come with training in the conventions of relief printing. Beyond Breydenbach’s description of Reuwich as a painter, the artist’s background can be confirmed from work and guild records in Utrecht, which register a painter named Hillebrant van Rewyjk, presumed to be Erhard’s father, as well as a Cornelius van Rewyck.10 Though it may seem counter-intuitive, most early print innovators who made a name for themselves as pictorial artists were not experimenting as far beyond the bounds of their training as Reuwich did. Those artists, for example the Master E. S., Martin Schongauer, and Israhel van Meckenem produced engravings, and they were goldsmiths or sons of goldsmiths, who took a technique developed for the decoration of precious metals and transferred it to base metal plates for printing. Most famously, Albrecht Dürer began his artistic instruction in the goldsmith craft of his father before signing on as apprentice to a painter, and Dürer’s godfather, Anton Koberger, one

of the leading publishers of the era also began, like Johann Gutenberg, as a goldsmith. Even the technique of etching originated in the workshops of armourers, who long used the process to decorate their wares. The durability and relatively low cost of woodblocks made woodcut prints a cost-effective choice, particularly for book illustrations, but before Reuwich woodcuts remained the province of less skilled designers and technicians without anything like the strength of the smith tradition behind them. In migrating from a painter’s family in Utrecht to the printing industry in Mainz, Reuwich moved from the milieu of one trade to another, in addition to changing his geographic surroundings. Moreover, Reuwich’s hatching – most obviously, the effect of soft fuzz on the Venetian’s jaw – strongly recalls the hand behind a large and inventive body of work grouped under the artistic personality known as the Housebook Master. Like Reuwich’s frontispiece, the Housebook Master’s prints show signs of an artist attempting to transfer his draughtsman’s training to a new medium, and this similarity in the two artists’ development can be taken as another point of evidence in the debate over whether they are, in fact, one and the same person. The core of the corpus now assigned to the Master includes three distinct groups of works created between c. 1470 to 1505: (1) pen-and-ink illustrations in the eponymous Medieval Housebook, a manuscript with an assortment of texts about such topics as medicine, mining, and military strategy; (2) a collection of drypoints, also called the work of the Master of the Amsterdam Cabinet for the Rijksmuseum print room where most of them are held; (3) and one painted double portrait and two sets of religious paintings for churches in Mainz and Frankfurt. Scholars have vigorously contested the relationship among the three groups of works, while also questioning which works belong within each group. Credit for the illustrations of the Housebook has been spread over several hands and the contribution of a workshop and followers has been recognised in the production of paintings in the Master’s style.11 Nonetheless, through this debate, Erhard Reuwich has remained the most plausible name to attach to the Master, and two arguments have been put forward to support the

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identification. First, the coincidence of the artists’ biographies provides circumstantial evidence. An artist of Reuwich’s quality, entrusted with a project like the Peregrinatio, should have a larger oeuvre, the thinking goes, just as the Master should have a name.12 The Master’s style and choice of motifs seem to indicate that he, like Reuwich, originally hailed from the Utrecht area.13 Certainly, both personalities were active in the Middle Rhine region at the same time, working for the lower nobility, and two of the Master’s relatively firm attributions have been speculatively linked to Reuwich’s patronage circle.14 The second argument discerns evidence of a single hand in the similarities of style and motif in the Master’s work and Reuwich’s illustrations for the Peregrinatio and the Gart. The first and clearest comparison was noted by Adriaan Pit in 1891: the mounted Turk in a print by the Master resembles the zurna- and drum-playing riders in Reuwich’s image of an Ottoman military band.15 With the most ambitious prints of the period executed in engraving, the Housebook Master’s development of the technique of drypoint has always seemed a mysterious anomaly without clear precedent or purpose. The resistance of the metal plate to the stylus restricts fluid design, and the painterly effects of the burr around the rough edges of the lines fades after only a few printings. Yet, the technique’s adoption by a painter without training as a smith does make sense. Without having practised with the special grip and stroke of the goldsmith’s burin or having been initiated into the armourers’s etching technology, a painter would reach for the draughtsman’s tool, a stylus, and handle it as if he were drawing or painting. One of the hallmarks of the Master’s drypoints is, indeed, modelling built up through short strokes of draughtsman-like hatching that leaves soft fuzz around the figures. The Master’s choice of medium and its handling can be taken as further indication that he hailed from a background similar to Erhard Reuwich; they were both likely to have been formed by traditional training as a painter without instruction in the decorative techniques of a smith’s shop. In more recent literature, Daniel Hess and the scholars who contributed to the catalogue of a 1985 exhibition on the Master emphasised 128

a quality of Reuwich’s work that they find incompatible with the Master’s. In the Peregrinatio’s rendering of the courtyard and entrance façade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Reuwich demonstrates a sense of linear perspective. The city views also contribute to the judgement that Reuwich constructed expansive spaces that recede into depth with capable foreshortening of architectural elements. In contrast, the Master does not use consistent perspective or skilful foreshortening, and the interior settings in his paintings, in particular, remain cramped with the sloping surfaces of the cubicle rooms of earlier manuscript illumination. According to the most current consensus, this discrepancy in the work of the two artists trumps the stylistic affinities between them, with the shared motifs explained as influence not identity.16 The fault line between supporters and critics of the identification runs along a methodological question: are either of these two formal characteristics, peculiarities of draughtsmanship or spatial construction, indelible markers of a unified artistic personality, and if so, which takes precedence? Behind this framing of the problems stands the persistent Morellian conception of style, where the core of style is exactly that which lies outside an artist’s conscious control. Most salient in the Peregrinatio, however, is Reuwich’s purposeful rearrangement of influences to meet the demands of a type of work not yet bound by convention. Reuwich’s responsiveness to the circumstances, goals, and voice of this particular project may help explain the disparity with his other possible work. Working in the established genre of religious painting, he might have fallen back on conventions for the construction of pictorial space that he then set aside when charged with observing Venice and other cities with fresh eyes. This possibility would imply a model of artistic agency where the construction of pictorial space is more conventional to the genre than to the artist. Yet, simply following or discarding convention are not the only options available to an artist experimenting with new forms, and the frontispiece exemplifies a middle way. In that image, Reuwich draws upon and combines compositional elements conventional to other types of prints, book illustrations, and works in different media, in addition to his integration of freshly observed

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material from Venice. This process makes the meaning of the image, not just the artist’s hand, more difficult to recognise. The Peregrinatio frontispiece shows both aspects of style at work: recognisable techniques held over from the artist’s original training and the disorienting effects of incorporating new material. The choice to honour all the noble leaders of the pilgrimage through heraldry owes much to the common practice of Holy Land pilgrims’ commemorating their journey with public monuments. The donations ran the gamut from entire churches (like the Jerusalem Church in Bruges erected by the Adornes family) to chapels’ furnishings (like those provided by William Wey to the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre at his monastery in Edington) to single images (like the stone relief of the Virgin and Child given by Breydenbach and Bicken to the Mainz Church of Our Lady).17 Breydenbach and Bicken gave the sculpture in thanksgiving for their safe return, and many pilgrims’ donations were similarly motivated. But, pilgrims also put objects commemorating their accomplishment on display in other contexts where they did not serve a cult function. This was the case, for example, with the panel painting of Jerusalem, commissioned by Breydenbach, that hung in the Chapter House of Mainz Cathedral near a trunk made in the Veneto.18 Successful completion of a Holy Land pilgrimage also conferred social honours. Noblemen who made it to Jerusalem were dubbed Knights of the Holy Sepulchre in a ceremony during an all-night vigil at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and many then adopted the Jerusalem Cross as a heraldic device on portraits and other works marked with their arms.19 The use of a printed image as a vehicle for commemorating a pilgrimage was, however, a new form invented for the Peregrinatio. Opening a book with a full-page woodcut across from the first page of text was also an unusual choice. Other incunabula with this type of frontispiece generally adapted the conventions of medieval manuscripts in depicting either the book’s author or the personage to whom the book was dedicated, or they played to the new popular market for printed books with an image directly illustrating the content of the work.20 Moreover, medieval author portraits by and large depicted authors of sacred texts.

The fifteenth century did see a rise in secular author portraits, but the depicted writers, such as Dante, Chaucer, and Boethius, had longstanding literary reputations. Reuwich’s frontispiece does not directly advertise the content of the book in the way that, for example, the frontispiece of the 1505 reprint by Peter Drach does. That edition moves Reuwich’s image of the entrance court of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre from the interior of the book, where it illustrates the description of the Church in the pilgrimage account, to the frontispiece, where it announces and encapsulates the subject matter of the entire work. As we shall see below, the splendour of the Venetian at the centre of the Reuwich’s frontispiece does reflect the work’s preoccupation with the balance of power between Christians and Muslims in the Mediterranean. In that sense, the Venetian does function as an emblem for an important theme of the book that motivates the inclusion of much of its textual content, particularly the supplementary texts on Islam and the peoples of the Holy Land. Nonetheless, aspects of the frontispiece, particularly the honour shown the coats of arms of the pilgrimage’s noble leaders, also seem to recall the tradition of the author portrait, though not in as straightforward a manner as the frontispiece of the Gart der Gesundheit. The image shows its independence from these precedents by using heraldry rather than figural portraits, emphasising the pilgrims’ nobility over their person or personal experience. And most importantly, the Peregrinatio frontispiece functions differently from traditional author portraits by working to create a new author’s reputation, rather than to celebrate an established personality. The meaning and function of Reuwich’s frontispiece has been orchestrated to help the author and his project stand out from others. In the Peregrinatio’s opening texts, Breydenbach works hard to distinguish his book from other, less ambitious or authoritative publications by emphasizing that the information and illustrations are based in onsite research by the author and artist. Breydenbach seeks to build his authority and reputation on his expertise as a veteran pilgrim, on the artist’s first-hand experience, and on the originality of the images that grow out of their travels.21 The frontispiece puts these claims on visual display by commemorating the pilgrim-

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Fig. 4. Frontispiece (Vittore Cappello presents his book to Agostino Barbarigo) in Vittore Cappello, Oratio Panegyrica ad Agostino Barbarigo, 4 May 1486, British Library, Add. ms. 21463, fol. 1r , paint on parchment

age and by doing so in a framework whose design and execution announces the artist’s technical ambitions. And the Venetian lady at the centre of the print represents one of Reuwich’s most original and meaningful observations of the culture of foreign lands. In this way, the frontispiece does not advertise the content of the book or its author so much as the book’s claims to distinction. The woman of the Peregrinatio frontispiece offers one of the earliest and most attentive representations of Venetian dress. Scholars have long recognised that the lady of the frontispiece wears the distinctive garb of a stylish Venetian, but they have not made an effort to substantiate that observation.22 Yet, in attempting to do so, it becomes clear that there are, in fact, hardly any contemporary representations with which to compare her. Venetian mores 130

encouraged the sheltering of respectable women both from the street and from portraitists, and Venetian artists generally draped the Virgin, female saints, and allegorical figures in the modest robes and wraps traditional to those persons. One image from the 1480s – the frontispiece to a manuscript produced in May 1486, a few months after the publication of the Peregrinatio – offers a personification of Venice as a courtly lady in contemporary dress, more Venus than Virgin (Fig. 4). After that, it is only in the 1490s, almost a decade after the publication of the Peregrinatio, that more secular images of women appear that strongly corroborate the source of the fashion of the Peregrinatio’s lady. The nature of the Peregrinatio commission encouraged Reuwich to record an aspect of Venetian culture that remained hidden under the conventions of Venice’s own art and society. Seen in that light, the lady of the frontispiece becomes a sister to the image of women of the Mameluke Empire that illustrates the Peregrinatio’s discussion of the peoples of the Holy Land (Fig. 5). Both offer striking first specimens of the women of the East. Before Reuwich, figures in imagined Eastern dress did populate illustrations of biblical events or chronicles, battles against Eastern foes, tales of Alexander, or traveller’s tales.23 Artists such as Martin Schongauer and the Housebook Master fabricated turbaned characters as studies for biblical scenes that took place in the east or as independent compositions, and heads of moors appeared regularly as crests attached to coats of arms.24 None of these images had the pretence to eyewitness validity that the Peregrinatio establishes for Reuwich. Reuwich was one of a small group of artists of the late fifteenth century, including Gentile Bellini, who were able to travel to make images of the people and architecture of the Muslim east during this period. The images brought back provided the fodder for Bellini and his fellow Venetian Vittore Carpaccio to develop a genre of large paintings that place biblical or hagiographic narratives in highly-developed Eastern settings.25 Bellini did not entirely rely on his own research, particularly as he had visited the Ottoman court at Constantinople, rather than the Mameluke Holy Land. It is a testament to the originality and credibility of Reuwich’s images that both Bellini and Carpaccio drew upon them, completing the circuit of

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Fig. 5. Erhard Reuwich, Saracens [Muslims in the Mameluke Levant] from Peregrinatio Latin, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, fol. 88r, woodcut

exchange between Mainz and Venice. For example, the bystander in a hat with an asymmetrical brim at the far right in Carpaccio’s The Triumph of Saint George has been taken directly from Reuwich’s portrait of an Ethiopian Christian laymen.26 Reuwich’s unveiled Saracen also seems to have given Carpaccio the impression that women appeared in public with the headgear to support a veil, but without the veil itself, like the lady to the far left of Saint George. The standing veiled woman left of centre in Gentile and Giovanni Bellini’s Saint Mark Preaching in Alexandria – and all the women dressed like her on the ground – come from Reuwich’s depiction of a veiled Saracen, most likely via Carpaccio.27 Of all Reuwich’s studies of foreign peoples, it is the Venetian, not the Saracen, who stands out for the drama of her placement (on the page and in the book), the splendour of her costume, and the surplus of observed detail. Her own exceptional rendering makes her especially suited for her role as ambassador, not just for the city, but for the distinctiveness of the Peregrinatio and its illustrations. Reuwich

offers detailed and precise observations, beginning with the high-waisted, off-the-shoulder overgown, slit in front to reveal a second skirt below. The outer edge of each sleeve has been slashed vertically to allow the chemise underneath to show through in puffs between ties that hold the sleeve together. A diaphanous tissue draped around the lady’s shoulders and across the lower portion of her breasts provides little modesty. A fringe of wavy hair softens the woman’s face beneath her sugarloaf hairdo. Rich embroidery or jewels in a variety of floral motifs embellish the border of the slit of her skirt, the neckline of her dress, and her hairband. The toe of the right shoe emerging below her hem, though difficult to read, resembles the tip of a chopine with its conspicuously thick platform sole. Though less thoroughly rendered, the costume of the personification of Venice in the May 1486 image confirms all the basic elements of the fashion of the Peregrinatio – a beehive hairdo, high-waisted dress, slit sleeves, and thick bejewelled collar. Most of the elements of this apparel seem to have still been current in the mid-1490s. On

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his first trip to Venice in 1495, Albrecht Dürer penned a little drama of German curiosity, admiration, and class-consciousness in the face of Venetian magnificence. A woman in the costume of a Nuremberg burgher’s wife surveys a Venetian lady, who stands taller (undoubtedly boosted by her elevator shoes) and out in front, without returning the German’s interest. The Nuremberg woman bares some cleavage but without the naked shoulders, high-waist, slit sleeves, or open overskirt of her Venetian counterpart. The raiment worn by a woman in another study by Dürer displays an even greater correspondence with the dress in Reuwich’s print. One jewelled band encircles her topknot above a curly fringe, and another marks where her shoulders and breasts emerge from the gown. Like the lady of the Peregrinatio, this Venetian shows off her double layer of skirts, and the head of the opening in the overskirt is marked by an ornamental button, followed by another button a handsbreadth below. Other examples from this decade by Gentile Bellini and Carpaccio support Dürer’s observations.28 Pilgrims to the Serenissima commented on exactly those aspects of feminine dress that are most striking on the woman in the Peregrinatio frontispiece. They expressed indignation at ladies’ immodesty or fascination with the richness of their adornments, particularly the jewels at their necks and on their hands. The disapproval of an early witness who passed through Venice in 1482 and 1484, Paul Walther von Guglingen, provides confirmation that this type of costume had already been adopted at the time of Reuwich’s visits to Venice. He censures exposed shoulders and décolletage while suggestively declining to give voice to the ladies’ other sins.29 Another visitor in those years, Felix Fabri, does not describe the sartorial details, but he criticizes Venetian ladies for going about dressed more like the famous pagan temptresses Helen and Venus than like Christian women.30 Elsewhere, he uses similar rhetoric to distinguish Christians, who venerate the Virgin Mary, and Muslims, who (he says) follow the cult of Venus.31 In 1491, yet another German pilgrim, Dietrich von Schachten, draws attention to the ladies’ teasing attempt to cover their bosom with sheer fabric, as pictured also on the Peregrinatio frontispiece.32 Von Schachten also notes the bejewelled collars and sleeves and describes how women pile their 132

dyed and frizzy hair on their heads like Germans bind up the tail of a horse.33 Visiting Venice in 1494, the Milanese priest Pietro Casola corroborates these accounts of low-cut gowns, while adding his own observations about the high shoes, curly fringes, and false hair.34 Most of the pilgrims who reported on the ladies of Venice, particularly the clerics, criticised exactly the attributes that Reuwich here puts on display, and Dürer famously recast his Venetian model as the whore of Babylon in his Apocalypse woodcuts. (Yet, beyond Fabri’s reference to Helen and Venus, none of the pilgrims acknowledge the possibility that the women they see may belong to Venice’s famous horde of prostitutes.) Reuwich’s visual record of Venetian womanhood strongly suggests a more positive attitude, as he uses this woman to introduce both his book as well as the coats of arms of the book’s noble backers. The woman at the centre of the composition is not the only Venetian in the image; the putti also came North from the Serenissima. Most literature on the frontispiece – largely essays discussing the work of the Housebook Master and its relationship to Reuwich’s illustrations – describe the putti as ‘children’.35 The Housebook Master is celebrated for having isolated homey motifs, such as a single scratching dog or a seated infant, as the subject for prints, and his tots have a distinctive build markedly leaner than the roly-poly putti of contemporary Italian art (Fig. 6). In terms of body type, the wiry boys of Reuwich’s woodcut are indeed brothers to their compatriots in the work of the Master, but Reuwich puts them to work as true putti.36 The Housebook Master’s toddlers are observed as ordinary children, either alone or in a pair, sitting or playing in a charming, age-appropriate manner. Like his other motifs, they may have been excerpted from the decorative borders of manuscripts where winding foliage commonly sheltered babies, grown-ups, and animals.37 Putti, in contrast, may look like children and embody the childhood state of action without moral knowledge, but they are sprites who inhabit the semantic world of mythology, allegory, and Classically-inspired decoration.38 They are recognisable not just by their baby blubber, but by their mischief or their role in holding together the artifice of an architectural frame.

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Venetian illuminators in particular, for example the Master of the Putti, developed these roles for putti in the borders and bas-de-pages of books of the 1470s and 80s.39 With the conspicuous exception of Hans Memling, artists did not import them to the North before Reuwich, and Memling provides the exception that proves the rule. In a triptych from before 1488, the first of several works with clear Italianate influences, Memling uses putti to string up garlands in the arch framing an enthroned Virgin and Child (Fig. 7). Functionally, the putti in Memling’s painting perform the same role as the troop in Reuwich’s frontispiece; they both physically secure foliage and augment the play of levels of reality carried across the ornament. Behind the living decoration of the festoons, stony vines carved in the archivolt carry acorns and grapes. (The latter are a reference to the Christ Child and the Eucharist. Reuwich’s roses and pomegranates very likely have similar symbolic resonance, perhaps suggesting the travails and ultimate triumph of the Church in the Holy Land. For example, red roses can symbolise Christ’s Passion, while pomegranates can refer to his resurrection or the unity of the Church.) In helping to establish the picture plane, the putti also help to break through it. In Reuwich’s image the Venetian’s pedestal juts forward into the reader’s space; in Memling’s painting the Virgin’s throne pushes forward out of a similar shallow bay created between the architectural frame and the flat backdrop. The Memling triptych was probably painted for the abbot of the monastery of Ter Duinen in the Flemish coastal town of Koksijde, so it is unlikely as a source for Reuwich, even if it was painted before the publication of the Peregrinatio.40 It seems quite certain, however, that Reuwich would have had the opportunity to view some of the Veneto’s most splendid illuminations. Northerners dominated the Venetian publishing industry, and during Reuwich’s three-week stay in Venice, his party lodged at the house of Peter Ugelheimer.41 Ugelheimer, a printerbusinessman from Frankfurt, was for many years the partner and close friend of Nicolaus Jenson, Venice’s pre-eminent book publisher. In the l470s and early 1480s, Ugelheimer amassed an exceptional collection of books published by Jenson and then lavishly illuminated by Benedetto Bordon, Girolama da Cremona, and

Fig. 6. Housebook Master, Infant Sitting, c. 1470-75, Rijksprentenkabinet, drypoint

others.42 In a survey of Ugelheimer’s fourteen known illuminated incunabula, Lilian Armstrong and Jonathan Alexander have established that most of Ugelheimer’s books follow the same unusual introductory format as the Peregrinatio. A full-page miniature faces the first page of text and, moreover, that frontispiece generally features Ugelheimer’s arms in an architectural framework with a quote that extols his role in helping bring the book to press (Fig. 8).43 Looking past the differences between Reuwich’s exuberant Northern style and the neo-classical manner of Ugelheimer’s illuminator, the openings of these two books share a similar conception. Beyond the formal similarities of the architectural frame and the play of the putti with ropes, they both pay heraldic honour to the publisher of the work and the nobleman who bankrolled the project. It seems quite likely that Reuwich took these ideas about book design from Ugelheimer’s magnificent library. In addition, the openings to Ugelheimer’s books show a marked interest in depicting the ancient and Islamic authorities who contributed knowledge to the subject discussed in the text.44 These portrayals of individuals or groups of scholars in exotic dress help explain the choice to open the Gart der

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Fig. 7. Hans Memling, Triptych with the Virgin and Child Enthroned, c. 1480-85, oil on panel, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

Gesundheit with a convocation of doctors in foreign costume. Moreover, the inscription below Breydenbach and Bicken’s relief of the Virgin and Child is incised with a roman-style majuscule script, a very precocious example in Germany of the lettering that Italian humanists developed from Classical models. Jenson had pioneered the use of a true antiqua script in print, and it seems likely that sculptor modelled his inscription on Venetian typefaces. While Reuwich would not have carved the relief himself, the humanist lettering signals his participation in the design of the project.45 The rendering of an Italian motif, putti, in a Northern style can cause a misrecognition, a semiotic ambiguity resulting from the hybridity of the image. The effect continues in trying to understand the meaning of the Venetian woman and her privileged placement at the centre of the composition. In the frontispiece, the interaction of Northern and Venetian motifs is complemented by the stylistic quirks of a painter working as a printmaker and then complicated by the absence of conventions to guide the design of a new genre of image for a new type of work. In the movement from Gart to Peregrinatio, Reuwich may have merely reduced the number of figures to one and placed that one on a pedestal, but those simple changes make a great deal of difference in the visual conventions evoked by the image. In the Gart, the columns and arbour come across as a diaphragm arch, a device used to frame narrative scenes in manuscript illumina134

tion since the fourteenth century.46 By the late fifteenth century, the decorative arbour-andarch also commonly framed shallow cubbies for kneeling donors and their arms, particularly on panes of stained glass. But, in the Peregrinatio, with the figure on a pedestal, the arch looks much more like the canopy for a sculpted figure on a socle in a niche or like any of the related framing structures for cult images painted on panels, manuscript pages, or stained glass. Moreover, the change harks back to the origins of this type of shallow pictorial space defined by a strip of cultivated ground before a flat background. Works like the Master of Flémalle’s Virgin and Child or Saint Veronica panels from the first quarter of the century have used this scheme primarily to present single holy figures before a cloth of honour. The Augsburg printer Günther Zainer, for example, used this format for the woodcut portrait of Christ that served as the frontispiece for his 1473 Plenarium, a vernacular compendium of lections for Sundays and festivals with explanatory glosses.47 Even without the strip of turf, however, the pedestals alone seem to confer special status. The image closest to the Peregrinatio frontispiece in composition and context presents two saints, Sebald and Lawrence, as the patrons of the Imperial Free City of Nuremberg (Fig. 9). The artist Michael Wolgemut signals their identity and status through several elements – Sebald’s pilgrim costume, the halos and attributes of both figures, and the mini-columns that elevate them. The height of the supports make space for the presentation of the arms of the city, while raising the saints so that they bracket the emperor’s arms featured in the very centre of the composition. Wolgemut designed this woodcut as the frontispiece for the Reformation of the City of Nuremberg, the publication in 1484 of a municipal legal code that had been recently revised by a local commission.48 Though works of canon and civil law had been published before this date, the Reformation was the first work of municipal law, and Wolgemut invented a new type of composition for the occasion, also employing the relative rare formula used in the Peregrinatio of a pictorial frontispiece facing the first page of text. Wolgemut’s Nuremberg saints are not the only figures in German art who complement

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Fig. 8. Benedetto Bordon, Frontispiece with arms of Peter Ugelheimer in Justinian, Digestum novum (Venice, Nicolaus Jenson, 1477), Universitäts-und Forschungsbibliothek Erfurt/Gotha, Mon. Typ. 1477, 2° (13), fol. 1v, paint on parchment

a heraldic display. German pictorial culture of the time is rife with images of coats of arms presented by attractive women, virile wild men, or comic figures. The person offering the shield lends the arms her good looks or his vitality, while providing an opportunity for exploring the female form or drolleries of costume and pose. Shield holders may appear on any book page, wood panel, glass pane, or building where a donor, owner, or ruling authority exhibits a coat of arms. Artists such as Martin Schongauer and the Housebook Master also made them the independent subject of prints. On the last page of the Peregrinatio, a woman crowned with an exotic turban and sheer veil tenders a shield with Reuwich’s own printer’s mark of a hen (Fig. 10).49 Her alien, but inauthentic headdress suggests a sibyl or other unspecified exotic figure.

Fig. 9. Michael Wolgemut, Frontispiece (Saints Sebald and Lawrence with the Arms of the city of Nuremberg) in Newe Reformacion der Stat Nureberg (Nuremberg, Anton Koberger, 5 June 1484), Harvard University Libraries, fol. 1v, hand-coloured woodcut

Throughout the book, Reuwich indulges a ludic interest in exaggerated banderoles, flowing into impossibly long, attenuated strips that loop around each other with calligraphic flourish. Two streamers from the shield holder’s turban fly around her shoulders with a similar energy. Such elaborations conform both to the spirit of the tradition of the shield holder as well as Reuwich’s own decorative proclivities. Another example of a shield holder, at the end of a manuscript of Konrad Grünemberg’s pilgrimage account, depicts a German woman with a headband and elaborate hairdo standing to support the shield and crest of the author’s coat of arms (Fig. 11).50 The symbols of Grünemberg’s hometown of Colditz and of Christian outposts in the Mediterranean, including the Jerusalem Cross, run across the top of the page as heraldic addenda attached to

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the author’s personal sign. A spindly vine seals the space between the author’s and the cities’ arms, while acanthus cascades from Grünemberg’s crest and encircles the woman’s lower body. This manuscript copies most of the prints of the Peregrinatio very carefully by hand, with colour to illustrate Grünemberg’s own text. Many of the drawings follow Reuwich exactly, but others expand excerpts of a print into whole compositions with new, interpolated details. (For example, the Grünemberg view of Jaffa and Rama is based on the lower portion of Reuwich’s View of Jerusalem with Map of the Holy Land, but the artist has changed the narrative content of the scene. Elsewhere, the Grünemberg artist provides his own images of Mamelukes and Indians, apparently dissatisfied with Reuwich’s, and he adds new images of mosques and the Jerusalem bath house.) In marking his book with his coat of arms, Grünemberg demonstrates typical behaviour for the owner of a manuscript or a printed book, and the use of a shield holder as embellishment in this context is equally representative. Yet, the Grünemberg artist does not reproduce a version of Reuwich’s frontispiece at the beginning of the codex, so that in the context of this type of close reception, the female arms holder at the end of his manuscript may also represent an interpretation of the meaning and role of the woman in Reuwich’s frontispiece. The literature on the lady of the frontispiece often describes her as a shield holder, but this explanation underestimates the connotations of her unusual elevation and framing.51 Recognising that the lady references the ideals of an honoured city only underscores the similarity between the Peregrinatio frontispiece and Wolgemut’s frontispiece for the Nuremberg Reformation. That work unites heraldry and patron saints on pedestals to introduce the civic organisation of the city. Moreover, in addition to the Northern conventions of shield holders and patron saints, the Venetian tradition of personifying their city as a woman must be taken into account. A roundel on the west façade of the Ducal Palace from the mid-fourteenth century and the pinnacle of the Porta della Carta on the same facade, as well as examples in painting and on medals, use the allegorical figure of an enthroned woman with scales and an upright sword to represent both Venice and 136

Justice. This formulation develops the ideal of the city by conflating her with one of her prime virtues, while also evoking the Virgin Mary as the seat of wisdom.52 Reuwich could certainly have seen the sculpted figures on the Palazzo Ducale, but the frontispiece miniature from May 1486 provides evidence of the development of another tradition (Fig. 4). The lady of the miniature embodies the ideals of the work of civic panegyric that she introduces. The author, Vittore Cappello, kneels to present his book to the enthroned doge, Agostino Barbarigo, and Venezia stands behind them. Holding a banner with the lion of Saint Mark (the vexillum accepted by the doge at his investiture), she sports a costume similar to her compatriot in the Peregrinatio.53 With this comparison we get to the heart of the question of the influence of Venetian visual culture on Erhard Reuwich. Would Reuwich have understood such an image as a personification of Venice or as a Venetian shield holder, here a banner holder? Did Reuwich just adopt Venetian fashion or did he adopt also the trope of personification? Is the elevation of his Venetian on a pedestal meant to distinguish her as a personification? The answer to these questions is yes but also no. Such is the ambiguity of hybridity; she is a hybrid figure, influenced by both shield holders and personifications, but not entirely either. Whether she tipped one way or the other in the mind of the readers of the Peregrinatio would depend largely on what they had come to know and expect from their own visual culture. The ambiguities of how Reuwich’s lady operates semiotically do not, however, affect her core meaning and purpose. If the Peregrinatio is understood primarily as a pilgrimage account, then the image of the Venetian does not encapsulate the content of the book, except perhaps as an emblem of the geographical beginning and end of the sea journey.54 But, she does directly advertise the work’s larger ambition to use the pilgrimage as the starting point for a broad exploration of the current state of the Holy Land. In that context, the author presents Venice as the Christian heart and anchor of the Mediterranean basin, a vital cultural and military counterpoise to Muslim domination and heresy in the East. The

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Fig. 10. Erhard Reuwich, Printer’s Mark from Peregrinatio Latin, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, fol. 163v, woodcut

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Republic’s distinction as a model of Christian attitudes and actions in the region explains the choice of the lady’s costume and leaves no doubt that she references Venice, not some other luxurious figure or ideal. The May 1486 Venetian manuscript miniature opens a book of panegyric to the city and to the doge seen receiving the work from the kneeling author. It is perhaps not a coincidence that the Peregrinatio also includes just such an encomium to Venice for her prosperity, her empire, and her role in defending Christian territory. This text lays out the author’s admiration for Venice as an exemplary Christian capital, introducing tropes that will be reprised in later texts that lament the Muslim occupation of the Holy Land. The encomium runs across six pages to close the account of the pilgrim’s stay in the city during their outbound journey.55 If the laudatory address does not directly copy a work of Venetian panegyric, then it must echo such influences closely by repeating themes current in the propaganda of Venetian diplomats and apologists.56 (The same themes, particularly the praise of Venice’s expansion and the justification of empire, would have been much less popular among the city’s rivals.) The Italophile literary interests of the author of the Peregrinatio come to the fore elsewhere in the German edition, where he evokes the Old Man of Crete described in Canto 14 of Dante’s Inferno, an extraordinary reference for a German cleric in the 1480s.57 The characterization of the encomium as a speech (oratio and red) also suggests a source that originated in the Venetian political arena, as does the lengthy, explicit praise of the Venetian Senate near the end of the piece. The author seems to have had classically-inspired forms of address in mind, as he closes his speech by invoking Cicero. Such is the greatness of Venice that even Cicero could not create praise that does justice to her flawlessness.58 The encomium begins by praising the history of the city’s founding by refugees from Troy, and the strengthening of her ranks by rich and powerful men fleeing the tyrant Attila’s persecution of Christians.59 For the author it is ‘kum gleublich doch grosses pryß werd’ that such diverse peoples came together to form a peaceful, unified community, and he proceeds to praise how the city’s expansion 138

brought more lands under the shelter of this social order.60 He then sketches the territories of the empire, including the agricultural bounty of the Veneto and the coastal towns and islands of the Adriatic and Mediterranean.61 He supports his portrait of an empire with a laudatory description of the number of available soldiers and ships, the outfitting and provisioning of the military, the size and productivity of the shipyards, the volume and reach of the city’s sea trade, and the enforcement of military discipline. While these topics may seem like separate items in the flow of the text, they all serve to elaborate the central image of the strength and grandeur of the Venetian Empire by extolling her noble origins, longevity, prosperity, good government, industry, and military might. In comparison to the accounts of other pilgrims, with their tourists’ wonder at false hair and bare shoulders, this text remains unusually focused and exclusively concerned with issues of state. The encomium culminates with an evocation of Venice’s virtue and piety, understood as a specifically Christian rectitude that protects Christians and Christian interests at home and to the tips of her wings. The Venetians tolerate no heretics in their lands.62 This concise statement resonates strongly in a book that is at other moments preoccupied with detailing the varieties of heresy and condemning their proliferation in the Holy Land. The Venetians do not just persecute heresy in their own lands, they bring all their strength to bear against the enemies of Christ abroad.63 This passage does not bring the encomium to a close: continuing the Classical flavour, the author tacks on a final paragraph commending Venice’s good government – her Senate or ‘wysen rath’ – and then invoking Cicero.64 Yet, the passage does bring the entire essay to a climax. The details about shipyards and sea trade that fill much of the essay explain how the city sustains her empire. When such strength meets such solid Christian faith and fortitude, the city can fulfil a vitally important mission. No other Christian power, ‘geystlich oder weltlich’, neither the Pope nor the Emperor, could match Venice in its dedication to, and efficacy in, resisting the enemies of Christ. Venice stands, then, as a role model of Christian engagement with the forces of Islam. In

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Fig. 11. Shield Holder with Arms of Konrad Grünemberg in Konrad Grünemberg, pilgrimage account, Universitätsund Forschungsbibliothek Erfurt/Gotha, Chart. A 541, fol. 96r, pen and ink

this context, the grandeur and elevation of a Venetian lady on the frontispiece befits her role as a representative of her city, and she stands as a particularly fitting emblem for the purpose of the book. The city view, the largest illustration of the book printed over eight leaves, was intended to complement the encomium. At the beginning of that section, Breydenbach tells his readers to expect the image, ‘ab etworffen mitt gelerter handt des malers’, to follow directly, which it does in every edition.65 The view of Venice does not just impress through the sheer scope of the panorama from the Theloneum (Customs House) at the tip of Dorsoduro to the Rio di San Martino; the sweep covers 180 degrees of the field of vision of an artist positioned across the canal from the Doge’s Palace on the Island of San Giorgio Maggiore. The breadth of the view allows Reuwich also to convey the bustle of shipping, commerce, and maritime power through

detailed vignettes of ships, as well as daily life and work, at the foot of the city’s proudest landmarks. The exceptional city view, together with the frontispiece and the encomium, signals an outsized role for Venice in the conception of the Peregrinatio. The ordering of the book and images also reinforces this juxtaposition of Venice and the Islamic East. Breydenbach understands the Peregrinatio as the report of two pilgrimages, one to Jerusalem and a second to St Catherine’s Monastery on Mount Sinai. Accordingly, he divides the book as a whole into two divisions, one for each of the two peregrinationes. The bulk of the book’s supplementary material about the various ‘sytten, glauben, secten, oder yrt¯umen der ynnwoner der selben [heyligen] land hyn z˚u gesatzt ettlich notturfftige vermanung’ appears at the end of the first division.66 The ‘notturfftige vermanung’ include three laments, and the last of these repeats much of the language of the encomium to Venice.67 The second division of the book weakly mirrors the structure of the first with only one illustration and far less text. Near the beginning of the first division, after prefatory materials, Breydenbach cursorily describes the pilgrims’ departure for Venice before immediately outlining the content of their contract with the galley captain. Breydenbach then lists the relics of Venice, the islands of the lagoon, and Padua. He saves any real description and commentary for the encomium, which follows the tour of relics and culminates the discussion of Venice. After the city view, the text continues with brief reports of islands in the Mediterranean, and Reuwich illustrates these with five smaller views of Parcos, Corfu, Modon, Candia (Crete), and Rhodes. All these city views are wholly integrated into the text: the first or last two leaves of the fold-out are bound in the book with text printed on the recto of the left bound leaf and the verso of the right one. After crossing the Mediterranean, the pilgrims arrive in the Holy Land, and the author describes their tour of the sites in and around Jerusalem. He follows this itinerary with a geographical description of the entire region from Damascus to the edge of the Egyptian desert. The series of views ends here with a final fold-out, a six-leaf map of the Holy Land with a view of Jerusalem, and the text indicates explicitly

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that the author intended to locate the map with the geographical description, just before the material on Islam. The map’s actual placement in the editions varies. In the Latin editions, the map is bound near the end of the book as a whole with no printed text on the bound leaves. It seems likely that this anomaly was not the author’s original intent. If the printing of the first edition began before the map was completed, then the map may not have been finished in time for its correct placement. In the German edition, it moves up to the end of the first main section of text, just after the material on Islam and Holy Land heresies. In the Dutch edition it does fall with the geographical description, exactly where the text says it should be. The map of the Holy Land belongs then with the supplementary material at the end of the first division. Two pairs of texts and image – the encomium to Venice and the Holy Land lament, the view of Venice and the view of Jerusalem – frame this first division of the book and present the pilgrims’ understanding of the

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balance of culture and power in region. We can add the two women of the Peregrinatio, the Venetian of the first image and the Mameluke of the first image of heretics, to these pairs that establish a face off between Venice, the guardian, and Islam, the occupier. The author’s description of the Holy Land must include a lament of the loss of the Holy Land; his call to rouse Christian interest in the Holy Land and pilgrimage must spur them also to learn about and reject the invader. At the beginning of the book, in a single-paragraph section that explains the book’s organisation, Breydenbach offers this goal as a prayer that God infuse Christians with a desire for the Holy Land that leads to its recapture.68 The great empire of Venice carries the Christian standard in the Mediterranean, and the city garners its special importance in the Peregrinatio for playing this role. The author and artist took care to set texts and images about Venice against the material on Islam. In the absence of an outpouring of God’s grace to restore those lands, Venice stood against their unholy rulers.

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NOTES

1 Bernhard von Breydenbach, Peregrinatio in terram sanctam (Mainz, 11 February 1486, Latin; 21 June 1486, German; 24 May 1488, Dutch). Hereafter, Peregrinatio Latin and Peregrinatio German. The Dutch edition closely follows the Latin, while the German was freely and fluently rendered by Martin Roth, a German cleric and university academic whom Breydenbach commissioned to edit the Latin and German editions. The language of the Dutch translation is consistent with Reuwich’s personal history: the Utrecht dialect displays some elements of the speech of south Holland, where the village of Reeuwijk is located and where, presumably, the Reuwich family originated. C. G. N. de Booys, ‘Heeft de Utrechtse kunstenaar Erhard Reeuwich ook letterkundige Verdiensten?’ in Opstellen bij zijn afschied van de Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit to Utrecht op 31 mei 1940 aangeboden aan G. A. Evers (Utrecht, 1940), pp. 284-88. However, the most compelling evidence for Reuwich as translator may be the poor quality of the translation in some places, as if the translator is an amateur with imperfect Latin skills. A. P. Orbán, ‘Bernhard von Breydenbach, Peregrinatio in terram sanctam’, Ons Geestelijk Erf 57 (1983), pp. 180-90. 2 Extra sheets were glued onto the outside edge of one folio of an opening. In foliating the manuscript, each attached sheet has been counted as two folios. 3 Peregrinatio Latin, fol. 7v, lines 2-8 and fol. 10v, lines 4041; Peregrinatio German, fol. 10r, lines 23 and 24 and fol. 14r, lines 28-30. Also, the author tells us that even though pilgrimage galleys generally stop at the ‘rich vnd mechtig’ (rich and mighty) city of Ragusa, a strong wind kept their boat from nearing that port. Consequently, there is no view of Ragusa in the Peregrinatio because the city ‘vns nit so sychtbar ist worden daz sy hette mogen eygentlichen ab etworffen durch den maler syn worden’ (was not visible enough to us that it could be drawn by the painter direct from life). Peregrinatio German, fol. 4r, lines 32-33 and 4v, lines 5-7. All translations by the author, unless otherwise noted. Only the German edition will be cited, unless the Latin offers unique material or distinctive phrasing. 4 For a cogent discussion of these issues, see Adrian Johns, The Nature of the Book: Print and Knowledge in the Making (Chicago, 1998). 5 The arms are, however, all printed in reverse. R. W. Fuchs, ‘Die Mainzer Frühdrucke mit Buchholzschnitten, 1480-1500’, Archiv für Geschichte des Buchwesens 2 (1960), p. 52. 6 Breydenbach says that he spared no expense (nec ullis parcendo expensis) for the research of the book, and the placement of the phrase implies he also paid Reuwich’s passage. Peregrinatio Latin, fol. 7r, line 42 through 7v, line 2; Peregrinatio German, fol. 10r, lines 20-22. Breydenbach does seem to have paid his own way. However, there is other evidence that Reuwich travelled as one of the count’s retainers and, therefore, that the count paid for his pilgrimage. Felix Fabri, a German Franciscan who joined their party in Jerusalem, names five pilgrims who accompanied the count on the trek to Mount Sinai: Breydenbach, Bicken, a steward/cook named John, an interpreter of Italian named John Knuss, and ‘Erhard, a fellow who was armour-bearer and servant to the count’. Felix Fabri, The Wanderings of Felix Fabri, trans. by Aubrey Stewart (New York, 1893, reprint 1971), vol. 2, p. 104. In addition, Johann’s brother Philipp, the new count, gave Reuwich a

small monetary gift after the pilgrims’ return. The accounts for the following years are incomplete, so there is no way to tell if the family gave financial support to Breydenbach’s publishing project. Friedrich Uhlhorn, ‘Zur Geschichte der Breidenbachschen Pilgerfahrt’, Gutenberg-Jahrbuch 9 (1934), p. 111. Presumably the gift to Reuwich was a tip for services rendered during the pilgrimage. 7 After Johann died in Alexandria, Bicken assumed responsibility for paying for the funeral expenses and for the return journey of the party. Breydenbach received a loan from him. The Solms-Lich family transferred money to Venice, which Bicken received when he arrived there from Egypt, and the family reimbursed Bicken for his out-of-pocket expenses after he arrived home. Uhlhorn, 1934, pp. 110-11. 8 The singular strength of the woodcut is widely recognised, for example, in the standard survey of period prints. David Landau and Peter Parshall, The Renaissance Print, 14701550 (New Haven, 1994), pp. 34-35. 9 The Gart is the first herbal in any language to supplement woodcuts copied from illustrations in manuscripts with woodcuts based on drawings from life. In the preface, the author relates that he broke off production of the book in the middle, when he realised how many plants were not available in German lands. To make sure that the illustrations would not be based just on hearsay, he resolved to visit the Holy Land with a painter who could portray foreign flora ‘in their correct colors and form’. From this passage, we recognise the team of Reuwich and Breydenbach, though they are not named. Gart der Gesundheit (Mainz, 1485), fol. 2v, lines 1624, 27-28, 36-38. See Fuchs, 1960, pp. 84-93, for a comprehensive discussion of the arguments establishing Breydenbach as the orchestrator of the work. For an analysis of which images were drawn from life and which copied, see Julius Schuster,‘Secreta Salernitana und Gart der Gesundheit: Eine Studie zur Geschichte der Naturwissenschaften und Medizin des Mittelalers’, in Mittelalterliche Handschriten: Paläographische, kunsthistorische, literarische und bibliotheksgeschichtliche Untersuchungen; Festgave zum 60. Geburtstage von Hermann Degering (Leipzig, 1926), pp. 219-20. 10 For payments to Hillebrant in the accounts of the Buurkerk, see F. A. L. van Rappard, ‘De Rekeningen van de Kerkmeesters der Buurkerk te Utrecht in de 15e Eeuw’, Bijdragen en Mededeelingen van het Historisch Genootschap, Gevestigd te Utrecht 3 (1879), pp. 155-56, 161-62, 164. For Hillebrant and Cornelius’s names in the list of the deans of the Saddlers Guild, which included painters, see Samuel Muller, Schilders-Vereeningen te Utrecht (Utrecht, 1880), pp. 55-56. Also, Karel Boon, ‘Een Utrechtse schilder uit de 15de eeuw, de Meester van de Boom van Jesse in de Buurkerk’, Oud Holland 76 (1961), pp. 51-60. 11 For a history of the debate, see Jane Campbell Hutchinson, ‘Ex Ungue Leonem: The history of the ‘Hausbuchmeisterfrage’, in Livelier than Life: The Master of the Amsterdam Cabinet or the Housebook Master, c. 1470-1500, exh. cat. (Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, 1985), ed. by J. P. Filedt Kok (Amsterdam, 1985), pp. 41-64. Most recently, Timothy B. Husband, The Medieval Housebook and the Art of Illustration (New York, 1999), esp. pp. 53-74; Eberhard König, ‘Der Hausbuchmeister/The Housbook Master’ in Das Mittelalterliche Hausbuch/The Medieval Housebook, text volume, ed. by Christoph Graf zu Waldburg Wolfegg (Munich, 1997), pp. 163-219. The other volume of

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that work reproduces the Housebook in facsimile. For complete literature, see Daniel Hess, Meister um das ‘mittelalterliche Hausbuch’: Studien zur Hausbuchmeisterfrage (Mainz, 1994); Filedt Kok, 1985; Alfred Stange, Der Hausbuchmeister: Gesamtdarstellung und Katalog seiner Gemälde, Kupferstiche und Zeichnungen (Baden-Baden, 1958). For the drypoints, see Max Lehrs, Geschichte und Kritischer Katalog des deutschen, niederländischen und französischen Kupferstichs im XV. Jahrhundert, vol. 8 (Vienna, 1932); Jane Campbell Hutchinson, The Master of the Housebook (New York, 1972). 12 For a lucid expression of this thinking, see Fuchs, 1960, pp. 63-64. 13 Ernstotto Graf zu Solms-Laubach, ‘Der Hausbuchmeister’, Städel-Jahrbuch 9 (1935-36), pp. 13-39, esp. pp. 18-22. Karel Boon updates Solms-Laubach’s argument in, ‘The Master and the Art of the Burgundian Netherlands’, in Filedt Kok, 1985, pp. 15-19. 14 Jane

Campbell Hutchinson has postulated that the 1505 panels of the Life of the Virgin were donated by the Archbishop of Mainz, Berthold van Henneberg, who was Breydenbach’s patron in the church and to whom Breydenbach dedicated the Peregrinatio. Hutchinson, ‘The Housebook Master and the Mainz Marienleben’, Print Review 5 (1976), pp. 11113. The man in a double portrait of two lovers in Gotha could be Count Phillip von Hanau-Munzenberg, who went on pilgrimage in 1484 with handwritten instructions provided by Breydenbach. Gertrud Rudloff-Hill, ‘Das Doppebildnis eines Liebespaares unter dem Hanauischen Wappen im Schlossmuseum in Gotha’, Bildende Kunst (1968), pp. 19-23. 15 Adrian Pit, ‘La gravure dans les Pays-Bas au Xve siècle et ses influences sur la gravure en Allemagne, en Italie et en France’, Revue de l’Art chrétien, 34 (1891), p. 494. 16 Hess, 1994, p. 36; Boon in Filedt Kok, 1985, pp. 20-21; and in the catalogue of the same volume, pp. 282-83. Hutchinson maintains that Reuwich’s ‘consummate skill in the use of linear perspective’ presents ‘a grave difficulty’ to identifying him with the Master. Hutchinson in Filedt Kok, 1985, p. 59. 17

For the itinerary of Wey’s chapel: William Wey, The Itineraries of William Wey, fellow of Eton College to Jerusalem, A.D. 1458 and A.D. 1462; and to Saint James of Compostella, A.D. 1456 (London, 1857), pp. xxviii-xxx. Breydenbach and Bicken’s relief now hangs in the cloister of Mainz Cathedral. Their arms are carved on the lower corners of the frame. An inscription below the frame is taken from Psalm 85:17 of the Vulgate: ‘Fac mecvm signvm in bono, vt videant, qui odervnt me, et confvndantvr, qvoniam tv adivvisti me et consolata es me regina celorum’. Discussed in Fuchs, 1960, p. 40; also Solms-Laubach, 1935-36, p. 56. 18 These objects, now lost, were described in the eighteenth century. Fuchs makes a very good case that the inscription on the chest indicates that it was made by Cristoforo Canzozzi of Lendinara, a town south of Venice. He also argues that Breydenbach bought the trunk for the galley voyage. Fuchs, 1960, p. 40. Cristoforo provided intarsia around this time for such patrons as the d’Este in Ferrara. See also, Fritz Arens, ed., Die Inschriften der Stadt Mainz von frühmittelalterlizher Zeit bis 1650 (Stuttgart, 1958), p. 138. 19 For an account of the knighting of Count Johann and the other noblemen of the party, see Fabri, 1971, vol. 1, pp. 606-30. This passage includes an excursus on the meaning and responsibilities of the knighthood. For a catalogue and analysis of pilgrimage reports that discuss the order and the ceremony, see Jean-Pierre de Gennes, Les Chevaliers du Saint-Sépulcre de Jérusalem, vol. 1 (Maulevrier, 1995), pp. 263-353. This text also illustrates examples of pilgrims who used the Jerusalem Cross on tombs, portraits, and genealogical documents. 20 Margaret Smith used the Gesamtkatalog der Wiegendrucke to gather a random sample of early printed books, which she

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surveyed to describe the development of the title page. She characterises the number of editions with a woodcut and no text on the first printed page as a ‘small group’ and ‘relatively uncommon’. The Title-Page: Its early development, 1460-1510 (London, 2000), pp. 78, 48 for her sampling method. In addition, a research project on ‘Die Entstehung und Entwicklung des Titelblatts in der Inkunabel- und Frühzeit’ lead by Dr Ursula Rautenberg at the University of Erlangen is compiling a database of early title pages in order to analyse their development. While the design of the opening of the Peregrinatio seems to have been relatively uncommon, even among illustrated books, it found a pocket of popularity among Augsburg printers in the 1470s. Gerhard Kiessling, ‘Die Anfänge des Titelblattes in der Blütezeit des deutschen Holzschnitts, 14701530’, Buch und Schrift, 3 (1929), pp. 17-18. It seems likely that the Erlangen project will confirm and elaborate Kiessling’s observation with the forthcoming work by Oliver Duntze on ‘Das Titelblatt in Augsburg: Der Einleitungsholzschnitt als Vorstufe und Alternative des Titelblattes’. 21 Peregrinatio Latin, fol. 7r, line 42 through 7v, line 2; Peregrinatio German, fol. 2v, lines 35-43 and fol. 10r, lines 20-22. Breydenbach’s commission of Martin Roth to edit the text has caused scholars to suggest that Roth should be considered the book’s author. Hugh Davies, Bernhard von Breydenbach and his Journey to the Holy Land, 1483-4: A bibliography (London, 1911), p. vii. Fuchs, 1960, p. 47. But Breydenbach clearly claims the author function for himself. While keeping the editor anonymous, he refers to himself by name as the work’s ‘auctor principalis’ in the Latin edition (fol. 116v, line 43) and ‘angeber’ (137r, line 30) in the German, takes clear credit for the book’s conception and research, and had the travel account couched in the first person. 22 Solms-Laubach, 1935-36, p. 83. More recently, Boon calls her ‘Lady Venice’ in Filedt Kok, 1985, p. 20. In the catalogue of the same volume, she is described as a ‘richly clad Venetian lady’, p. 282. 23 See for example, Joyce Kubinski, ‘Orientalizing costume in Early Fifteenth-Century French Manuscript Painting (Cité des Dames Master, Limbourg Brothers, Boucicaut Master, and Bedford Master)’, Gesta 40 (2001), pp. 161-80. 24 For Schongauer’s drawings and copies of lost drawings by him, see Franz Winzinger, Die Zeichnungen Martin Schongauers (Berlin, 1962), pp. 49-55, 87-91, 94-95, figs. 15-21, 53-54, 57-60, 68-70. For the Housebook Master, see Filedt Kok, 1985, pp. 51-52. For examples in the arms of the Nuremberg Tucher and Haller families, see Gothic and Renaissance Art in Nuremberg, 1300-1550 (New York, 1986), pp. 175, 203. 25 For an overview of Italian artists’ Eastern travels and a discussion of the Venetian ‘orientalism’ c. 1500, see Rosamond Mack, Bazaar to Piazza: Islamic trade and Italian art, 13001600 (Berkeley, 2001), pp. 156-67. Also, Julian Raby, Venice, Dürer, and the Oriental Mode (London, 1982). 26

For Carpaccio’s influences, see Raby, 1982, pp. 66-77.

27

Raby, 1982, pp. 41-42.

28 For a survey of the visual evidence about costume in this

period, including these examples, see Stella Newton, The Dress of the Venetians (Aldershot, 1988), pp. 47-55. She emphasises the reclusion of the women and the peculiar extremes of the dress. 29 ‘Viri ambulant honeste et pretiose vestiti in plateis, mulieres vero pretiose sed turpissime. Nam inverecunde nudatis scapulis usque ad ubera ambulant, de vitiis aliis, que deus in eis novit, solus ipse iudicare et corrigere habet, de quibus ego hic supersedeo’. (Men walk in the streets dressed honestly and expensively; the women also expensively but most indecorously. For they go about shamelessly, exposed from their shoulders all the way to their breasts, and as for the other vices that God learned of them, those are for him alone

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to judge and correct; I refrain.) Paul Walther von Guglingen, Fratris Pauli Waltheri Guglingensis Itinerarium in Terram Sanctam et ad Sanctum Catharinam (Tübingen, 1892), p. 51. 30 ‘Porro ad illa festa procedunt dominae Venetianae cum tanto fastu, pompa et ornatu, quod non videntur Christianorum uxores, sed Trojanorum, et ipsius Helena et Veneris sodales’. (The women appear at festivals with so much showiness, pomp, and ornament that they don’t look like Christian but Trojan women, and companions of Helen and of Venus.) Felix Fabri, Evagatorium in Terrae Sanctae, Arabiae et Egypti Peregrinationem, ed. by Konrad Dieterich Hassler, 3 vols (Stuttgart, 1843-49), vol. 3, p. 433. 31 Fabri,

1971, vol. 2, p. 670.

32

‘Auch mag ich sagenn, das Ich zwar an weibern keine schendlichere kleidunge gesehen habe ausgeschnietten, das man hiendenn biess auff halbenn Rückenn hienab, desgleichen forne bies under die brust, darüber sie auff das allersubtileste, als sie ihmmer fiendtenn könnenn, duchlein tragen, sehen kann’. (I would also like to say that, indeed, I have not seen clothing on women so shamefully cut that one sees behind down half the back and in the front similarly down to beneath the breast, over which they wear the most subtle tissues they could ever find.) Reinhold Röhricht and Heinrich Meisner, Deutsche Pilgerreisen nach dem Heiligen Lande (Berlin, 1880), p. 171. 33

Röhricht and Meisner, 1880, p. 171.

34

‘Le loro donne a me pareno per la major parte picole, perchè quando non fosseno così, non user ebbono le zibre, […] tanto alte quanto fanno; che in vero ne ho veduto qualche paro che sono vendute e anche da vendere, che sono alte almanco mezzo brazo milanes. […] Quanto al ornare del capo vanno con le crine ante li ogii così rize che al primo judicio pareno più presto homini che femine; e la major perte de capili comprati; e questo del dico de certo perchè no ho veduto spora la piazza de sancto Marco vendere in belle partichate da vilani. […] Esse done veneziane se forzano quanto pono in publico, precipue le belle, de mostrare el pecto, dico le mamelle e le spalle, in tanto che più volte vendendole me sono maravigliato che li panni non ghe siano cascati dal doss. Quelle che possono et anche quelle che non possono de veste sono molte pompose et hanno de grandi zoje, perle in frixiti in capo al collo. […] E però non fanno troppa spesa in faxoletti per coprirsi le sue spalle’. (Their women appear to me to be small for the most part, because if they were not, they would not wear their shoes […] as high as they do. For in truth I saw some pairs of them sold, and also for sale, that were at least half a Milanese braccio in height. […] As to the adornment of their heads, they wear their hair so much curled over their eyes that, at first sight, they appear rather men than women. The greater part is false hair; and this I know for certain because I saw quantities of it on poles, sold by peasants in the Piazza San Marco. […] These Venetian women, especially the pretty ones, try as much as possible in public to show their chests – I mean the breasts and shoulders – so much so, that several times when I saw them I marvelled that their clothes did not fall off their backs. Those who can afford it, and also those who cannot, dress very splendidly, and have magnificent jewels and pearls in the trimming round their collars. […] I observed that they do not spend too much in shawls to cover their shoulders.) Pietro Casola, Viaggo di Pietro Casola a Gerusalemme: Tratto dall’autografo esistente nella Biblioteca Trivulzio (Milan, 1855), pp. 14-15. Translated by M. Margaret Newett, Canon Pietro Casola’s Pilgrimage to Jerusalem in the Year 1494 (Manchester, 1907), pp. 144-45. 35

Davies, 1911, p. 3; Solms-Laubach, 1935-36, p. 83; Fuchs, 1960, p. 52; and Boon in Filedt Kok, 1985, p. 20. Alfred Stange calls them putti without comment on the implications of this designation. Alfred Stange, ‘Untersuchungen über die Anfänge des Hausbuchmeister’, Das Münster, 9 (1956), p. 382.

36 In arguing that the Housebook Master should be identified as Reuwich, Solms-Laubach uses the similarity of their ‘children’ as evidence. Solms-Laubach, 1935-36, p. 83. 37 Solms-Laubach,

1935-36, p. 15.

38 Charles Dempsey, Inventing the Renaissance Putto (Chapel

Hill, 2001), esp. pp. 13-26. 39 Lilian Armstrong, Renaissance Miniature Painters and Classical Imagery: The Master of the Putti and his Venetian workshop (London, 1981). 40 Dirk de Vos, Hans Memling: The complete works (London, 1994), pp. 215-16. The figure in black visible today is a later addition painted over the likely donor Jan Crabbe, whose death in 1488 provided a terminus ante quem for the panels. Stylistically, de Vos places the work after 1480. 41 Peregrinatio German, fol. 11r, lines 29-33. According to a Solms family account book, Ugelheimer and his wife maintained contacts with the family via the Frankfurt bookfair. Ugelheimer visited the Lenten fair in 1483 while the pilgrims were still in the Holy Land and received letters from Count Johann’s mother to take back to Venice to deliver to her son. The family transferred money to Ugelheimer to fund the pilgrims’ return journey, and Ugelheimer’s wife repaid the excess at the Lenten fair in 1484. The family also gifted the wife a gold cup, paid for at the autumn fair in 1484. The sources are detailed in Uhlhorn, 1934, pp. 109-10. Fuchs speculated that Ugelheimer would have been interested in the Peregrinatio project and would have shown the pilgrims his library. Fuchs, 1960, p. 38. 42 Jonathan J. G. Alexander, ed., The Painted Page: Italian Renaissance book illumination, 1450-1550 (London, 1994), pp. 43-44, also pp. 190-203 (cat. nos. 96-101). 43 Alexander,

1994, p. 44.

44

Alexander, 1994, pp. 196-203 (cat. nos. 98-101), esp. miniatures illustrated on pp. 196, 199, 201-03. 45 As argued in Fuchs, 1960, p. 67. The inscription on the trunk in the chapter house was also written in a roman majuscule script. Arens, 1958, pp. 115, 138. 46 The phrase ‘diaphragm arch’ belongs to Erwin Panofsky in his description of late medieval Franco-Flemish illumination in Early Netherlandish Painting: Its origins and character (Cambridge, MA, 1953), pp. 58-59. 47 Plenarium Epistolarum et Evangeliorum (Augsburg, 3 March 1473), fol. 1r. 48 Newe Reformacion der Stat Nureberg (Nuremberg, 5 June 1484), fol. 1v. For the book and the image’s heraldry, see Gothic and Renaissance Art in Nuremberg, 1986, p. 230. 49 The arms of the family of the dedicatee of the Peregrinatio, Berthold von Henneberg, quarter of a column with a hen standing on a hill (berg), a pun on their name. As Archbishop of Mainz, von Henneberg quartered these with the wheel of the city of Mainz. For the Latin and Dutch editions, Reuwich designed a woodcut initial with the Archbishop’s arms for the first line of the preface. Reuwich has adopted the hen without the hill for the printer’s mark at the end of the book. Fuchs, 1960, p. 52. 50 Konrad Grünemberg, Pilgerfahrt ins Heilige Land, Gotha, Forschungsbibliothek, Chart. A 541, fol. 96r. 51 Fuchs describes her as a ‘repräsentative Standfigur, die der “Familie” der Wappenhalterinnen angehört’. Fuchs, 1960, p. 52. Also, Filedt Kok, 1985, p. 282. Solms-Laubach saw ‘etwa eine Frau-Welt’. Solms-Laubach, 1935-36, p. 82. 52 David Rosand, ‘Venetia Figurata: The iconography of a myth’, in Interpretazioni Veneziane: Studi di storia dell’arte in

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onore di Michelangelo Muraro (Venice, 1984), pp. 177-96, esp. pp. 179, 181-88. Also, David Rosand, Myths of Venice: The figuration of a state (Chapel Hill, 2001), pp. 19-37; Wolfgang Wolters, Die Bilderschmuck des Dogenpalastes: Untersuchungen zur Selbstdarstellung der Republik Venedig im 16. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden, 1983), pp. 236-46, esp. pp. 236-40. 53 Rosand interprets the height of the woman’s headdress as the horn of the ducal cap. Rosand, 1984, p. 189. The form is sufficiently ambiguous that Reuwich could have read it (or an image like it) as a high hairdo. 54 Peregrinatio German, fol. 4r, lines 19-20 and fol. 14r, lines 26-27. 55 This section of text is titled ‘Eyn lobsam red von der werden statt vnd großmechtiger herschafft Venedig’ (Laudatory address about the worthy city and very mighty dominion of Venice). Peregraintio German, fol. 14r, line 24 through 16v; Peregrinatio Latin, fol. 10v, line 36 through 12v. 56 For a discussion of Venetian civic panegyric with examples, see Patricia Fortini Brown, Venice and Antiquity: The Venetian Sense of the Past (New Haven, 1996), pp. 99-103, 163-64, and esp. pp. 173-74 for the description of Venice as ‘sea-wall of Christianity’ against the Turks. This metaphor is evoked in the Peregrinatio (see the quote below, note 63). The ultimate source for Brown’s quote is Marino Sanuto’s Le Vite dei Dogi, which postdates the Peregrinatio. 57

Peregrinatio German, fol. 33r, lines 16-24.

58

‘Ob Cicero der kl˚ug sprecher vnd furst aller wöl redbarkeyt, von der hellen wider hervß keme, er mochte nitt gantz volkomliche dise meyn¯ug volf u˚ ren, er wurde erlygen’. (If Cicero, the clever speaker and the prince of all good speaking, were to come back from the netherworld, he would not want to bring this opinion to perfection; he would succumb.) Peregrinatio German, fol. 16v, lines 21-23. 59 Peregrinatio

German, fol. 14v, lines 23-25.

60 (Hardly believable, yet praiseworthy), Peregrinatio German, fol. 14v, lines 30-31. 61 ‘Wie lang, wie wyt sye hatt die flugell yres gewalts, vff land vnd yff wasser, vor lange hatt vß gestrecket’. (How far, how wide has she stretched the wings of her might on land and at sea for a long time.) Peregrinatio German, fol. 14v, line 43 through 15r, line 1. 62 Peregrinatio

German, fol. 16r, lines 34-35.

63 ‘ […] Sye [Venedig] umb wegen yrer lieb, andacht vnd stanthafftikeyt die vnseligen thurcken, cristenliches bl˚utes strengste vnd schedlichste vind, verhasser vnd verflucher, ja auch verfolger deß crutzs cristi, ein lange zyt, gar by allein vß aller cristenheit mit grossem kosten vnd arbeyt trüwlichen, manlichen flissiglichen gn¯ug zu yrem teyl, bestritende, verfo-

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gende, vn leydigende, auch vertribende an vil enden, sich haben gasatzet als f u˚ r eyn muwer f u˚ r die cristenliche kyrch, byß daz der ynen hilff vnnd stuer thette von allem wytten begriff der kyrchen nyeman me e¯, geystlich oder weltlich wardt gefunden, welches alles vngezwyfelt yren glauben vnd andacht z˚u got vnd der kyrchen großlichen gn¯ug anzeuget, ob ioch all welt dar wider rede, ye doch belybet die warheyt unverdrucket.” (She [Venice] has, because of her love, piety, and fortitude, for a long time all alone out of Christendom, set herself as a wall for the Christian church by contesting, persecuting, afflicting, indeed dislodging in many places, with great cost and work, truly, diligently, and in a manly fashion, the unholy Turks, the strongest and most harmful enemy, hater, and curser of Christian blood, indeed persecutor of the cross of Christ. So that of those who give her help and support from all the wide territory of the Church no one else, spiritual or temporal, was found who so greatly demonstrated their faith and piety to God and the Church so entirely without a doubt that even if the entire world spoke against it, the truth would remain unsuppressed.) Peregrinatio German, fol. 16r, line 34 through fol. 16v, line 4. 64 (Wise

council), Peregrinatio German, fol. 16v, line 7.

65 (Delineated by the learned hand of the painter), Peregrinatio German, fol. 14r, lines 28-30. 66 (Customs, beliefs, sects, or errors of the inhabitants of the same [Holy] Land in addition to some necessary exhortations), Peregrinatio German, fol. 10v, lines 5-8. 67 ‘Eyn kurze clag vber das heilig land besunder Jherusalem’; ‘Eyn ander clag vber das gantz orient’; and ‘Eyn clag vber den ellenden statt der kyrchen yn occident mit eyner ernstlicher verman¯ug zum ersten yn eyner gemeyn, dar nach besunder z u˚ den fursten deß richs vff das sie mee gevlyssen syen z u˚ hilff vnd beschyrm¯ug der kyrchen’. (Short lament over the Holy Land especially Jersualem); (Another lament over the whole orient); and (A lament over the woeful state of the churches in the West with a serious admonition in general, but especially to the princes of the Reich, so that they are more diligent in helping and protecting the churches). Peregrinatio German, fol. 118r-118v, 118v-120r, 120r-125r. 68 ‘[Ich] bitte den allmechtigen got daz er allen syn¯ e waren glaubigen nit allein d¯e weg z u˚ disen landen öffenner mach sunder auch ynen grosser lieb vnd begird z˚u den selben yngyße, da mitt sye ettwan wyder umb under gewalt vnd gebiet der cristenheit komm¯e, yme gott z u˚ lob vnd z u˚ eer allem cristenlichem volck, Amen’. (I ask the almighty God that he not only open the way to these lands for his true believers, but that he also infuse in them a great love and desire for the same [lands], so that sometime they come again under the power and territory of Christianity, praise to God and to the honour of all Christian people, amen.) Peregrinatio German, fol. 10v, lines 9-12.

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Northern Realism and Carthusian Devotion: Bergognone’s Christ Carrying the Cross for the Certosa of Pavia Ingrid Alexander-Skipnes University of Stavanger Ambrogio Bergognone’s Christ Carrying the Cross and the Carthusians is one of the artist’s most compelling paintings in which we find a remarkable synthesis of Italian and Netherlandish elements (Plate 8 and Fig. 1). It was painted during his first, and most productive étape at the Certosa of Pavia when, from c. 1488, the artist was chief painter, producing several altarpieces, small panels and frescoes.1 Bergognone’s earlier activity, however, is difficult to reconstruct. The earliest document, uncovered by Janice Shell, in which the artist’s name appears is a notary list of 11 May 1472 where he is a witness in the house of the Milanese artist, Melchiorre Lampugnano, which suggests that Bergognone was already pursuing a career as an artist by that time.2 Several authors have proposed that the artist had contact with northern Europe. ‘Bergognone’ – the name by which Ambrogio da Fossano was popularly known – has added to the mystery of whether or not the artist had contact with the North.3 Some authors have suggested that the name Bergognone or Borgognone, as it was occasionally written, points to contacts with Burgundy. Alexis-François Rio has even suggested that Bergognone spent time in the region. 4 While, Gustave Gruyer has argued that one of Bergognone’s ancestors sojourned there.5 However, there is no documentary evidence of such travels. Moreover, neither does Bergognone’s painting technique suggest a trip north of the Alps, nor is there any indication that he worked with a Northern-trained artist. Nevertheless, Bergognone’s interest in Northern art is more than superficial, and appears to have peaked once he arrived at the Certosa. Yet, this development has not been fully investigated. This essay will examine the role of the Carthusian environment and the Order’s religious practices in shaping Bergognone’s interest in Netherlan-

dish art, and will explore how the artist adopted Northern elements to depict a Passion scene to express devotional issues of particular significance to the Carthusians. Bergognone’s most likely master was the artist Vincenzo Foppa who spent most of his career in Pavia from c. 1458, and also painted frescoes, now lost, for the cloister at the Certosa. The Brescian artist carried out important commissions throughout Lombardy and Liguria. Some of the richness in Foppa’s pictures may very well have been inherited from Gentile da Fabriano and Jacopo Bellini whose work Foppa

Fig. 1. Ambrogio Bergognone, Christ Carrying the Cross and the Carthusians, Pinacoteca Malaspina, Pavia © Musei Civici di Pavia. Photo: Fiorenzo Cantalupi

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Fig. 3. Vincenzo Foppa, The Martyrdom of St. Peter, Portinari Chapel, S. Eustorgio, Milan © Seat Archive/Alinari Archives Fig. 2. Vincenzo Foppa, Madonna and Child, bpk/ Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin. Photo Jörg P. Anders

would have seen in Brescia. Foppa’s early style suggests he was familiar with the art in Venice and Padua. The greyish tones in the flesh colours are one of the most characteristic elements of Foppa’s style. The heightened effect of the silver-grey flesh tones adds a sculptural robustness to the figures in his Madonna and Child (Fig. 2). Foppa’s experiences with Northern realism, evidenced in his distant, winding background roads and careful attention to detail, may have been passed on to his pupil Bergognone.6 In Pavia, Bergognone’s so-called maniera grigia, inherited from Foppa, has been gradually replaced, as we can see in the Christ Carrying the Cross by a more naturalistic rendering of flesh tones. One of Foppa’s most important commissions in Milan was the frescoes of the Life of St Peter Martyr for the Portinari Chapel in S. Eustorgio. Commissioned in the 1460s by Pigello Portinari of the Medici Bank in Milan whose brother, Tommaso, managed the bank’s branch in Bruges, the frescoes demonstrate Foppa’s mastery of complex perspectival arrangements, 146

background landscapes and an inventive integration of nature and strong, sculptural figures (Fig. 3). For Pietro Marani, the frescoes had a significant impact on the young Bergognone.7 Some years later, Pigello Portinari provided Foppa with a letter of recommendation to Bianca Maria Sforza that included a request to settle in Pavia. Although Foppa had a peripatetic career with complaints from patrons of his unwillingness to complete projects, most of his painting career was spent in Pavia, arriving for the first time c. 1458 and returning in the 1480s.8 Scholars have frequently commented on the Northern features in Bergognone’s paintings, particularly his attention to textural detail and landscape distances. Eugène Müntz recounted the use of realism in rendering clothing.9 Crowe and Cavalcaselle mentioned the artist’s unusual way of juxtaposing large figures that differ in size along with a certain stiffness. They observed that the detailed landscape distances are finished with a minuteness and verisimilitude reminiscent of Mantegna and Flemings.10 Castelfranchi

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Fig. 4. Christ Carrying the Cross, detail of Christ and the cross © Musei Civici di Pavia. Photo: Fiorenzo Cantalupi

Vegas also pointed out the finesse of the landscape backgrounds in Bergognone’s pictures and the piousness of his work, referring to him as the ‘Memling of Lombardy’.11 The same author is one of the first to see a link between Gerard David and Bergognone. Indeed, Bergognone’s eclectic style has led scholars to propose several Netherlandish artists as models: Jan van Eyck, Rogier van der Weyden, Petrus Christus, Memling and Gerard David.12

For Fernanda Wittgens, the ‘momento fiammingo’ in Lombardy intensified with the arrival of Bergognone.13 Some scholars see the foundations for Bergognone’s interest in Flemish art connected to a likely stay in Liguria where the presence of paintings by Jan van Eyck and Rogier van der Weyden is well documented.14 Zanetto Bugatto, who spent time in the workshop of Rogier van der Weyden, is often seen as the key to understanding Bergognone’s fiamminghismo as well as tracing the diffusion of Northern style in the region. 15 A letter written on 7 May 1463 confirms the fact that Zanetto spent some two-and-a-half years with Rogier in Brussels. Zanetto is the only Lombard painter, with a documented sojourn in the North, to have worked in Pavia in the midfifteenth century where, together with Vincenzo Foppa and Bonifacio Bembo, he began work on the frescoes for S. Giacomo fuori Pavia.16 With no painting convincingly attributed to Zanetto Bugatto, it is difficult to ascertain what impact he may have had on Bergognone. If there are any traces of Zanetto Bugatto, primarily a portrait painter, in the art of Bergognone, they are likely to have been related to a naturalistic rendering of likenesses. As court portrait painter to the Sforzas, documents point to a busy career for Zanetto.17 Clearly enamoured by Netherlandish painting, Galeazzo Maria Sforza tried in vain to obtain the services of Antonello da Messina after the death of Zanetto Bugatto. Instead of Zanetto Bugatto as the principle ‘Northern’ influence on Bergognone, the artist is likely to have seen Netherlandish works of art. The scene of Bergognone’s Christ Carrying the Cross, a rare depiction for an entire Italian altarpiece for the period, takes place in Pavia in front of the monastery church that is under construction in the background. The artist has created a dynamic foreground by arranging the figure of Christ and his followers asymmetrically to the picture plane, adding to the expressive mood of the painting.18 Christ looks back, not towards the monks or outwards towards the viewer, but with his eyes cast downward as though towards the altar, extending the picture’s meaning into the Eucharistic space (Fig. 4). United in grief, the monks follow Christ in a prayerful and compassionate procession, as his body bends beneath the weight of the large cross. The spatial treatment of the compressed

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Fig. 6. Christ Carrying the Cross, detail of the monastery church © Musei Civici di Pavia. Photo: Fiorenzo Cantalupi

Fig. 5. Christ Carrying the Cross, detail of the monks © Musei Civici di Pavia. Photo: Fiorenzo Cantalupi

foreground, in which Christ appears to walk up a mound, difficult to see in the painting today, emphasises the hieratic placement of Christ on the left.19 A deep landscape distance frames the space behind Christ’s head while the monastery church looms high on a rise above the heads of the Carthusian monks. A hilly, landscape distance, dotted with buildings and figures, some on horseback, draws the viewer’s eye to the horizon. The facial expressions and 148

gestures of the monks who follow Christ are pious and full of emotion; some have tears in their eyes (Fig. 5). Leading the group of certosini, is a monk whose right hand is opened towards Christ; he carries a book, probably a prayer book, in the pocket of his habit. The humble gesture of hands crossed on the chest may be related to Carthusian liturgical practice and the writings of Denis the Carthusian.20 As Giampiero Borlini has noted, Bergognone ‘adhered scrupulously to reality’.21 Indeed, remarkable in its detail, the unfinished, scaffolded church facade is often cited in discussions on the date of the painting (Fig. 6).22 An example of the picture’s meticulous detail is the two figures that can be seen standing in the church’s main portal and in the doorway of the building on the left of the church (Plate 9). The artist has included a sketchy reference to the lower facade reliefs by Amadeo and others.23 A few monks and novices walk along the esplanade. The large foreground figures have been combined with minute background figures. Framed by a row of prickly holly trees and small holly plants, an iconographic detail associated to the Passion which could go unnoticed because of the foreground damage in the painting today, Christ’s angulated body bends under the cross. With a triparte nimbus painted in gold, blood streams down Christ’s face from the crown of thorns on his head, and limpid tears fall from his eyes (Fig. 7).24 As Paula Nuttall has argued, the ability to portray emotion was often associated with Netherlandish painting. By painting the tears of Christ and his followers in such a realistic

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Fig. 8. Netherlandish draughtsman, Christ Carrying the Cross, pen and brown ink on paper, Albertina, Vienna © Albertina

Fig. 7. Christ Carrying the Cross, detail of the head of Christ © Musei Civici di Pavia. Photo: Fiorenzo Cantalupi

way, Bergognone seemingly ascribes to the devotissimo in Netherlandish painting that was praised by Cyriaco d’Ancona and patrons of Northern art.25Attention to details in clothing and compassionate facial expressions in the picture suggest that Bergognone used Northern realism to heighten the devotional meaning of the painting for the monks. Central to the devotional narrative as it is played out in the painting, is the Latin text inscribed on the scroll wrapped around the bottom of the cross. It is from Matthew 16:24: ‘Qui vult venire post me abneget semetip(su)m et tollat + (crucem) suam et sequatur me’ (If any man will come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me).26 For Luca Beltrami, the Christ Carrying the Cross is one of the Bergognone’s most important paintings for the Certosa.27 It was recovered in 1871 some distance from the Certosa, and according to the sixteenth-century prior and chronicler Matteo Valerio, at one time it was located in the chapel of the Annunciation.28

Maria Grazia Albertini Ottolenghi reported that the monks commissioned the painting to commemorate the consecration of the church on 3 May 1497, the feast day of the cross, and to honour the papal nuncio Bernardino López del Carvajal, Cardinal of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme. 29 The celebratory nature of that occasion is not reflected in the compassionate mood of the painting or the biblical passage. Furthermore, 3 May was reserved for celebrations of the discovery of the True Cross. The text from Matthew had special meaning for the Order and points to aspects of Carthusian spirituality. Scenes of Christ’s Passion had a particularly important significance for the Order.30 From its foundation in the North, the Carthusian order focused its devotion on Christ’s suffering. The private and contemplative way of life that Carthusians followed emphasised obedience and denial of one’s will as echoed in Matthew 16:24. Northern passion iconography may have been known to Bergognone through paintings, prints or drawings. 31 If we consider the figure of Christ in two Netherlandish images, the Vienna drawing of Christ Carrying the Cross of c. 1460-70 (Fig. 8) and a panel of the same subject in Aachen dated c. 1490 (Fig. 9), in relation to Bergognone’s picture of Christ, certain similarities are evident. In all three works, the angular figure of Christ is larger than the other figures around him, focusing the attention of the viewer and charging the scene with greater visual and emotional effect. Further-

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Fig. 9. Netherlandish painter, Christ Carrying the Cross, Seurmondt-Museum, Aachen © IRPA-KIK, Brussels

more, Christ’s knees bend under the weight of a large cross and heavy folds of fabric cascade down the middle of his body as he looks away from the direction in which he is walking. In the Vienna Christ Carrying the Cross, based on a Jan van Eyck model of c. 1425-30, the anonymous draughtsman creates a poignant scene weighted by Christ’s sorrowful expression.32 In addition, the diagonally-arranged group of figures recall Bergognone’s composition, and, in the Aachen panel the action is played out against a distant and detailed background. Clearly, Bergognone’s figure reflects the Netherlandish prototype. Signed and dated 1490, the Crucifixion, is a striking example of Lombard Renaissance painting in terms of its contrasting colours and its expressive content (Fig. 10).33 Both here, and in the Christ Carrying the Cross, figures are monumental and proportioned34 and a strong diffused light is used.35 While, the artist paints a sharply-focused background in the Crucifixion, he uses an atmospheric perspective in Christ Carrying the Cross, with a sketchy brush handling in the background. 150

Fig. 10. Ambrogio Bergognone, Crucifixion, Certosa di Pavia © Alinari Archives, Florence

Stylistically, the Crucifixion reflects the lessons of Foppa, for example in the use of greyish flesh tones. More linearised than the Christ Carrying the Cross, the modelling in the Crucifixion is also more metallic. The same sharpness in modelling, as well as a maximising of mimetic effects, can be seen in other altarpieces for the Certosa, notably the St Ambrose Altarpiece, signed and dated 1490, and the St Siro Altarpiece of 1491. A certain immobility that features in several of Bergognone’s altarpieces is abandoned in Christ Carrying the Cross for a composition with more movement. And, a softer and more naturalistic modelling in Christ Carrying the Cross can be seen as both a response to Leonardo as well as the artist’s desire to evoke more naturalistically rendered emotion. In the paintings for Santa Maria dell’Incoro-

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nata in Lodi, dated c. 1500-10, the artist returns to sharp modelling and richly-decorative surfaces. Bergognone’s large panel (166 x 118 cm) was transferred to canvas in the nineteenth century from its original wood support.36 One of the most striking qualities of Christ Carrying the Cross is its subtle attention to detail, enamellike surface and rich, saturated colours, particularly in the foreground. Christ’s stronglycoloured red and blue garments bring his figure forward into the viewer’s space, enforcing the diagonal path on which he and the certosini walk. Christ’s sapphire-blue robe dominates the foreground; a subtle use of the same colour in the sky has created a chromatic bridge between foreground and background (Plate 8). In her study of two of Bergognone’s altarpieces for the Certosa, Antonietta Gallone has shown that the artist used transparent glazes both in the Crucifixion and the St Ambrose Altarpiece, and that there seems to be a notable evolution towards refinement and experimentation ‘di chi sa dei fiamminghi’.37 Although, to date, no technical studies have been carried out on the Christ Carrying the Cross, some aspects of his technique can be observed. Visual evidence suggests that Bergognone also used glazes in the Christ Carrying the Cross. The grey flesh tones in the Crucifixion and the St Ambrose Altarpiece, for example, have been softened and painted more naturalistically in the Christ Carrying the Cross. Transitions between the figures and the background are soft when we compare them to the sharper effect of these transitions in the Crucifixion and the later Saint Ambrose and San Siro altarpieces for the Certosa, as well as the Lodi Presentation in the Temple. While technical studies have shown that the Crucifixion is painted in tempera and oil, and visual examination of the Christ Carrying the Cross suggests the same medium, clearly there are differences in visual effects between the two paintings.38 This suggests that Bergognone adopted a different technical approach in Christ Carrying the Cross, in order to express more convincingly a greater naturalism and piety. This noticeable change in approach that occurs in the Christ Carrying the Cross does not appear to be episodic but rather related to the requirements of the biblical text in the painting and the devotional needs of the Carthusian audience.

Fig. 11. Petrus Christus, Portrait of a Carthusian, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.The Jules Bache Collection, 1949. (49.7.19) © The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Bergogonone’s first period at the Certosa may be seen as one of experimentation. The technical analyses carried out on his works thus far appear to confirm his interest in experimenting with other techniques, possibly Netherlandish, during the period of 1488-94.39 By the late fifteenth century in Italy, the use of oil painting was no longer a novelty among Italian artists. Still, some artists worked towards results that recall Netherlandish painting. 40 Like Italian painters before him, Bergognone used oil painting to recreate rich visual effects. In the foreground, a compact and smooth brush handling with no evidence of brushstrokes gives way to a loose, almost impressionistic handling in the background – an example of his combining Northern and Italian technique.

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Fig. 12. Christ Carrying the Cross, detail of the faces of the monks © Musei Civici di Pavia. Photo: Fiorenzo Cantalupi

The ten certosini, among them three lay brothers, recognised by their beards and their shorter scapular, which can be seen on one of them, are dressed in the white wool serge habit of the Order.41 Their garments are rendered with a wonderful softness and textural quality notably visible in the columnar folds of the fabric (Fig. 5). If one compares the handling of textures here and in Petrus Christus’s Portrait of a Carthusian (Fig.11), 42 clearly there are similarities in technique, especially in the beard and habit. Although the setting for Christus’s portrayal of the lay brother takes place in a remarkably illusionistic space fitting for an individual portrait, a similar conscious attention to each hair in the beard is exhibited in both paintings. There are parallels in the visible softness and weight of the wool habit as well as subtle highlights along the edge of the cowl, and the heavy folds of the habit (Fig. 12). Bergognone’s treatment of the beard has been described by Zanino Volta as ‘copiosa’ and ‘morbidissima’.43 And, Nadia Righi has pointed out that the faces of the monks are rendered with an interest in physiognomic detail.44 Just a few indications of the underdrawing can be seen in the infrared photograph (Fig. 13). Nevertheless, the artist’s underdrawing technique appears to be ‘studiatissima’ as Maria Grazia Albertini Ottolenghi observed in the St Ambrose Altarpiece:45 there are very slight adjustments made in the hands of the two monks in the front; the transparency of the red in Christ’s garment may tentatively indicate that the upper layer of that area is a glaze; and a change in the angle of the roof of the church can be seen in 152

Fig. 13. Christ Carrying the Cross. Infrared photograph © Musei Civici di Pavia. Photo: Fiorenzo Cantalupi

the highly-detailed image of the church in the infrared reflectogram (Fig. 14). One of the most elaborate projects of the Lombard Renaissance, work on the Certosa of Pavia brought together a great number of artists from various regions, among them Perugino who was commissioned in 1496 to paint a large altarpiece that consisted of six panels arranged in two tiers. The panel of God the Father, from the central panel of the upper tier, is the only one still in situ.46 A polyptych, Virgin Enthroned between Sts Hugo and Anselm, was painted in 1496 by the Piedmont artist, Macrino d’Alba. Fra Bartolommeo was to paint an altarpiece depicting a Pietà for the high altar of the church but it never arrived. It was to replace a painting by Filippino Lippi of the same subject commissioned by the monks in 1495, but which was left incomplete at his death.47 The interest the monks showed for Florentine art may have been encouraged by ties between the Charterhouses in Pavia and Florence. For example, Pietro de’ Pioli was prior in Florence before he became prior in Pavia (1493-97).48

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Fig. 14. Christ Carrying the Cross detail of the monastery church. Infrared reflectogram © Musei Civici di Pavia. Photo: Fiorenzo Cantalupi

During the Quattrocento, Lombardy experienced an enormous internazionalità as Fernanda Wittgens expressed it,49 and Pavia played an important role through its university, attracting students from the other side of the Alps which contributed to the rich cultural climate of the area. The university town provided a special environment for Bergognone.50 Founded in 1361 by Gian Galeazzo Visconti, the University of Pavia, with links that go back to the ancient law school from 825, created a thriving cultural centre for the city. Agostino Sottili has published extensive studies on the history of the University of Pavia.51 More than half of the students in Pavia came from the North.52 The university attracted stu-

dents primarily to the faculties of law, medicine, the arts and theology. While the number of students from Germany far outstripped those of students from the Netherlands, many from the Low Countries travelled to Pavia to study. The university was important for German students, particularly for its legal studies. The Sforza dukes encouraged transalpine students to attend the university. Furthermore, conferring degrees on foreign visitors could facilitate relations with states abroad. For example, on 14 November 1475, Duke Galeazzo Maria Sforza wrote to the law college to request that the Burgundian ambassador, who was soon to arrive on a visit to Pavia, be granted a doctorate in canon law. 53

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Ad Tervoort’s study of students from the northern Netherlands in Italy presents an analysis of the patterns and the popularity of certain subjects among students.54 Most of those who came from the North were from the ranks of the nobility, the church and well-to-do citizens. Among those who ventured to Pavia was the celebrated humanist, Rudolf Agricola, who in his youth in Zwolle came into contact with the Brethren of Common Life when he studied with Thomas à Kempis. Agricola arrived in Italy in 1469 to study canon law in Pavia and stayed there until 1474. 55 On 10 August 1473, Agricola presented an oration in honour of Paul De Baenst of Bruges who had arrived in Italy the previous year.56 De Baenst received his doctorate in civil law at the university of Pavia on 10 August 1474.57 He became rector of the law university in Pavia and later returned to Bruges where he was president of the Grand Council of Flanders until his death in 1497.58 The well-known Adornes family in Bruges, celebrated patrons of Flemish artists, also had contacts with Pavia. Anselm Adornes whose family, originally from Genoa, were long-time residents of Bruges, sent his eldest son, Jan to study at the University of Pavia.59 He remained there until 24 March 1470 when, together with his father, he set out on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Nicolas de Monte, also from Bruges, chose Pavia for his university studies and graduated with a law degree in 1473.60 The Certosa of Pavia also had its transalpine connections.61 Begun in 1396 under the patronage of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, the first Duke of Milan, the monastery church, Santa Maria delle Grazie, was dedicated to the Virgin, as was customary for the Order; and it was to contain the Visconti family mausoleum. It was possibly influenced by its sister house at Champmol (Dijon), founded in 1383 by Philip the Bold, brother-in-law of Gian Galeazzo. Both Charterhouses of Champmol and Pavia were started with twenty-four monks, double the usual number. Funding for the building of the Certosa in Pavia had to be shared with Gian Galeazzo’s numerous military and political campaigns. Thus, at his death in 1402, only the monks’ cells at the Charterhouse had been completed. The project was revitalised when Francesco Sforza became duke of Milan in 1450. Aristocratic patronage played an impor154

tant role in the decoration of the Certosa at Pavia. The ascetic life of the Carthusians may seem to have been opposite to the lavish splendour of their aristocratic patrons.62 On the other hand, ducal support could be seen as an act of charity and as a demonstration of support for the monastic way of life. As Charles Rosenberg has noted, the Carthusian order may have been particularly attractive for the aristocracy because of the contrast offered by the Order’s rigorous life and the magnificence of the princely life.63 Although founded in 1396, it was not until the middle of the fifteenth century that work on the Certosa actually began. Its large proportions and splendour are unique among Carthusian churches.64 The wide central nave is flanked by fourteen side chapels dedicated to saints of particular importance to the Order and their patrons.65 The library of the Certosa had a fine collection of manuscripts; some came from Parma as well as from Asti and Florence.66 The collection was particularly rich in texts related to Saints Catherine of Siena and Catherine of Alexandria, two important figures for Carthusian devotion. During the fifteenth century, the library’s collection included two copies of Ludolph of Saxony’s Vita Christi, as well as a copy of the Imitatio Christi. 67 Not surprisingly, there are parallels between the Carthusian religious life and the Northern spiritual movement devotio moderna. Both the Order and the devotio moderna originated north of the Alps and both stressed self-denial and individual spirituality. Furthermore, Geert Groote, father of the devotio moderna, came in contact with a Carthusian milieu at an early stage. Born in Cologne, St Bruno (1030-1101), founder of the Carthusians, started the Order in a mountainous region of the Dauphiné near Grenoble. With the help of Hugh of Châteauneuf, Bishop of Grenoble, Bruno retired to the secluded, mountain area with his six followers, for a life of prayer and meditation. Images of St Bruno at the Certosa of Pavia were constant reminders of the Order’s transalpine origins. 68 As a contemplative Order, the Carthusians emphasised a solitary life and private meditation, with a great part of their meditations focused on the Passion. Similarly, followers of the devotio moderna advocated a life of mystical spirituality and self-abne-

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gation where meditating on Christ’s suffering was paramount. From Deventer, Geert Groote (1340-84), founder of the Brethren of Common Life,69 came in contact with Henry Æger of Calcar, when they were both students at the Sorbonne. Henry Æger later became prior of the Carthusian monastery at Munnikhuizen near Arnheim. From c. 1370 Groote spent three years in the monastery although he did not become a member of the Order. It is likely, therefore, that aspects of the devotio moderna came from Carthusian practices. The Carthusians, one of the most severe monastic orders, never had a reform. As their coat of arms and motto indicated, the cross was central to the Carthusian spiritual life: Stat crux dum volvitur orbis.70 The well-known manual on contemplation written by Guigo II (died probably in 1188) points to four steps on the Scala Claustralium (ladder of monks) central to Carthusian monastic life: lectio, meditatio, oratio and contemplatio.71 In Bergognone’s painting, all four steps are vividly expressed. Lectio is illustrated by the book in the pocket of the monk in the front, emphasising the daily spiritual reading of the monks. In pious procession, they follow Christ while meditating (meditatio) on his image and contemplating (contemplatio) his sacrifice. Oratio is rendered also, especially by the monk with his hands joined in prayer but also by the monk with his hands crossed on his chest. The many years that Bergognone spent in the Carthusian environment are likely to have brought him an understanding of Carthusian devotional life. The monks’ gestures and expressive faces are transfixed on the suffering Christ, urged on by the words on the scroll to follow in his footsteps. The picture’s sentiment places its meaning firmly within the Carthusian experience. In Carthusian literature, the monks are called on to imagine scenes related to their meditations. In the Vita Christi written by the Carthusian, Ludolph of Saxony c. 1340, a meditation on Matthew 16:24 invites the reader to tollam crucem meam (take up my cross).72 Ludolph’s

writings had a special meaning for the monks in Pavia and there were several copies of the Vita Christi in the monastery library.73 The devotional attitude of the monks in Bergognone’s painting seems to recall Ludolph’s reflections on Matthew 16:24, ‘renouncing my will, obey Thee’, and ‘grant me, by imitating thee, to follow Thee’, as they embrace the image of the suffering Christ. Like Ludolph’s meditations in the Vita Christi on Matthew 16:24, Bergognone’s picture would function as a devotional aid for the monks. As Otto von Simson has noted, the Carthusians had a special gift ‘for translating theological thought into sensuous, realistically vivid imagery’.74 When we see how Bergognone was able to visualise a compassionate image of Christ and his followers, it seems likely that he was familiar with Carthusian practice and literature, and possibly the writings of Guigo II and Ludolph of Saxony. In Pavia, Bergognone came into an international environment with transalpine cultural exchanges, particularly through its university but also through the Certosa which had links with the North through the Order’s early foundation there and the memory of St Bruno. The Carthusian environment of private meditation and self-denial would have had a profound effect on Bergognone, given that he spent several years there. By adjusting his technique in the Christ Carrying the Cross, with a softened modelling and use of oil painting to achieve naturalistic effects, as well as introducing an expressive spatial organisation and other Northern iconographic details, Bergognone heightens the devotional experience for the viewer. Moreover, a greater sense of piety has been rendered by adopting Netherlandish models. What emerges then, is a striking representation that visualises the Order’s devotion to the cross and Christ’s suffering, as echoed in the biblical text, which lay at the centre of Carthusian spirituality.

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NOTES

I would like to thank Donata Vicini, Antonietta Gallone, Valentina Maderna, James Hogg, Hélène Mund, Fabrizio Tonelli, Noël Geirnaert and Gian Paolo Brizzi for their help during the preparation of this essay. 1 His first period at the Certosa was from c. 1488-94. He returned in 1514. The picture is generally thought to have been painted during the 1490s. 2

Janice Shell, ‘Bergognone: Una nuova biografia’, Ambrogio Bergognone: Acquisizioni, scoperte e restauri, ed. by Pietro C. Marani and Janice Shell (Florence, 1989) pp. 20-21; Pietro C. Marani, ‘Il giovane Bergognone fra nord e sud: 1453-1476 circa’, Ambrogio da Fossano detto il Bergognone: Un pittore per la Certosa, exh. cat. (Pavia, Castello Visconteo and Certosa di Pavia, 1998) ed. by Gianni Carlo Sciolla (Milan, 1998), p. 57. 3 It is not known whether the artist came from Milan or Fossano, as his family name suggests. See Gianni Carlo Sciolla, ‘Ambrogio da Fossano, detto il Bergognone: percorso della storiografia’, in Ambrogio da Fossano, 1998, pp. 13-23. Six signatures have been found on his works thus far. The artist seems to have begun signing his works with the cognomen Bergognone after c. 1490. We know that Angelo da Siena (Macagnino) was known as Parrasio, after the famous ancient Greek painter, Parrhasias. See Keith Christiansen, ‘The View from Italy’, in From Van Eyck to Bruegel: Early Netherlandish Painting in The Metropolitan Museum of Art, ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth and Keith Christiansen (New York, 1998), p. 48. Is it possible, in a similar manner, that Ambrogio da Fossano was nicknamed ‘Bergognone’ by his admirers because of his fiamminga style and interests, and that he later started to use the nickname himself? 4 Alexis-François Rio, De l’art chrétien, 4 vols (Paris, 18611867) 3, p.164. Rio writes that ‘Bourguignon’ does not indicate a family name but rather shows contact with a school of painting that flourished in the Burgundian territories. Giovanni Morelli also felt that the artist travelled north. Morelli wrote under the pseudonym Ivan Lermolieff, Kunstkritische Studien über Italienische Malerei. Die Galerie zu Berlin (Leipzig, 1893), pp. 133-36. The artist was referred to as ‘Borgognone’ by Marcantonio Michiel in his mention of an altarpiece in Bergamo in S. Domenico, see Der Anonimo Morelliano (Marcanton Michiel’s Notizia d’opere del disegno, ed. by Theodor Frimmel (Vienna, 1888), p. 64. Whether the artist is from Lombardy or Piedmont continues to be disputed. See Gianni Carlo Sciolla, ‘Ambrogio da Fossano’, in Ambrogio da Fossano, 1998, pp. 13-23; Franco Mazzini, Ambrogio da Fossano detto il Bergognone (Monza, 1948), pp. 16-20; Corrado Ricci, ‘La patria del Bergognone’, Bollettino d’Arte, 3 (1909), p. 252; Girolamo Luigi Calvi, Notizie sulla vita e sulle opere dei principali architetti, scultori e pittori che fiorirono in Milano (Milan, 1865), pp. 2456. 5 Gustave Gruyer, ‘Une fresque du Borgognone dans l’église de San-Simpliciano, a Milan’, Gazette des Beaux Arts, 35 (1893), pp. 484-90. For Gruyer, the name ‘Bourgogne’ was given by Italians to that northern region. 6 Jill Dunkerton and Carol Plazzotta, ‘Vincenzo Foppa’s Adoration of the Kings, in National Gallery Technical Bulletin, 22 (2001) pp. 18-26. Several authors have commented on Northern aspects of Foppa’s paintings. See Il Cinquecento lombardo. Da Leonardo a Caravaggio, ed. by Flavio Caroli (Milan, 2000), p. 64. For a discussion on Foppa’s use of greys and his

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naturalism as well as its presence in Bergognone’s landscapes, see Roberto Longhi, ‘Me pinxit’ e quesiti Caravaggeschi, 19281934 (Florence, 1968), pp. 100-07; Jolanda Poracchia, ‘I tempi stilistici del Bergognone’, Arte Lombarda, 1 (1955), pp. 76-82; Michel Laclotte, ‘Une prédelle de Borgognone’, La Revue des arts, 4 (1954), pp. 155-56. 7 Marani, ‘Il giovane Bergognone’, Ambrogio da Fossano, 1998, pp. 57-61. 8 Evelyn S. Welch, ‘New documents for Vincenzo Foppa’, Burlington Magazine 127 (1985), pp. 296-99; Evelyn S. Welch, ‘Vincenzo Foppa’, Dictionary of Art, ed. by Jane Turner, 34 vols (London and New York, 1996), 11, pp. 292-95. 9 Eugène Müntz, Histoire de l’art pendant la Renaissance, 3 vols (Paris, 1891) 2, pp. 167-68, 790-91; Mauro Natale, ‘La pittura in Lombardia nel secondo Quattrocento’, La pittura in Italia: Il Quattrocento, ed. by Federico Zeri, 2 vols (Milan, 1987) 1, p. 78. 10 J. A. Crowe and G. B. Cavalcaselle, A History of Painting in North Italy, 2 vols (London, 1871), 2, pp. 42-43. 11 Liana Castelfranchi Vegas, Italia e Fiandra nella pittura del Quattrocento (Milan, 1983), p. 259. 12 Pietro Marani and Janice Shell, ‘Novità sul Bergognone’, in Quaderno di studi sull’arte Lombarda dai Visconti agli Sforza: per gli 80 anni di Gian Alberto dell’Acqua, ed. by Maria Teresa Balboni Brizza (Milan, 1990), pp. 66-67. In a later publication, Janice Shell writes that if a northern influence exists in the work of Bergognone, it is from Provence. See ‘Bergognone (da Fossano), Ambrogio (di Stefano)’, in The Dictionary of Art, 3, p. 782. 13 Fernanda Wittgens, ’Vincenzo Foppa’, Storia di Milano, 18 vols (Milan, 1953-1996), L’Età Sforzesca dal 1450 al 1500 (1956) 7, pp. 773, 786-94. 14 Marani, ‘Il giovane Bergognone’, in Ambrogio da Fossano, 1998, pp. 58-71; Elena Parma, ‘Genoa – Gateway to the South’, The Age of Van Eyck: The Mediterranean World and Early Netherlandish Painting, 1430-1530, exh. cat. (Bruges, Groeningemuseum, 2002) ed. by Till-Holger Borchert (Ghent and Amsterdam, 2002), pp. 95-103. The Pavian artist, Donato de’ Bardi was active in Genoa between 1426 and 1450. The frame of his Crucifixion (Pinacoteca Civica, Savona) shows that he knew Jan van Eyck’s Giustiniani triptych. See Parma, ‘Genoa’, p. 98; Ambrogio da Fossano,1998, p. 88, cat. no. 1. See also Michael Rohlmann, ‘Flanders and Italy, Flanders and Florence. Early Netherlandish Painting in Italy and its Particular Influence on Florentine Art: An Overview’, in Italy and the Low Countries – Artistic Relations. The Fifteenth Century, ed. by Victor M. Schmidt et al., Symposium held at Museum Catharijneneconvent, Utrecht 14 March 1994 (Florence, 1999), pp. 39-41. 15 For the relationship between Rogier and Zanetto, see Paul Kendall and Vincent Ilardi, Dispatches with Related Documents of Milanese Ambassadors in France and Burgundy, 14501483, 3 vols (Athens, OH, 1970-1981) 2, pp. 200-02; Paul Wescher, ‘Zanetto Bugatto and Rogier van der Weyden’, Art Quarterly, 25 (1962) pp. 209-13; Mauro Lucco, ‘Burgundian Art for Italian Courts: Milan, Ferrara, Urbino’, in The Age of Van Eyck, p. 112. 16 Between 1457-58, Bonifacio Bembo frescoed rooms in the Castello di Pavia, see Evelyn S. Welch, ‘Galeazzo Maria

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Sforza and the Castello di Pavia, 1469’, Art Bulletin 71 (1989), pp. 355-62. 17 Some scholars attribute the Madonna Cagnola to Zanetto but there is still a great deal of uncertainty regarding this attribution. See Marani, ‘Il giovane Bergognone’, pp. 62-71. Castelfranchi Vegas, Italia e Fiandra, pp. 235-37; Luke Syson, ‘Zanetto Bugatto, court portraitist in Sforza Milan’, Burlington Magazine, 138 (1996), pp. 300-08; Federico Cavalieri, ‘Osservazioni ed ipotesi per le ricerche sull’arte di Zanetto da Milano, pittore degli Sforza’, Arte Lombarda, 90 (1989), pp. 67-80. 18 For the most part, in early Italian representations of Christ carrying the cross, figures are painted parallel to the picture plane. 19

Creighton Gilbert, ‘Two Composition Drawings by Bergognone’, Master Drawings, 6 (1968), pp. 12-13. 20 Anne. D. Hedeman, ‘Roger van der Weyden’s Escorial Crucifixion and Carthusian Devotional Practices’, in The Sacred Image East and West, ed. by Robert Ousterhout and Leslie Brubaker (Urbana and Chicago, 1995), pp. 193-97. Also, during the Canon the celebrant held his arms out in the form of a cross. See ‘Carthusian Rite’, ed. by L. C. Sheppard, New Catholic Encyclopedia, 2nd edition, ed. by Berard L. Marthaler et al., 15 vols (Washington, D.C., 2002), 3, pp. 189-90; Archdale A. King, Liturgies of the Religious Orders (London, 1956), pp. 1-22; Enciclopedia liturgica, ed. by René Aigrain (Alba, 1957), pp. 789-94. 21 Giampiero Borlini, ‘The Facade of the Certosa in Pavia’, Art Bulletin 45 (1963) p. 323. 22 See Borlini, ‘The Facade of the Certosa’, pp. 323-26; see also Luca Beltrami, La Certosa di Pavia (Milan, 1911), pp. VII-VIII. 23 While Bergognone was painting Christ Carrying the Cross, the Pavian sculptor and architect, Giovanni Antonio Amadeo (1447-1522) worked on the Certosa’s relief sculptures of the facade. The lower reliefs of the facade were completed during Bergognone’s first period at the Certosa. The relief sculptures are a fine example of Lombard realism, with their angular shapes and expressionism. And, as Giovanni Giacomelli Vedovello has pointed out, while Bergognone painted the Crucifixion an extraordinarily vibrant cantiere was in place that brought together such skilled artists as Amadeo, and the Mantegazza brothers. See Ambrogio da Fossano, 1998, pp. 21819, cat. no. 31. Bergognone may have also been aware of the extraordinary examples of Lombard expressionism in the wood sculpture of Master of Trognano and Giovanni Angelo Del Maino. See Maestri della scultura in legno nel ducato degli Sforza, exh. cat. (Milan, Castello Sforzesco, 2005-2006) ed. by Giovanni Romano and Claudio Salsi (Cinisello Balsamo, 2005), pp. 116-23, 182-90, 198-213. 24 Whether the triparte nimbus is an indication of Northern influence can be debated. A similar nimbus can be seen in the Resurrection by Macrino d’Alba where traces of Flemish influence, by way of Ferrarese painting, have been noted. See Edoardo Villata, ‘Presenze non lombarbe alla Certosa tra la fine del Quattrocento e gli inizi del Cinquecento’, in Ambrogio da Fossano, 1998, p. 240. 25

Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, pp. 38-40; Paula Nuttall, ‘Decorum, devotion and dramatic expression: Early Netherlandish painting in Renaissance Italy’, Decorum in Renaissance Narrative Art, ed. by Francis Ames-Lewis and Anka Bednarek (London, 1992), pp. 70-77. Bergognone has painted tears on the faces in his Crucifixion (Certosa di Pavia) but tears are even more realistically rendered in Christ Carrying the Cross. 26 The passage also appears in a similar form in Luke 9:23 and Mark 8:34.

27 Luca Beltrami, Ambrogio Fossano detto il Bergognone (Milan, 1895), p. 81; see Ambrogio da Fossano, 1998, p. 230, cat. no. 40; A. Peroni, ‘Cristo portacroce seguito da un gruppo di certosini’, Pinacoteca Malaspina (Milan, 1981), p. 109. 28 Matteo Valerio’s text is cited in Volta, 1881, p. 19: ‘Ambrosio Fossano detto Borgognone ha depinto 1 ancona che hora si troua nel coloquia doue è il Cristo che porta la croce con li Padri Certosini in processione. Hora è nella capella della Annunciata’. Zanino Volta, Circa due quadri importanti che appartennero alla Certosa di Pavia. Osservazioni e indagini, (Como, 1881), pp. 9-16. The picture is mentioned to have been also in the parlatoio and the chapel of St Veronica. For a discussion of the painting’s recovery and questions of attribution see also Ambrogio da Fossano, 1998, p. 230, cat. no. 40. 29 Maria Grazia Albertini Ottolenghi, ‘L’Architettura’, La Certosa di Pavia (Milan, 1968), pp. 26-30. In 1370, Pope Urban V gave the church to the Carthusians. Santa Croce in Gerusalemme was dedicated to the discovery of the True Cross and the Passion relics. The church was restored under Bernardino Lopez de Carvajal when he was titular cardinal (1495-1523). However, he is most remembered for being excommunicated by Julius II for his schismatical role in the Council of Pisa (1511). He was reinstated by Leo X (1513); Kenneth M. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant, 1204-1571. Memoirs of the American Philosophical Society, 4 vols (Philadelphia, 1976-1984), 3, pp. 92, 146, note 17, 149. 30 For a study on earlier Passion images see: Anne Derbes, Picturing the Passion in Late Medieval Italy (Cambridge and New York, 1996); James H. Marrow, Passion Iconography in Northern European Art of the Late Middle Ages and Early Renaissance. A Study of the Transformation of Sacred Metaphor into Descriptive Narrative, (Kortrijk, 1979). 31 See Livelier than Life. The Master of the Amsterdam Cabinet or the Housebook Master ca. 1470-1500, exh. cat. (Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, 1985) ed. by J. P. Filedt Kok (Amsterdam. 1985), p. 264-69. The deep folds in Christ’s garment and his facial expression in Bergognone’s panel are reminiscent of Martin Schongauer’s The ‘large’ Bearing of the Cross (Rijksprentenkabinet, Amsterdam); Livelier than Life, pp. 106-07. The Passion motif of Christ with followers, monks among others, was popular in drawings, woodcuts and miniatures. See F. O. Büttner, Imitatio Pietatis: Motive der christlichen Ikonographie als Modelle zur Verähnlichung (Berlin, 1983), pp. 56-62. 32 See Early Netherlandish Drawings from Jan van Eyck to Hieronymous Bosch, exh. cat. (Antwerp, Rubenshuis, 2002), ed. by Fritz Koreny (Antwerp, 2002), pp. 56-60. 33 For a study of possible references in the altarpiece to St Catherine of Siena, see Barbara Fabjan, ‘Spunti cateriniani sullo sfondo della Crocifissione di Bergognone per la Certosa?’, Arte Lombarda del secondo millennio. Saggi in onore di Gian Alberto Dell’Acqua, ed. by Francesca Flores d’Arcais, Mariolina Olivari and Luisa Tognoli Bardin (Milan, 2000), pp. 132-34; Mazzini, Ambrogio da Fossano, 1948, pp. 28-29, 42-43. For a study of the impact of the style of Bramante on Bergognone’s Crucifixion and other works, see Roberta Battaglia, ‘La decorazione della Certosa pavese nei primi anni Novanta del Quattrocento: una linea bramantesca’, Annali di storia pavese, 25 (1997), pp. 117-32. 34 Scholars have pondered Bergognone’s outsized heads of angels in several altarpieces, notably in the 1490 Crucifixion and the Ambrosiana Sacra Conversazione. It is possible that the artist wished to reveal the facial expressions of the angels more clearly. There are traces of somewhat large heads in Foppa, for example in the Madonna and Child with Angels from a private collection, illustrated in Ambrogio da Fossano, 1998, p. 107. 35 Light streams in from the right in the Crucifixion and the St Siro Altarpiece. Both altarpieces were situated in chapels to the right of the central nave of the monastery church. Illumination comes from the left in the Christ Carrying the Cross

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and in the St Ambrose Altarpiece, which hung in a chapel on the left of the nave. Given the artist’s dedication to realism, tentatively one can propose that the lighting from the left in Christ Carrying the Cross may indicate the side of the church for which the painting was originally intended. 36

The earlier poor state of the painting has been reported on by several authors. See Volta, 1881, pp. 23-28. According to Zanino Volta, when he saw the painting in 1879, it measured 160 x 120 cm, and the wood support consisted of three vertical panels. See also, R. Maiocchi, I migliori dipinti di Pavia (Pavia, 1903), pp. 44-46; Luca Beltrami noted that the painting was transferred to canvas in 1886. See Beltrami, Ambrogio da Fossano, 1895, pp. 81-82. 37

Antonietta Gallone, ‘L’analisi della materia pittorica in alcuni dipinti del Bergognone’, Studi di storia dell’arte in onore di Maria Luisa Gatti Perer, ed. by Marco Rossi and Alessandro Rovetta (Milan, 1999), pp. 93-97, esp. pp. 96-97. The artist also used glazes in the Lodi Presentation in the Temple and in the Melegnano Baptism of Christ. I am grateful to Antonietta Gallone for discussing the artist’s technique with me and sharing her results. 38 Tempera and oil is also identified in the St Siro altarpiece. See Pietro C. Marani, ‘Quattro schede di restauro per Ambrogio Bergognone’, in Arte Lombarda del secondo millennio, pp. 119-31. Antonietta Gallone has identified a medium containing egg and drying oil in the St Ambrose Altarpiece, the Crucifixion, the Lodi Presentation in the Temple, and the Melegnano Baptism of Christ. See Gallone, ‘ L’analisi della materia pittorica...’, pp. 93-95. She observed also that in the Bergognone paintings she studied, all had a thin imprimatura of biacca above the gesso ground which functioned to waterproof the layer and enhance luminosity whenever translucent brushstrokes cover it. She added that above the intonaco in Leonardo’s Last Supper a layer of biacca was applied directly on the calcium carbonate ground. Gallone, ‘L’analisi della materia pittorica’, p. 94, note 3. 39

Antonietta Gallone writes that the ground for the Crucifixion and the St Ambrose Altarpiece is the traditional gesso and animal glue. Some ten years later in the Presentation in the Temple, an unexpected double-layered ground is seen where calcium carbonate has been used as in Flemish paintings. See, Gallone, ‘L’analisi della materia pittorica’, pp. 93-94. 40 Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, pp. 161-91. Perugino’s technique at the Certosa was fundamentally Netherlandish, according to scientific analysis of panels for the altarpiece he painted there. See: Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, p. 172; David Bomford, ‘Three panels from Perugino’s Certosa di Pavia altarpiece (National Gallery, London): a technical summary’, Perugino, Lippi e la bottega di San Marco alla Certosa di Pavia, 1495-1511, exh. cat. (Milan, Pinacoteca Brera, 1986) ed. by Barbara Fabjan (Florence, 1986), pp. 86-89; Ashok Roy, ‘Perugino’s Certosa di Pavia Altarpiece: New Technical Perspectives’, The Painting Technique of Pietro Vannucci called Il Perugino, ed. by Brunetto Giovanni Brunetti et al (Florence, 2004), pp. 13-20. Ultramarine in oil, when painted thickly can deteriorate and many pictures of this period have this problem. This is not the case, however, in Bergognone’s The Virgin and Child with Sts Catherine of Alexandria and Catherine of Siena (National Gallery, London) for the Certosa dated c. 1490 where the ultramarine in oil for the Virgin’s robe has survived well. Similarly, the blue drapery of St. Raphael in Perugino’s altarpiece for the Certosa is not damaged. See Roy, ‘Perugino’s Certosa di Pavia Altarpiece’, pp. 18-20. 41 There are ten monks following Christ but the face of the monk on the right edge of the picture is not always visible in reproductions of the painting. That the tenth monk’s face is hardly visible suggests that the panel was trimmed at some earlier stage. 42 H. J. J. Scholtens, ‘Petrus Cristus en zijn portret van een kartuizer’, Oud Holland, 75 (1960), pp. 66-71; Petrus Christus.

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Renaissance Master of Bruges, exh. cat. (New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1994), ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth with contributions by Maximiliaan P. J. Martens, (New York, 1994), cat. no. 5, pp. 93-95. 43

Volta, Circa due quadri, p. 24.

44

Nadia Righi, ‘Une hypothèse pour la reconstitution d’un retable du peintre Lombard Ambrogio Bergognone (v.14531523)’, Revue du Louvre, no. 2 (1998), pp. 33-36. 45 Maria Grazia Albertini Ottolenghi, ‘Il Bergognone alla Certosa e le ancone quattrocentesche’, Ambrogio da Fossano, 1998, pp. 178-81. 46 Edoardo Villata, ‘Presenze non lombarde alla Certosa’, pp. 233-38; David Bomford and Nicholas Turner, ‘Perugino’s Underdrawing in the Virgin and Child Adored by an Angel from the Certosa di Pavia Altarpiece’, in Perugino, Lippi e la bottega di San Marco, p. 49. 47 Ludovico Borgo, ‘Fra Bartolommeo, Albertinelli and the Pietà for the Certosa of Pavia’, Burlington Magazine, 108 (1966), pp. 463-69. 48 Barbara Fabjan, ‘Ancone quattocentesche per gli altari della Certosa di Pavia’, Certose e Certosini in Europa. Atti del convegno alla Certosa di San Lorenzo, Padulla 22, 23, 24 settembre, 1988. 2 vols (Naples, 1990), 2, p. 298. Books travelled from Pavia to Florence. For example, fifteen volumes of printed books were acquired in Milan by the procurator of the Certosa di Pavia, Hugo Chacharani in 1483 and sent to Florence. Also, a beautiful Bible is mentioned that was purchased by the certosino Ambroso in Pavia. The document is published in Caterina Chiarelli, Le attività artistiche e il patrimonio librario della Certosa di Firenze, 2 vols. Analecta Cartusiana, ed. by James Hogg 102 (Salzburg, 1984), 2, p. 312. 49

Fernanda Wittgens, ‘I discepoli’, p. 786.

50

Gilbert, ‘Two Composition Drawings’, pp. 14-16

51

Agostino Sottili, Documenti per la storia dell’Università di Pavia nella seconda metà del 400, I (1450-1455) (Bologna, 1994); Agostino Sottili and Paolo Rosso, Documenti per la storia dell’Università di Pavia nella seconda metà del 400, II (1456-1460) (Bologna, 2002); Agostino Sottili, ‘L’Università di Pavia nella politica culturale sforzesca’, Università e cultura. Studi sui rapporti italo-tedeschi nell’età dell’Umanesimo (Goldbach, 1993), pp. 99-160. 52 The largest of the nationes or ‘nations’ was the natio ultramontana which was divided into two nations, Francorum and Alemannorum. See Agostino Sottili, ‘Tunc floruit Alamannorum natio: Doktorate deutscher Studenten in Pavia in der zweiten Hälfte des 15.Jahrhunderts’, in Università e cultura, pp. 7173; Ad Tervoort, The iter italicum and the Northern Netherlands: Dutch Students at Italian Universities and Their Role in the Netherlands’ Society (1426-1575) (Leiden and Boston, 2005), pp. 50-53, 77. 53 Johannes de Espach was to receive his doctorate freely without expenses for him. See Agostino Sottili, ‘L’università di Pavia nella politica culturale Sforzesca’, in Università e cultura (Goldbach, 1993), pp. 99-103. This is an example of ducal involvement for political gains in university affairs. 54

Tervoort, The iter italicum, pp. 85-93.

55

Ad Tervoort, The iter italicum, p. 71. In 1475 Agricola went to Ferrara where he studied the arts and Greek which he later taught. He became a friend of Ercole d’Este. 56 Agostino Sottili, ‘L’orazione di Rudolf Agricola per Paul de Baenst rettore dell’Università giurista Pavese: Pavia 10 Agosto 1473’, Ut granum sinapis. Essays on Neo-Latin Literature in Honour of Jozef Ijsewijn, ed. by Gilbert Tournoy and Dirk Sacré (Leuven, 1997), pp. 87-130. I thank Noël Geirnaert for bringing this reference to my attention.

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57 Agostino Sottili, Lauree Pavesi nella seconda metà del ’400, I (1450-1475), (Bologna, 1995), pp. 330-32. 58 Noël Geirnaert, ‘Bruges and European Intellectual Life in the Middle Ages’, Bruges and Europe, ed. by Valentin Vermeersch (Antwerp, 1992), pp. 239-40. 59 Noël Geirnaert, ‘Adornes, Jan, geestelijke uit Brugs patriciërs-geslacht’, Nationaal Biografisch Woordenboek, 16 vols (Brussels, 1987),12, columns 15-17. I am grateful to Noël Geirnaert for this reference. See also, Geirnaert, ‘Bruges and European Intellectual Life’, pp. 235-36. The Adornes family was particularly fond of the Carthusians. See André Vandewalle and Noël Geirnaert, ‘Bruges and Italy’, in Bruges and Europe, p. 202. 60

Geirnaert, ‘Bruges and European Intellectual Life’, p.

239. 61At least one of the Carthusian monks came from the Netherlands. In 1465 Ludovicus de Hollandia is documented at the election of Filippino [Rancate] da Rosate as prior of the monastery. Archivio di Stato di Milano, Autografi, b. 6. fasc. 26. I am grateful to Fabrizio Tonelli for this reference. 62

The often-quoted remark by Erasmus on the Certosa’s opulence reflected the contradiction in the eyes of some. ‘How much sense is there’, demanded Erasmus, ‘in squandering so much money in order that a few lone monks may chant in a marble church, which is to them more of a burden than a benefit in view of the inundation of tourists who come to gape at a church of white stone?’ Quoted in Roland H. Bainton, Erasmus of Christendom (New York, 1969), p. 80. 63 Charles M. Rosenberg, ‘“Per il bene di [...] nostra cipta”: Borso d’Este and the Certosa of Ferrara’, Renaissance Quarterly, 29 (1976), pp. 329-35. 64 For a study on the Order’s monastic buildings, see JeanPierre Aniel, Les maisons de Chartreux: Des origines à la Chartreuse de Pavie, Bibliothèque de la Société Française d’Archéologie, 16 (Geneva, 1983). On the Carthusians in Italy, see Bernard Bligny, ‘Les fondations cartusiennes d’Italie’, Monasteri in alta Italia dopo le invasioni saracene e magiare, sec. X-XII. Relazioni e comunicazioni presentate al XXXII congresso storico subalpino, Pinerolo 6-9 September, 1964 (Turin, 1966), pp. 34-51. 65

Barbara Fabjan, ‘Ancone quattrocentesche’, pp. 297-98.

66

Domenico Fava, ‘La biblioteca della Certosa di Pavia’, in Ai soci dell’Atene e Roma. 3. Convegno nazionale 21-24 aprile 1908, la Biblioteca Nazionale di Brera (Milan, 1908), pp. 31-40. The library at the Certosa di Pavia was modelled on the one at the Grande Chartreuse in Grenoble. See Luciano Gargan, L’antica biblioteca della Certosa di Pavia (Rome, 1998). A richly-illuminated manuscript in a two-volume set of Jacobus de Voragine’s Legenda aurea was in the library during the Quattrocento and was probably commissioned by the monks. See Gargan, L’ antica biblioteca, p. 20. See above, footnote 48. 67

See below, footnote 73.

68

There are images of St Bruno on reliefs in the monastery church and scenes from his life on the main portal. 69 For the history of the movement see, R. R. Post, The Modern Devotion: Confrontation with Reformation and Humanism (Leiden, 1968); Albert Hyma, The Christian Renaissance: A History of the ‘Devotio Moderna’ (Hamden, CT, 1965), pp. 9-40, 70 A large cross or Crucifixion image was usually placed in the cloister, see Ignacio L. Moreno, ‘Pontormo’s Passion Cycle at the Certosa del Galluzzo’, Art Bulletin, 63 (1981), 308-12; King, Liturgies, p. 2. 71

See ‘Carthusian Rite’, ed. by L. C. Sheppard, New Catholic Encyclopedia, 2nd edition, ed. by Bernard L. Marthaler et al., 15 vols (Washington, D.C., 2002) 3, pp. 189-95.

72 ‘De exhortatione ad sequendum Christum, et suae passionis exemplum. Domine Jesu Christe, da mihi ut meipsum sic abnegem, quod in prosperitate et in omnibus quae temporaliter delectant a malo declinem et nihil nisi honorem tuum quaeram; meaeque voluntati renuntians, tibi et propter te omni creaturae obediam. Da etiam mihi, ut tollam crucem meam, afflictiones et poenalitates per me voluntarie assumendo, et ab aliis illatas patienter sustinendo, ac proximis in necessitatibus compatiendo, et in omni adversitate bonum facere non desistendo. Da etiam mihi, ut te sequar, vestigia tua imitando; et tuae vitae me conformando, post te veniam ad supernam patriam pertingendo. Amen.’ (‘The Exhortation to Follow Christ, the Example of His Suffering. Lord Jesus Christ, grant that in the denial of self, in success and in all temporal pleasures, I turn away from evil and seek nought save thine honor; and, renouncing my will, obey thee and for thy sake every creature. Suffer me likewise to take up my cross (Matt. 16:24) by voluntarily taking upon myself hardships and penances, by patiently bearing those imposed by others, by helping my neighbors in their needs, and by not ceasing to do good in the face of any adversity. Moreover, grant me, by imitating thee, to follow thee and, by conforming myself to thy life, to come in the end to the heavenly fatherland by attaining thee. Amen.’). Sister Mary Immaculate Bodenstedt, S.N.D., Praying the Life of Christ. First English Translation of the Prayers Concluding the 181 Chapters of the Vita Christi of Ludolphus the Carthusian: The Quintessence of His Devout Meditations on the Life of Christ, Analecta Cartusiana, 15, ed. by James Hogg (Salzburg, 1973), Part II, 2, pp. 95-96. 73 Barbara Fabjan, ‘“Ubi amor, ibi oculus”: opere d’arte per le Certose’, in Ambrogio da Fossano 1998, p. 43, n. 13. Luciano Gargan points out that a two-volume edition of the Vita Christi was in the Certosa library during the fifteenth century, see Luciano Gargan, L’antica biblioteca della Certosa di Pavia (Rome, 1998), pp. 31-32, 80-84. The Imitation of Christ, most likely written by Thomas à Kempis, exemplified the teachings of the devotio moderna, and was also popular among the Carthusians. One copy was in the Certosa library. See Gargan, 1998, p. 79. In Book 2, Chapter 12 of the Imitation of Christ, ‘On the Royal Road of the Holy Cross’, the devotional prayer also invites the reader to reflect on Matthew 16:24: ‘Take up the Cross, therefore, and follow Jesus [...] Christ has gone before you, bearing His Cross [...] There is no other way to life and to true inner peace, than the way of the Cross, and of daily self-denial’. Thomas à Kempis. The Imitation of Christ, trans. by Leo Sherley-Price (London, 1952), pp. 84-85; Hyma, The Christian Renaissance, pp. 158-89. Evidence of the importance of the Imitation of Christ for Carthusians is shown by the fact that the German prior, Georg Pirkhamer, edited an early edition in Nuremberg and had it printed in 1494. See Colin Eisler, ‘The Golden Christ of Cortona and the Man of Sorrows in Italy: Part Two’, Art Bulletin, 51 (1969), p. 244. The realistic rendering of emotions in devotional paintings from the North may be associated with the devotio moderna. Bernard Aikema and Beverly Louise Brown, ‘Painting in FifteenthCentury Venice and the ars nova of the Netherlands’, in Renaissance Venice and the North: Crosscurrents in the Time of Bellini, Dürer, and Titian, exh. cat. (Venice, Palazzo Grassi, 1999-2000) ed. by Bernard Aikema and Beverly Louise Brown (Venice, 1999), p. 183. For studies on the devotio moderna in Italy, see: Massimo Petrocchi, Una ‘Devotio Moderna’ nel Quattrocento italiano? (Florence, 1961); Giorgio Picasso, ‘L’imitazione di Cristo nell’epoca della “Devotio Moderna” e nella spiritualità monastica del sec. XV in Italia’, Rivista di storia e letteratura religio, 4/1 (1968), pp. 11-32; Paul Grendler, Schooling in Renaissance Italy: Literacy and Learning, 1300-1600 (Baltimore and London, 1989), pp. 287-89. 74 Otto G. von Simson, ‘Compassio and Co-redemptio in Roger van der Weyden’s Descent from the Cross’, Art Bulletin, 35 (1953), p. 14.

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Critical Mass: Importing Luxury Industries Across the Alps Marina Belozerskaya Santa Monica, California

Tapestries and armour constituted vital components of artistic and cultural exchanges between northern and southern Europe in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and formed part of an ongoing international trade in luxury arts.1 They were luxuries because, though crucial to the expression of status and power by elites across Europe, they were not indispensable to the daily lives of the majority of the population. Their production was, therefore, circumscribed in terms of both quantities and centres of manufacture. This essay will examine why tapestries and armour of the highest quality could only be created by craftsmen in a few specific locations; and why the pre-eminence of these manufacturing sites was not bested elsewhere. Tapestries Today we tend to regard tapestries as ‘decorative’ or ‘minor’ artworks, far less interesting and important than paintings. In the Renaissance, however, they were supreme markers of authority, learning, and taste.2 It is not coincidental that tapestries framed rulers on every important occasion – as they do Jean du Berry during his January feast in his Très Riches Heures (Plate 6) – be it a splendid banquet, a diplomatic reception, a wedding, a festive procession, a solemn entry into a subject town, or some other major event. Through their dazzling visual richness and carefully selected iconography, tapestries defined the spaces of power. Therefore politically significant themes were expressed, whenever possible, in this medium. The Burgundian Duke Philip the Good, for example, likened himself to the biblical hero Gideon, the patron of his chivalric Order of the Golden Fleece, through an eight-piece tapestry ensemble. Philip commissioned the cartoons for this set from Bau-

douin de Bailleul of Arras and passed them on to be rendered into textiles by Robert Dary and Jehan de l’Ortie of Tournai in 1449.3 The tapestries were composed of Venetian gold and silver threads, and the finest silks. They measured ninety-eight metres in length, took four years to complete, and cost a vast sum of 8,960 ecus d’or. In order to ensure the exclusivity of the ensemble, Philip purchased the cartoons from the weavers for an additional 300 ecus d’or.4 The Story of Gideon tapestries became the most opulent tapestry cycle of the period and the single most expensive non-architectural ducal commission. Philip drew on Judges 6-8 for the narrative depicted in these weavings and for the analogy between Gideon and himself. Gideon’s assembly of a select army of Israelites to overthrow their Midianite oppressors echoed Philip’s efforts to marshal Christian nobility to combat the Turks. Gideon’s restoration of religion and wise government were meant to be seen as recurring under the aegis of Philip the Good. Through the exhibition of his Gideon tapestries, the Burgundian duke cast himself as a model knight, perfect prince, and a defender of the Christian Church against the infidels. His efforts and message were not lost on his contemporaries. Prospero da Camogli, a diplomat in the Sforza service, lauded these tapestries, along with other facets of ducal splendour, in a letter to his master. Reporting on 9 May 1461 on the meeting of the Order of the Golden Fleece held at the Abbey of St Bertin at St Omer, Camogli described how Philip used the tapestries to frame himself: The banquet hall [...] was completely hung with tapestries of cloth of gold […] marvellous works depicting the whole story of how the golden fleece was sent down from heaven to Gideon as a sign that he was to undertake the salvation of the people of Israel. Behind the dais where sat the princes were

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silken hangings and other adornments of gold. Opposite was a display of plate, very rich and all of vessels of gold and silver-gilt, four unicorn horns arranged in order of size like organ pipes, and many vessels of crystal and of other precious stones. This plate remained untouched that day because so much of it does the Duke have that there was plenty of additional plate for the dinner service. […] Considering then the nature of this Order of the Golden Fleece and the honour and prestige that it confers, I confess to have within me a strong desire for Count Galeazzo to be elected to it.5 The Gideon tapestries clearly formed a crucial part of ducal authority and dignity. Nor did they lose their impact with Philip’s death. In 1468 an anonymous member of the English delegation attending the wedding of Charles the Bold and Margaret of York admired the Story of Gideon exhibited by Philip’s son: On bothe sidis the halle tables on stages, the costers [walls] of the said halle of riche arras: marvelous in my mynd the curyous makyng that is in the forsaid arras, and is of auncien ystory of the Bible of ffamous Gedeon, that by the angelle of God was commaundid the flees and display hit in baners, and he aunswererd the angelle and said: ‘Thou maiste be a spirite of the [...] and nott an angelle, and maiste cause me to offende God. Yeve it be soo that thes fflees that show haste takyn to me, wol nott receyve water in tyme of rayne, I wol beleve that thow art an angelle of God,’ and it fortunyd in shorte tyme aftur there fele grett rayne, and the ffleeses receyved no water, butt in grett droughthis it was moyste, wherethrough the said Gedione trustid that it was the wille of God, that he shuld rule the people, as more opynly is shewed in the Bible.6 Thirty years later the Gideon tapestries framed the baptism of Eleonore, daughter of Philip the Fair (grandson of Charles the Bold), held in Brussels in 1498. And in 1555 they solemnised the ceremony at the Brussels Palace during which the Emperor Charles V (Eleonore’s brother) abdicated in favour of his son, Philip II.7 Charles V was keenly aware of the potency of tapestries as tools of propaganda, and cele162

brated his major military campaigns in this medium: notably his victory over King Francis I at Pavia, and his war in Tunis. Charles had embarked on the latter expedition in 1535 to crush the Berber corsair Kheir-ed-Din, better known as Barbarossa. This pirate had been menacing the coasts of the Mediterranean and disrupting Christian shipping for six years, pillaging cities, killing their inhabitants, or enslaving them to serve on his galleys – a particularly dreaded fate of ‘death in life.’ In 1534 Barbarossa became admiral to the Turkish Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent, and in August of that year he captured Tunis, a strategic north African stronghold close to Sicily, the bread basket of Europe.8 Charles V decided to wage war on Barbarossa not only to safeguard Mediterranean commerce, but also to carry on his family’s tradition of crusading against the infidels. The campaign lasted about two months, and the emperor did capture Tunis. Yet the expedition turned out to be less than glorious or successful. The gates of Tunis had been opened to the Imperial troops by Christian slaves who had escaped from prison, and the bloody sack of the city that Charles ordered nonetheless was unnecessary. Barbarossa eluded capture, continued his raids, and became even stronger than before. Still, Charles’s reputation was vastly enhanced by his leadership of this crusade, and he augmented it further, and counterbalanced the actual political failure of the war, by ordering a magnificent textile account of the campaign. The eleven-piece Capture of Tunis ensemble was intended to be an official chronicle, written in thread. Its overall scheme, as well as the choice of which events to highlight and which to omit, was formulated by Alonso de Santa Cruz, Charles’s cosmographer and historian who drew on several eye-witness accounts in crafting a most lucid and suitable record.9 The profusion of detail – the carefully observed topography, diverse military engagements, plight of civilians and individuals both famous and anonymous – gave the tapestries the semblance of veracity. The large scale of each panel and the unfolding of minutely delineated action from one tapestry to the next created a kind of moving picture, with a captivating opening, mounting drama, and edifying resolution. Given the importance of the Capture of Tunis in crafting the emperor’s image, the process of its manufacture was well documented.10 To

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begin with, Charles commissioned the painter Jan Cornelisz Vermeyen to produce the cartoons for the ensemble. Vermeyen had accompanied the emperor to Tunis to record the campaign pictorially, so he was able to use his battlefield sketches to design the weavings. The scale of the set and its significance were so great that Vermeyen and his assistants spent four years working almost exclusively on the cartoons that measured more than five metres in width and seven-and-a-half to twelve-and-ahalf metres in length. As soon as Vermeyen completed each pattern, he passed it to Willem de Pannemaker – the most prominent tapestry entrepreneur of the time, living in Brussels – who turned the drawings into splendid weavings. De Pannemaker was instructed to use the best and brightest yarns, and the number of silk, silver, and gold threads he was to employ in various parts of the compositions was carefully specified.11 Altogether, 559 pounds of silk in sixty-three different colours, seven kinds of gold threads, and three kinds of silver went into the production of the ensemble, amounting to 800 pounds in weight and costing 8,500 Flemish pounds – an enormous sum. Charles was kept away from Brussels by diverse obligations, but he remained keenly interest in the progress of the work. His sister, Mary of Hungary, the regent of the Netherlands and overseer of numerous Imperial artistic undertakings, took full charge of the project.12 She supervised Vermeyen as he drew the cartoons and de Pannemaker as he transformed them into tapestries. She instructed de Pannemaker to engage seven craftsmen on each tapestry from dawn to dusk, rather than the five who would usually be employed on a weaving of that size, so as to advance the project faster. Mary also oversaw the ordering and delivery of necessary supplies, inspected completed hangings, and corrected mistakes. She kept a careful eye on the Spanish captions in the borders of the tapestries and requested amendments to the woven text when Flemish weavers, unfamiliar with the language, introduced errors.13 And she raised the huge sums necessary to underwrite the lavish ensemble which, including cartoons, tapestries, and inspection of the finished weavings by judges, cost some 27,000 Flemish pounds – at a time when the emperor was virtually bankrupt from years of war. The continued importance of the

ensemble to the image of the Habsburg dynasty is evident from the fact that Philip II displayed the Capture of Tunis during his wedding to Mary, Queen of England in 1554. It is not coincidental that Philip the Good and Charles V turned to masters from Arras, Tournai, and Brussels when they needed the most magnificent and significant tapestries. What made the best weavings so resonant was their ability to convey in mere thread highly detailed stories with vivid narratives, and a sense of being there. This was the result of superb skill of Netherlandish weavers gained through generations of practising this craft. The tapestry industry of Arras, Tournai, and Brussels – the primary manufacturing centres of high quality tapestries in Renaissance Europe – were never supplanted by establishments set up in other regions because these did not have a long history of the craft and were not able to consistently produce equally impressive weavings. The creation of tapestry is a complex and labour-intensive endeavour. It requires a loom on which the warp threads are affixed between two beams, and a profusion of bobbins with coloured weft threads wound around them. There are two kinds of looms. A high-warp or upright loom has warp threads stretched vertically between the top and the bottom beam. The craftsmen sit at the lower beam and weave the design from the back of the tapestry, turning around constantly to consult the cartoon hung behind their backs. A low-warp or horizontal loom has warp threads stretched horizontally between the front and the back beam, as we can see in the tapestry depicting Penelope weaving (Fig. 1). In working on the lowwarp loom the weavers bend over the surface before them, also working on the back of the tapestry, while the cartoon lies underneath the warp threads. In both cases, the design is created by passing bobbins with the coloured weft threads between alternate warp ones, building up the details of a given composition pass by pass. Because only one weaver can work on a segment of the tapestry immediately before him, it takes several craftsmen, sitting side by side, to create a single hanging. Each person has to be skilled not only in weaving the fabric of the tapestry, but also in translating the cartoon into a legible composition in thread, with all the elements carefully rendered and adding up to a coherent and vivid whole. And all this has

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Fig. 1. Penelope at Her Loom, detail of The Story of Penelope and the Story of the Cimbri Women, from the series The Stories of Virtuous Women.Tapestry. French or FrancoFlemish c. 1480-83. Wool. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Maria Antoinette Evans Fund, inv. 26.54. Photo © 2007 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

to be accomplished while working on the back of the tapestry and fashioning it sideways, since Renaissance weavers executed the long, narrow hangings from end to end, rather than from bottom to top. In addition to weavers, other skilled craftsmen were necessary for the success of a tapestry: those who spun and dyed the wool and silk threads (the former used on cheaper weavings, the latter on the high-end ones) with vegetable substances fixed to the fibres with mordants; and others who manufactured silver and gold threads by wrapping flat wires of metal around a silk core. In one sense, the production of tapestries was actually a cosmopolitan venture because the constituent parts of weavings were supplied by different areas of the world. Gold and silver threads were a speciality of Venice. Much of the silk was 164

provided by the Tuscans. Wool came from England and Spain. And many dyes were exported by Turkey. But the conversion of these components into splendid weavings was the unsurpassed specialty of the southern Netherlands. The region’s expertise in textile crafts was long-standing. In the fourteenth century, Netherlandish towns grew rich by making high-quality cloth, which was prized throughout the world. When, as a result of English competition in the fifteenth century, this sector of domestic economy declined, Netherlandish weavers shifted their skills at spinning, weaving, and finishing textiles to alternative products, notably tapestry.14 In the course of the fifteenth century, guilds of tapestry weavers became established in at least ten towns of Flanders and Brabant, and membership of these guilds grew rapidly. Arras, Tournai, and Brussels became the greatest centres of tapestry manufacture. Between 1423 and 1467 – the span of Philip the Good’s reign – some sixty master weavers worked in Arras; and between 1417 and 1466, the Brussels guild enrolled more than 500 weavers (not all of them masters).15 This profusion of guilds and masters was significant: it meant a large volume and high quality of production, both factors contributing to the success of Netherlandish tapestry industry as it could meet widespread international demand and maintain its reputation for excellence. Another factor that made Netherlandish tapestry industry flourish was the well-established organisation of labour. Because the manufacture of tapestries was an extremely timeconsuming process, with a single craftsman weaving about the surface of one hand per day, the creation of any given tapestry took a long time and many hands. Since many tapestries were large, measuring about five by seven to nine metres, several weavers were engaged on one hanging, working on about one metre, or the span of an arm, before them on the loom. Since tapestries often came in sets composed of multiple pieces, a series of looms, sometimes situated in different cities, were simultaneously engaged to execute a single ensemble. To make this process work, each project had to be supervised by a tapestry entrepreneur. This person made contact with customers, negotiated contracts, financed the purchase of expensive raw materials, organised the weavers, and paid their wages in the lengthy course of execution.

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Among the most successful of such entrepreneurs in the fifteenth century was Pasquier Grenier. Based in Tournai, Grenier also had warehouses in Antwerp and Bruges, and he supplied the Burgundian dukes as well as other rulers. It was Grenier who produced the magnificent eleven-piece Trojan War ensemble presented to Charles the Bold in 1472 by Bruges. Charles’s set was woven from the costliest materials and stretched to more than ninety-five metres in length and four-and-ahalf metres in height. Its splendour and efficacy in communicating the heroic stature of its owner made it one of the most soughtafter ensembles of the day.16 Grenier had retained and later willed to his sons the cartoons for these weavings, so they were able to replicate them for other rulers eager to proclaim their wealth, taste, claim to ancient ancestry, glorious attainments comparable to the deeds of legendary heroes, and parity with the illustrious Burgundian duke. Among those who ordered copies of the Trojan War set were Henry VII Tudor, Charles VIII of France, Mathias Corvinus of Hungary, king Ferdinand of Naples, and the Duke of Urbino Federigo da Montefeltro. When Francesco II Gonzaga of Mantua married Isabella d’Este in 1490, he asked to borrow Federigo’s ensemble so as to use it as a programmatic declaration about the new union and its promise.17 The reputation and success of major entrepreneurs such as Pasquier Grenier rested not only on the high quality of weavings they delivered, but also on the large stock of both tapestries and designs they possessed and could readily make available to clients all over the world.18 Another factor behind the pre-eminence of Netherlandish tapestries was the Burgundian dukes. Their numerous commissions and diplomatic disbursements of tapestries contributed, quite deliberately, to the flowering of this art form in their domains.19 By procuring tapestries from different centres, and diverse weavers and merchants, the dukes fostered widespread manufacture and maximised the quantity of weavings available for their personal use and gift-giving. The extensive and politically charged employment of opulent tapestries at the Burgundian court, in its turn, stimulated the demand for these vital expressions of sovereignty across Europe.20

Fig. 2. Detail of Bird’s-eye view plan of Antwerp, c. 1556. Anonymous woodcut after a drawing by Virgilius Boloniensis. Museum Plantin-Moretus, Stedelijk Prentenkabinet, Antwerp, inv. V. VI. 1.2.

The visual appeal and prestige of Netherlandish tapestries, their technical superiority based on the skill of local weavers – guaranteed by stringent guild regulations of materials and craftsmanship – the well-ordered labour organisation, and the profusion of entrepreneurs and masters in the region, all made Netherlandish weavings pre-eminent. Discriminating patrons from all over purchased these indispensable artefacts of distinction in Arras, Brussels, Tournai, as well as at the fairs and markets of Antwerp and Bruges. Such was the continued demand for these luxury creations that, in the early 1550s, the property developer and speculator Gilbert van Schoonbeke erected a specially designated Tapissierspand, or tapestry market hall in Antwerp, depicted in a bird’s eye woodcut view of the city made c. 1556 (Fig. 2). The pand was a rectangular building eighty metres long by thirty-seven metres wide, with four pointed gables and three aisles almost six-anda-half metres high that allowed hangings to be displayed to full advantage (Fig 2). This venture reflected the booming business in Netherlandish weavings.21

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Fig. 3. History of Alexander the Great tapestry. Woven in the workshop of Pasquier Grenier, c. 1459. Palazzo Doria Pamphilj, Rome. Photo © Arti Doria Pamphilij s.r.l.

Given the importance of tapestries to any self-respecting ruler in this era, the expenditure on this facet of princely display consumed a lot of capital. So a number of foreign princes tried to establish domestic manufacture in order to curtail such costs and to gain greater control over the supply of tapestries to their courts. In the fifteenth century the d’Este rulers of Ferrara, the Sforza of Milan, the Gonzaga of Mantua, and Federigo da Montefeltro imported Netherlandish weavers to set up local workshops.22 It does not mean that they stopped buying tapestries in the Netherlands – these were too good, too impressive, too much admired to give up entirely. Thus Francesco Sforza requested in 1459 that Pasquier Grenier’s son and nephew, Guillaume and Melchior, bring to him from Tournai a group of weavings, including a version of the Story of Alexander first produced for Philip the Good (Fig. 3) and later also ordered by King Edward IV, who further acquired a four-piece History of Nebuchadnezzar, a six-part Passion series, and other Netherlandish weavings besides.23 But the Sforza also recruited Netherlandish weavers to establish tapestry production in Milan. By 1454 a number of weavers from Arras, including Jean Leureux and Jean de Croxetis, were working in the city. As is bound to happen in any small community, intrigue, rivalry, and dissent clouded this enterprise from time to time. On 17 June 1463 Levinus Hersella de Flandria and Johannes Felicis de Picardia, two weavers 166

from Arras in the Sforza employ, wrote to duchess Bianca Maria to complain of an unfinished project begun by their colleague Jean de Bourgogne, who had run away. They asked for permission to import other weavers to finish the tapestry. They further reported that the errant weaver had recently returned to Milan, indeed with the ducal safe-conduct, but instead of doing his job, proceeded to lead astray other workers, taking them to taverns, making them waste their time, and even paying them to leave. Levinus and Johannes urged the duchess to take the safe-conduct away from the incorrigible Jean, now that she had been informed of his misdeeds.24 Despite the Sforza’s best intention, the Milanese tapestry production never became a large-scale operation. Part of the problem may have had to do with the squabbles and misconduct of the imported weavers. But a larger impediment was inherent in the manufacturing process of tapestries which called for a more extensive work force than a handful of craftsmen. And when Netherlandish weavers decamped, whether out of mischief or because they were lured by better job opportunities elsewhere (there was a great deal of mobility among Netherlandish artists working at Italian courts), there was a dearth of skilled local talent to take their place. Since small court workshops could not produce the extensive, highly detailed, and technically refined ensembles which characterised the output of Netherlan-

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dish ateliers, many of the weavers working for Italian patrons tended to limit their creations to the production of heraldic tapestries and the repairing of extant hangings in their patrons’ collections – a situation not conducive to the establishment of a widely respected and enduring local industry. The indifferent results of the Sforza tapestry experiment did not deter Federigo da Montefeltro, duke of Urbino, from trying to set up his own workshop. Federigo was a parvenu to princely circles – an illegitimate son of Count Guidantonio of Urbino who had risen to preeminence thanks to his military talents. The highest paid condottiere in Italy at that time, Federigo derived his fortune not only from his victorious campaigns, such as that against Volterra in 1472, but also from peacefully remaining at home, for he was paid vast sums by the vying Italian powers not to fight on anyone’s side.25 Thus he enjoyed the leisure and the means to create a magnificent court.26 Federigo’s artistic projects, designed to elevate him to the status of other Italian princes, were highly sensitive to the fashions and cultural norms of the milieu to which he aspired. The centrepiece of his artistic undertakings was his palace, built by Luciano Laurana.27 To adorn his palace and his rule, Federigo imported the painter Joos van Ghent to decorate its rooms. Furthermore, he established a marvellous library and purchased tapestries from the Netherlands, including the Trojan War ensemble for which he paid the great sum of 2,557 ducats 19 bolognini.28 According to his biographer, Vespasiano da Bisticci, ‘He also brought in Flemish tapestry weavers who wrought a noble set for an apartment, worked with gold and silk mixed with woollen thread, in such fashion as no brush could have rendered. He also caused other decorations to be wrought by these masters’.29 Vespasiano’s comparison of the weaving with brushwork and elevation of the former over the latter is noteworthy in underscoring the refinement of the best tapestries and their superior impact on contemporary viewers. Still, as in the case of the Sforza, and for similar reasons, the Urbino tapestry workshop never became a rival to those of the Netherlands either in quantity or in quality. The Medici, assessing the tremendous popularity of Netherlandish weavings and the futility of trying to replicate them in Italy, decid-

ed to become middlemen in re-selling them to international clientele (they also supplied Netherlandish tapestry merchants with raw silks).30 The Medici correspondence with their employees in Bruges contains regular requests for weavings both for their own use and for their customers. In 1453, for example, Gierozzo de’ Pigli reported to Giovanni de’ Medici that he had purchased the History of Samson for Astorgio II Manfredi, the lord of Faenza, and ordered the Triumphs of Petrarch tapestries for the Medici themselves. In 1462 Tommaso Portinari informed Giovanni that he had ordered tapestries for Count Gaspare de Vimercato.31 Other Medici clients who acquired tapestries through them included the Sforza, the d’Este, the dukes of Savoy, and several popes: in 1460 the Medici sold Pope Pius II a tapestry with silk and gold thread for the sum of 1250 gold ducats.32 In the sixteenth century, however, Cosimo I de’Medici, who assumed power as the duke of Florence in 1537 and would become the Grand Duke of Tuscany in 1569, determined to found a tapestry manufacture in Florence that would rival that of Brussels.33 (He was also emulating the efforts of Francis I who had set up a court atelier at Fontainebleau in 1539, and similar ventures at the courts of Ferrara and Mantua.34) Cosimo enticed to his city two Flemish weavers. Nicolas Karcher was previously employed by Ercole II d’Este, who had re-established the court manufactory in Ferrara in 1536, and by Federigo II Gonzaga of Mantua, to which Karcher would return after Florence. Giovanni Rost of Brussels had been recruited by Karcher to come to Ferrara, whence he decamped for Florence. Once Cosimo lured these two weavers into his employ, he bid them to create two workshops. He promised each the high yearly stipend of 600 scudi, suitable working quarters, twentyfour looms, and payment per tapestry based on materials, quality, and size. The workshops were not only to supply the needs of the Medici court, but also to train all local youths who wished to learn the art, thereby grooming Tuscan expertise to match that of the Netherlands. As Cosimo wrote to his agent in Brussels, Don Francisco di Toledo, ‘in a short time, one could set up to do this type of work so that it would no longer be necessary for the citizens of this state and the surrounding area

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to still go to Flanders to supply themselves with tapestries’.35 Unlike the rulers of Ferrara and Mantua, who sought only to acquire tapestries for the embellishment of their palaces, Cosimo strove to promote the Florentine economy in general through new trades. To this end he also imported German workers to found a mining industry in 1542, and invited the famous printer Lorenzo Torrentino to start a ducal printing press in 1547. In establishing his tapestry works, Cosimo endowed them with greater professionalism by imitating the statutes of the Netherlandish weaving guilds and requiring that letters FF (Factum Florentiae, or ‘Made in Florence’) be woven into the finished hangings just as BB (Brabant-Bruxelles) had to appear on all tapestries made in Brussels as a guarantee of quality.36 The most spectacular product of Cosimo’s new workshops was the twenty-piece ensemble narrating the Story of Joseph. It was destined for the Sala dei Duecento and designed by the court artists Bronzino, Pontormo, and Salviati.37 Cosimo chose a cycle of tapestries dedicated to Joseph in order to proclaim his moral probity and wise leadership. Joseph was a model biblical ruler and statesman renowned for his chastity, clemency, clear judgement, and beneficial rule – an apt exemplar for the Medici sovereign. For like Joseph, Cosimo came from a junior branch of an extended family, triumphed over exile, rose to a lofty position despite adversity, and was persistently loyal to his clan. Also like Joseph, Cosimo cultivated the virtues of self-control, prudence, and magnanimity – expressed particularly clearly through the tapestry depicting Joseph Recognised by His Brothers (Plate 10). 38 Famous for his marital fidelity (in contrast to the extreme licentiousness of his predecessor), and for the rigorous moral standards he enforced in his city, Cosimo conveyed this aspect of his rule through the woven scene of Joseph Fleeing from the Wife of Potiphar. Other parts of the series spelled out further virtues and attainments of their owner. The cost of the Story of Joseph reflected its political significance: it came close to the expense of constructing a good-sized church.39 Commenting on the tapestries in his life of Jacopo da Pontormo, Giorgio Vasari recounted how: The Lord Duke then brought to Florence the Flemings, Maestro Giovanni Rosso and 168

Maestro Niccolò, excellent masters in arrastapestries, to the end that the art might be learned and practised by the Florentines, and he ordered that tapestries in silk and gold should be executed for the Council Hall of the Two Hundred at a cost of 60,000 crowns, and that Jacopo and Bronzino should make the cartoons with the stories of Joseph.40 The value of the Story of Joseph ensemble was also manifested by the care with which it was used, or rather seldom used, by the duke. For the most part, together with other gold and silver fabrics, the Story of Joseph rested in the ‘guarderoba segreta’ and saw the light only during special events, when Cosimo’s image was at stake. Frescoed walls, modest wool tapestries, cloth, or leather drapes served as everyday decorations. Thus, according to the 1553 inventory of the Palazzo Vecchio, all the precious tapestries containing silk and gold were in storage, and only wool tapestries enlivened some of the rooms.41 Karcher and Rost produced many tapestries for Cosimo: seventy-three by 1550 – fortynine made by Rost and twenty-four by Karcher – and more in the following years. Rost seems to have been a better businessman. By 1552 he had eighty-three weavers working for him on twenty-four looms, his contract was renewed for ten years, and he executed commissions for other patrons as well. Karcher’s contract, meanwhile, was renewed for only three years, and he had only twelve looms in operation. He was perceived as less reliable, and was beset by financial difficulties.42 But even with Rost’s success, Florentine tapestry manufacture never succeeded in rivalling that of the Netherlands. The cost of producing tapestries locally proved higher than that of purchasing them in the Netherlands – perhaps because of the better established supply networks for raw materials and more efficient manufacturing processes in the North. Cosimo’s war with Siena, which drained his financial resources, most likely contributed to his decision not to renew Karcher’s contract in 1554. Karcher’s workshop was taken over by Italian weavers whom Rost and he had trained, and placed under direct ducal control (at which point Rost’s atelier stopped working for the court, and in 1558 Rost left for Rome).43 The

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creations of these weavers, however, were coarser than those of the Netherlanders. Even with the newly trained workforce, Florence did not have the quality of experts who could produce weavings refined enough to obviate Cosimo’s need to buy them in the Netherlands, or enable him to persuade others that Florentine wares were superior. When Cosimo died in 1574, the production of the Florentine workshop waned, and though it carried on until 1745, at a reduced scale, it never replaced the appreciation of, and demand for, Netherlandish tapestries. Importing Netherlandish craftsmen did not give patrons in other regions a critical mass of skill. While Karcher and Rost were able to create high-quality tapestries, the local weavers they trained did not have generations of experience in this craft to buttress their efforts and were not able, in turn, to teach other workers the degree of mastery possessed by the Netherlanders. Thus, when Karcher and Rost left Florence, the quality of production markedly declined. Besides, in order to fashion enough first-rate tapestries for princely display, one really needed multiple teams of skilled weavers, and single workshops at Italian courts could not sustain this kind of extensive manufacture, or draw on a sufficient number of suitably trained artisans. Meanwhile, in the Netherlands there was a concentration of a large number of urban workshops, reliable sources of supply and processing of raw materials, and guilds ensuring the high standard of work. In addition, tapestry manufactories at Italian and French courts were tied to, and dependent on, the patronage of particular rulers who established these workshops, and they often closed down when these rulers died. The ateliers in the Netherlands, meanwhile, catered to an extensive clientele, so their survival did not depend on one lord. The continued purchases of Netherlandish tapestries by foreign princes, even those who set up their own workshops, demonstrate that the superb quality and efficiency of manufacture of Netherlandish products remained unsurpassed. It would seem that Cosimo’s kinsman, Pope Leo X, recognised that it was not worth the effort to set up domestic production. He had his most important tapestry ensemble, Acts of the Apostles designed by Raphael, but converted

into the most glorious weavings in Brussels by Pieter van Aelst, the leading tapestry weaver and entrepreneur of the day who also supplied the Habsburgs and the Tudors (Plate 11). This tapestry project began in 1515, the first seven hangings dressed the papal chapel in December 1519, and the entire set was finished by the time of Leo’s death in December 1521. The weavings cost some 16,000 ducats (Raphael received 1000 ducats for the cartoons). This enormous sum was just a little less than the accumulated salaries of the choristers of the Sistine Chapel over the same period, and five times the amount Michelangelo was paid for working on the Sistine Ceiling for four years. The jewel-encrusted tiara of Leo X was valued at 17,785 ducats.44 Leo X’s pomp and splendour were legendary. He was said to have exclaimed ‘let us enjoy the papacy since God has given it to us’. Even if he did not utter these very words, his reputation for luxury made them seem plausible, and his hedonism precipitated the Protestant Reformation.45 Reporting from Rome in April 1523, Venetian ambassadors marvelled at Leo’s opulent surroundings, including the tapestries that lined the halls of the Vatican palace.46 Leo’s embellishment of the Sistine Chapel with superb weavings was not just a reflection on his magnificence, however, but also a practical step. His predecessor, Julius II, had initiated such an ambitious rebuilding of the Basilica of Saint Peter that he rendered it dysfunctional for decades. In Julius’s and Leo’s time the church, with the western portion of its roof removed, stood exposed to the rain, wind, and cold, making the celebration of major feasts into most uncomfortable, and often impracticable, openair events. To avoid such inclement conditions, some of the services were transferred to the Sistine Chapel. Leo made it into a full substitute for the Basilica, and it was only natural for him to seek to demonstrate the pre-eminence of this space – the locus of the most important liturgical services of the Christendom, even if temporarily – through splendour worthy of God and of Leo X. Writing on Easter Sunday of 1513, Paris de Grassis, the Master of Ceremonies of the papal chapel under both Julius and Leo, rejoiced that ‘The papal majesty shone again in the chapel in all respects as in Saint Peter’s’.47

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The Pope, Paris de Grassis recorded, ‘desired, by all means, whatever sustained the papal majesty in the liturgy’. Only the most impressive objects, exquisitely fashioned from most expensive materials, would accomplish this task. Sixtus IV, who built the chapel, had, in fact, envisioned its adornment with textiles: he had the walls painted with fictive tapestries of silver and gold, still visible today. Leo X, cognisant of the potency of tapestries as expressions of majesty, and of the inadequacy of frescoes to the task, decided to drape the chapel with real weavings fashioned in actual silks, silver, and gold.48 The Acts of the Apostles tapestries thus most appropriately honoured this sacred locus through their imagery, and the glory of Leo X through their opulence. When in July 1517, during a tour of the Netherlands, Cardinal Luigi d’Aragona visited Pieter van Aelst’s workshop, he was awed. His reaction would be echoed by many contemporaries. In the words of his secretary, Antonio de Beatis: Here in Brussels, Pope Leo is having sixteen tapestries made, chiefly in silk and gold. They are said to be for the chapel of Sixtus in the apostolic palace in Rome. Each piece costs 2,000 gold ducats. We went to the place where they were being made and saw a completed piece showing Christ’s delivery of the keys to St Peter, which is very beautiful. Judging from this one, the Cardinal gave it as his opinion that they will be among the finest in Christendom.49 He was proven correct. But the brilliance of Leo’s vision could well have come to little had it not been for the skill of Raphael in designing his tapestries and, even more importantly, for the mastery of Pieter van Aelst of Brussels in converting them into superlative artworks. Armour Armour was another luxury art form indispensable to Renaissance elites. In an age of endemic warfare and ostentatious chivalric displays, the need for this attire was incessant, and its manufacture widespread. Armour was produced throughout Europe, especially the cheap munitions hardware intended for regular soldiers. And most great nobles retained a per170

manent armourer in their household to clean, maintain, and adjust their equipment. But the custom-made harnesses of rulers and aristocrats, distinguished by their superior quality and exquisite decoration, were the domain of north Italian and German masters. The political resonance of princely armour – fashioned into perfectly constructed suits and richly and often programmatically decorated with precious metals, gems, or sculptural forms – made it a ‘uniform’ for rulers. Whether entering their own cities or those of their enemies, appearing in splendid processions during coronations or funerals, marriages or baptisms, rulers regularly donned opulent armour which effectively layered their splendour, military might, and chivalric attainments. Armour of various constructions has been produced over the ages, but the fourteenth century saw the development of a new type, comprised of articulated steel plates. The closely fitted, smooth, metal plates encased the body in a solid protective membrane whose surfaces effectively deflected blows of lances and swords. Hard, but malleable, steel plates also lent themselves to a multitude of elegant forms. The meticulous engineering and adornment of plate armour ensured the most advantageous combination of defence, flexibility, and refinement. To obtain such suits, the European elite turned to Milanese and German craftsmen. The production of quality plate armour required specialised skills and machinery, such as forges and polishing mills. Likewise, vital to the manufacture of the best armour was ready access to iron ore, wood and charcoal for fuel, and water to power the trip hammers that beat the iron billets into rough plates and polishing mills that smoothed out the hammered surfaces. The conjunction of skilled craftsmen, proper machinery, and necessary raw materials existed only in certain geographical areas, chief among them the south German cities of Augsburg and Nuremberg, the princely residences of Landshut and Innsbruck, and Milan and Brescia in northern Italy. These towns lay near ore mines, forests, and flowing rivers, as well as trade routes, and thus became centres for the production of the most prized armour of the day. Milan was the first of these cities to establish its pre-eminence. It had an arms industry already in the mid-eleventh century, and in 1288 the chronicler Bonvesin de la Riva extolled

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Fig. 5. How a man schall be armyd at his ese when he schal fighte on foote. Miniature showing a knight putting on plates of armour over a doublet, c. 1450 Photo © The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York. MS. M. 775, fol. 122v. Fig. 4. Armour of Friedrich I, Elector Palatine, Tommaso Missaglia and workshop. Photo © Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Hofjagd und Rüstkammer.

a marvellous number of armourers, who daily produce every type of arms […] and all are of tempered and polished steel, brighter than a mirror […] all these types of arms pass from this city to other Italian cities, where they are ultimately exported to the Tartars and the Saracens.50 By the late fourteenth century the technical sophistication of Milanese harnesses made them, and their makers, the most esteemed in the world. The city’s industry, moreover, was run so efficiently that it could supply, on short notice, both the costly custom-tailored pieces for the elite and cheap ready-made armour for large armies. Business-savvy, Milanese armourers adapted their wares to the tastes of foreign

clientele, producing armour in styles fashionable in different regions, and established branches abroad, thus conquering ever larger shares of the market. Situated at the crossroads of European commerce – with access to Northern Europe across the Alpine mountain passes, and through Italian sea ports to Spain, Portugal, North Africa, and the Near East – Milan was perfectly placed for the international diffusion of its wares. The superior craftsmanship, exquisite design, and commercial astuteness of the Milanese armourers ensured their lead well into the sixteenth century. The most successful and esteemed of the Milanese armourers in the fifteenth century were the Missaglia. Their clients included the Visconti and the Sforza dukes of their city, the Gonzaga of Mantua, the d’Este of Ferrara, the Medici of Florence, the kings of France, the dukes of Burgundy, and assorted German princes, such as Friedrich I, Elector Palatine

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(Fig. 4). The Missaglia maintained shops in Rome, Naples, Barcelona, and Tours.51 And they frequently travelled to their customers’ homes to take orders for bespoke suits. Plate armour was, by its very nature, heavy and bulky, and it was worn over padded doublets which made the whole outfit even more suffocating. A fifteenth-century miniature shows a man putting on protective padded clothing before donning metal armour components (Fig. 5). Early and rigorous training prepared Renaissance men to manoeuvre in this massive hardware – a full metal suit weighed at least fifty to sixty pounds, and often more. Still, there was an enormous difference between wearing an off-the-peg suit versus a specially tailored one. A well-made, customfit harness was far more comfortable because it distributed the weight and bulk of the armour throughout the body and allowed the wearer to move more naturally. To obtain bespoke harnesses from the best masters – the Milanese and the Germans – clients could dispatch their measurements or pieces of clothing, such as doublets, to the armourers to serve as guidelines. Charles V, for example, sent his doublet and hose to Konrad Seusenhofer in Innsbruck in 1512 (Seusenhofer came from Augsburg to lead the Imperial workshop founded by Maximilian I in 1504). Eight years later, Francis I asked for an arming doublet of Henry VIII so as to have a cuirass fashioned as a present for the English king.52 Some armourers, however, insisted on personally measuring their clients. Konrad Richter, working on a suit for Ferdinand II of Tyrol, declared that while he could deduce the length and width of the Archduke from his garments, he could not ascertain whether his neck was long or short, or whether his legs were straight or curved. He was, therefore, asking for a fitting before hardening the plates, as alterations at a later stage would be difficult.53 The Missaglia, being the leading armourers of the day, often travelled to measure their clients in person. In 1464 Francesco Missaglia journeyed to the Burgundian court to take the dimensions of Philip the Good for three suits of armour.54 Two years later he went to France to measure Louis XI. The king requested that Missaglia study him by day and night, even when his Highness was going to bed, so that his armour would not discomfort the royal body under any circum172

stances.55 The satisfaction and delight rulers derived from their bespoke suits is evident in the Emperor Charles V’s reaction. He was so thrilled with the harness made for him by Caremolo Modrone of Mantua that according to the Mantuan ambassador in Spain, His Majesty said that they [his armour elements] were more precious to him than a city. He then embraced Master Caremolo warmly [...] and said they were so excellent that [...] if he had taken the measurement a thousand times they could not fit better [...] Caremolo is more beloved and revered than a member of the court.56 The appreciation of the Missaglia armourers by the dukes of Milan is clear from the honours and privileges they received. Duke Filippo Maria Visconti knighted Tommaso Missaglia in 1435. Tommaso’s son Antonio, who inherited the business, was made Count and granted numerous concessions by the Sforza, who succeeded the Visconti. Antonio owned several polishing mills (which were very expensive), leased and then owned an iron mine, and exchanged his house on the Piazza Castello for a fief worth 15,200 lire, thus rising to the class of landed gentry.57 The Missaglia home on the Via Spadari in Milan was an imposing, multistory mansion whose facade and internal courtyard were frescoed with flowers, fruits, landscapes, and heraldic emblems of the Sforza and the Missaglia. And the house formed a stopping point on the tour of the city given to visiting dignitaries.58 While Milanese armourers enjoyed the greatest regard, Germans were close seconds. The flowering of armour manufacture in Nuremberg, which specialised in medium and low-end munitions armour, benefited from the proximity of the Hungarian border: the continuous threat of Turkish invasion made this city into a major supplier for the German armies fighting the enemy on that frontier.59 In Augsburg, the Helmschmid clan, which produced costly harnesses for elite patrons, especially the Habsburgs, endowed the city’s armour industry with international prestige. Lorenz Helmschmid served Maximilian I as well as the dukes of Mantua and Urbino, among others. In the sixteenth century, Desiderious Helmschmid’s creations were greatly prized by Charles V and Philip II. Ger-

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man guilds forbade large-scale, factory-like enterprises that made Milanese armourers thrive, and sanctioned only businesses run by masters with two journeymen and up to four apprentices. As a result, most German workshops focused on lower-cost armour that was quicker and more lucrative to forge. But such superstars as the Helmschmids, and their patronage by the Habsburgs, made German armour widely respected abroad. Commissioning custom-made suits from such leading armourers as the Missaglia and the Helmschmids was hugely expensive. And since the need for battlefield, tournament, and parade harnesses never abated, many rulers thought it expedient to establish domestic manufacture so as to better control costs and supplies. To guarantee that their workshops would deliver quality pieces, they imported specialists from areas renowned for armour expertise – Milan, Germany, and the Netherlands (the third most respected region of armour manufacture with Tournai and Bruges specialising in low- to medium-quality munitions armour, and Brussels, the preferred residence of the Burgundian dukes, producing high-end suits). Unlike tapestry, armour was a more mobile craft. Milanese and German armourers frequently moved to foreign courts to run local workshops and they did so quite successfully. The flowering of these workshops, however, was predicated on the presence and leadership of such masters, for while the art of armour-making travelled better than that of tapestry-weaving, it remained, at its best, the preserve of craftsmen from specific regions. While the most famous masters were happily settled at home and not interested in moving to foreign courts, their less prominent colleagues readily seized such opportunities. Alexandre du Pol de Milan, for example, went to work for Duke Charles the Bold of Burgundy on most advantageous terms. The armourer received a yearly income of 120 ecus, a house, a polishing mill, and the privilege of paying no taxes. In return, du Pol provided the duke with one hundred pieces of armour per year, collecting payment for each piece he delivered on top of his salary.60 He was remunerated better than Jan van Eyck, traditionally viewed by art historians as the recipient of singular favours. At the rate of exchange of 1 ecu to 71 groats, Alexandre du Pol earned 8,520

groats per year, while Jan van Eyck earned only 2000 groats for the first eight years of his service under Philip the Good, and 7,200 groats for the rest of his career.61 Besides Alexandre du Pol, a number of other Milanese armourers worked for the Burgundian court. Martin Rondel, who became a citizen of Bruges in 1464, fashioned a hauberk of fine mail for Charles the Bold in 1467, among other projects. Various members of the Corneto family served the Burgundian dukes for several decades: Ottelino became the court armourer and valet de chambre to Philip the Good, making at least five harnesses for his master in 1444, three more in 1446, and many other pieces; Balthasar created several suits of armour for Charles the Bold between 1468 and 1470; and Valentine forged tournament armour for the duke.62 Renaissance art historians, influenced by Giorgio Vasari, tend to privilege Italian painters, sculptors, and architects and seek to demonstrate their impact beyond the frontiers of Italy. Yet they disregard a much more influential group of Italian artisans who enjoyed pan-European fame and employment far beyond the above-mentioned categories of artists. The most discriminating and trend-setting patrons, such as the dukes of Burgundy and their peers, turned to Milanese armourers for the most important commissions, while seldom employing Italian practitioners of other arts.63 And while few fifteenth-century Netherlandish artists looked to Italy for models, Netherlandish armourers adopted the lucrative style of Italian suits. Milanese armourers continued to reign supreme in the sixteenth century, though the Missaglia dynasty waned. In the first quarter of the sixteenth century they sold off their mills, workshops, and even their house to a new armourers’ clan – the Negroli, who began in the mid-fifteenth century as their employees. This change of fortunes may have had to do, at least in part, with a shift in armour fashions. Fifteenth-century harnesses tended to be embellished with appliqués of copper alloy or silver-gilt, punched or incised ornaments applied along the edges of steel plates, or etched designs. In the sixteenth century, embossed armour became chic, and no one surpassed the Negroli in this art. Embossing involved creating relief on the surface of armour by ham-

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Fig. 6. Medusa shield of Charles V, Filippo and Francesco Negroli. Milan, 1541. Real Armería, Madrid, inv. D 64. Photo © Patrimonio Nacional.

mering it up from the underside and then refining the sculptural forms with chisels and punches. This type of decoration was perceived as an antique mode of embellishing armour. And since Renaissance rulers were fond of presenting themselves in Roman-style costumes that equated them with great ancient heroes and statesmen, embossed armour gained great vogue. Because embossing weakened steel plates and created areas that could readily catch weapon points, relief armour was used only for ceremonial purposes. But this, in a sense, liberated, rather than hampered, the armourers: worried less about the defensive soundness of their creations, they could give freer reign to their imaginations. The most talented embosser of armour was Filippo Negroli. His work was distinguished by vivid fantasy and meticulous finish of every detail (he chiselled away at every part of his embossed reliefs to achieve the most subtle and rich effects). His helmets, breastplates, and shields are so plastic that they seem to be cast from a soft metal rather than hammered from hard steel, as we can readily see in his Medusa shield created for Charles V (Fig. 6). Filippo’s creations were so highly regarded that even Giorgio Vasari, who had little interest or 174

respect for luxury arts, mentioned the armourer in his Lives of the Most Illustrious Architects, Painters and Sculptors (1550) – the only master of this craft he acknowledged. Meanwhile, Paolo Morigi, in his La nobilità di Milano (1595), extolled Filippo as ‘meriting immortal praise for he was the foremost chiseller of steel in high and low relief […] This virtuoso spirit astounded the king of France and Emperor Charles V with his truly marvellous work on armours, headpieces and miraculous shields’.64 Filippo Negroli achieved ascendance in the second quarter of the sixteenth century when, assisted by his brothers, especially Francesco, a superbly gifted damasciner (specialist in inlaying precious metal designs into iron or steel), he produced glorious and unsurpassed suits of armour for the most mighty and discriminating clients across Europe. Filippo’s cousins, Gerolamo and Giovan Paolo, also ran flourishing workshops that made some high-end suits, but earned most of their income by manufacturing large quantities of undecorated soldiers’ armour. This was, in fact, a far better business strategy. Embossed armour was immensely labour-intensive and it did not enrich the craftsman in proportion to the value of the finished work. In a world of low

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labour costs, real profits came from large-scale production of medium- and lower-priced armour, rather than from individual harnesses painstakingly crafted for emperors and kings. The great cost of luxury armour stemmed from countless man-hours it demanded, and from the precious materials used in its decoration. The Parisian armourer Thomassin de Froimont, for example, took three-and-a-half months to make two jousting harnesses for Philip the Good in 1425, and he was probably assisted by three or four journeymen. In 1557, the armourer working on an etched and gilded suit of armour for the Archduke Ferdinand II of Tyrol needed six to seven months for the job.65 The production time increased considerably when armour was embossed. Filippo’s armour surpassed that of his cousins in technical virtuosity and aesthetic appeal, but by focusing exclusively on this type of work he came to ruin. His will of 1570 declared that ‘having suffered for a long time from serious illnesses and being reduced to such great poverty, both because of these illnesses and because of the small income from his properties and finally because of the blindness that afflicts him, he has not enough to feed or clothe himself or his family’.66 When he died on 24 November 1579 he was nearly destitute. Meanwhile, his cousin Giovan Paolo, who made both costly embossed armour for the aristocracy and large quantities of ordinary army harnesses, and maintained representatives in Rome, Turin, Antwerp, Brussels, and Paris, prospered until the end of his life.67 The Negroli were the most talented and famous of sixteenth-century Milanese armourers, but there were many other masters who worked in the city and made its armour industry the best in Europe. Given the international reputation of north Italian, German, and Netherlandish armourers, it was logical that Henry VIII Tudor imported masters from Milan, Augsburg, Landshut, and Brussles when he decided to set up his royal armoury first at Southwark and then at Greenwich.68 By securing the services of such craftsman, he was able to turn his Alamain (or German) Armoury into an important centre for high-quality work. Similarly, Francis I and later his son Henry II hired Italian and Flemish masters to meet their armour needs at the French court.

What made Milanese, German, and Netherlandish armourers so much better than others? It was the combination of their training and the materials they employed. They used iron from the finest ore reserves (those around Innsbruck and Styria – hence Othello’s reference to ‘a sword of Isebrooke temper’69), and worked it with the greatest skill. Once extracted from the mines, iron was shaped into thick plates, or billets, that were then beaten into flat pieces and cut into shapes suitable for armour components. The rough plates were next modelled into desired forms by hammering them over anvils. The inventory of Henry VIII’s Greenwich armoury, taken in 1514, details the requisite equipment for this work: distinct anvils for making tubes, crests, visors, cuirasses, and helmets; a range of hammers for sculpting head pieces, crests, greaves, rivets, and for embossing work.70 In shaping different components of a harness, the armourer had to gauge carefully the physical changes in the metal. Hammering and quenching – plunging redhot steel into a colder medium to harden the metal – could make it brittle and necessitated periodic re-heating to temper it. But excessive re-heating could weaken the metal again. The success of tempering depended on the armourer’s ability to control precisely the temperature and the duration of re-heating – all in an era when there were neither thermometers nor precise clocks. The techniques of hardening and tempering steel correctly were closely guarded trade secrets. In addition, the armourer had to take into account the function and placement of each element, ensuring that plates were adequately thick in the most vulnerable areas and thinned out wherever possible to reduce the weight. In fine armour, the thickness of the metal varied not only between different plates, but in different parts of the same plate: the left side was often heavier than the right, as it faced the enemy; the front of the helmet was generally thicker than the back. After all the plates had been properly forged, they had to be fitted together so as to sit snugly over or under each other in a way that made the armour flexible, yet left no gaps where weapons could penetrate. This required great proficiency as well. To achieve that kind of sophistication, an armourer had to have learned his craft from the best masters in regions with the best mate-

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rials and with the best long-standing expertise. Hence, the pre-eminence of Milanese, German, and Netherlandish armourers and their employment by rulers across Europe. Yet even princes who kept their own court workshops staffed by imported specialists bought their most important suits from such unsurpassed masters as the Missaglia, Negroli, or Helmschmid. It would seem that no matter how good was one’s court tailor, he could not better the splendid creations by armour’s haute couturiers. When a ruler truly had something at stake, and needed to appear at his most magnificent, only Netherlandish tapestries and Milanese or German armour were adequate to the task. Since their reputations were also at stake, top armourers competed to outdo each other, their rivalry sometimes spilling onto their creations. Perhaps irked or anxious that their Habsburg patron ordered Milanese armour, the Augsburg masters Desiderius Helmschmid and Jörg Sigman asserted their superiority on the parade shield they made for Philip II. On the border of the shield, which is embellished with a profusion of embossed figures and damascened ornaments, they depicted a bull charging and overwhelming a warrior whose targe is inscribed with the name NEGROL.71

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The German and the Milanese armourers may have worried about their relative standing on the international market, but they did not lose sleep over being outshone by other craftsmen. Despite the establishment of armouries at the Burgundian, English, French, and other courts, the pre-eminence of the Milanese and German masters on their home turf was never surpassed. The fabrication of armour, as that of tapestries, was deeply rooted in regional traditions, resources, and infrastructure that did not lend themselves to being transferred elsewhere. There was, clearly, a difference in the portability of tapestry-weaving versus armour-manufacture. Tapestry production required a critical mass of highly-skilled craftsmen and thus could not readily travel; whereas a single armourer could fashion a deluxe harness, even if it took a long time, and could do so anywhere, provided he had the right materials and machinery. Still, a longterm skills base was indispensable to both art forms – a history of training upon training of masters and an ingrained ability to resolve technical and artistic challenges. This could not be easily transplanted abroad.

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NOTES

1 For a more extensive discussion of these two art forms in the Renaissance see: M. Belozerskaya, Luxury Arts of the Renaissance (Los Angeles, 2005); Tapestry in the Renaissance: Art and Magnificence, exh. cat. (New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2002), ed. by T. Campbell (New Haven and London 2002); G. Delmarcel, Flemish Tapestry (London and New York, 1999); Heroic Armor of the Italian Renaissance. Filippo Negroli and his Contemporaries, exh. cat. (New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1998-1999), ed. S. W. Pyhrr and J.-A. Godoy (New York, 1998); M. Pfaffenbichler, Armourers. Medieval Craftsmen series (London, 1992). 2 See Belozerskaya, Luxury Arts (as in note 1), chapter one for a discussion of how luxury arts declined in status from their pre-eminence in the Renaissance to their dismissal as ‘decorative’ or ‘minor’ works in modern art literature and appreciation. 3

P. Saintenoy, Les Arts et les Artistes à la Cour de Bruxelles (Brussels, 1934), pp. 54-56; J. Lestocquoy, ‘L’Atelier de Bauduin de Bailleul et la tapisseries de Gedeon’, Revue belge d’archeologie et d’histoire de l’art 8 (1938), pp. 119-37; J. C. Smith, ‘Artistic Patronage of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy (1419-1467)’ (doctoral dissertation, (Columbia University, 1979), pp. 151 ff). 4

L. E. S. J. de Laborde, Les Ducs de Bourgogne. Etudes sur les lettres, les arts et l’industrie pendent le XVe siècle (Paris, 184952), 3 vols., I, item 1605. 5 P. M. Kendall and E. Illardy, eds., Dispatches with Related Documents of Milanese Ambassadors in France and Burgundy, 14501483, 3 vols (Athens, Ohio, 1970-71), II, pp. 348-52. 6

B. M. ms, Cotton, Nero C.IX, published by J. M. B. C. Kervyn de Lettenhove, ‘Relations du mariage du duc Charles de Bourgogne et de Marguerite d’York’, Bulletin de la Commission Royale d’Histoire 3e ser., vol. 10 (1867-69), pp. 24566, quote on pp. 259-60. 7

A. Pinchart, Tapisseries flammandes (Paris, 1878), p. 75.

8

H. J. Horn, Jan Cornelisz Vermeyen. Painter of Charles V and his Conquest of Tunis (Doornspijk, 1989), pp. 111 ff. 9 Horn,

1989, pp. 177-78.

10 Horn,

1989, II, Appendix.

11 Horn,

1989, doc. 4, pp. 348-51, doc. 12, p. 360.

12 Horn, 1989, docs. 49, 50, pp. 397-98; J. Duverger, ‘Marie

de Hongrie, gouvernante des Pays-Bas, et la Renaissance’, in Evolution générale et développements régionaux en histoire de l’art. Actes du XXIIe Congres International d’Histoire de l’Art (Budapest 1969), 3 vols (Budapest, 1972), I, pp. 715-26; Maria van Hongarije. Koningin tussen keizers en kunstenaars, 1505-1558 (Zwolle, 1993). 13 Horn,

1989, doc. 38, p. 386, doc. 41, p. 389.

14 H. Van der Wee, ‘Structural Changes and Specialization

in the Industry of Southern Netherlands, 1100-1600’, Economic History Review 28 (1975), pp. 203-21, esp. 209. 15 New Encyclopedia Britannica, ed. by M. J. Adler et al, 15th edition, 30 vols (Chicago, 1974-1984), vol. 17, s.v. ‘Tapestry’, p. 1060; W. Prevenier and W. Blockmans, The Burgundian Netherlands (Cambridge, 1986), p. 88; S. Scheebalg-Perelman, ‘Tapestries in Brussels under the reign of Philip the

Good’, in Rogier van der Weyden – Rogier de le Pasture. Official painter to the city of Brussels, Portrait painter of the Burgundian Court, exh. cat. (Brussels, City Museum of Brussels, 1979) (Brussels, 1979), pp. 102-15, esp. p. 104. 16 J.-P. Asselberghs, ‘Les Tapisseries Tournaisiennes de la Guerre de Troie’, Revue belge d’archeologie et d’histoire de l’art, 39 (1970), pp. 93-183; Smith, ‘Artistic Patronage’ (as in note 3), pp. 338-40; S. McKendrick, ‘The Great History of Troy: a reassessment of the development of a secular theme in late medieval art’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 54 (1991), pp. 43-82; Campbell, 2002, pp. 55-64. 17 C. M. Brown and G. Delmarcel, Tapestries for the Courts of Federico II, Ercole, and Ferrante Gonzaga, 1522-63 (Seattle, 1996), p. 215 and n. 2. 18

Masterpieces of Tapestry, 1973.

19

Masterpieces of Tapestry, 1973, p. 17.

20

M. Belozerskaya, Rethinking the Renaissance: Burgundian Arts Across Europe (Cambridge, 2002). 21

Delmarcel, Flemish Tapestry (as in note 1), pp. 95, 117.

22

Campbell, 2002, pp. 90-101 with earlier references and pp. 102-29 for examples of tapestries woven in Italy. Also P. Liebaert, ‘Artistes flamands en Italie pendant la Renaissance’, Bulletin de l’Institut historique Belge de Rome, I (1919), pp. 1103, esp. pp. 48-49; Masterpieces of Tapestry 1973, p. 13; N. Forti Grazzini, L’Arazzo Ferrarese (Milan, 1982); J. Lestocquoy, Deux siècles de l’histoire de la tapisserie (Arras, 1978). 23 Lestocquoy, 1978, ch. 10; A. S. Cavallo, Medieval Tapestries in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York, 1993), p. 66; S. McKendrick, ‘Edward IV: An English royal collector of Netherlandish tapestry’, The Burlington Magazine,129 (1987), pp. 521-24. 24 Lestocquoy, 1978, p. 99. Other weavers found in Milanese documents included Petrus Alont de Picardia, Guglielmus Barvere de Picardia, Nicolaus de Picardia, and Aluigi Todesco. See Liebaert, ‘Artistes flamands’ (as in note 22), p. 46. 25 C. H. Clough, The Duchy of Urbino in the Renaissance (London, 1981), and ‘Federico da Montefeltro and the kings of Naples: a study in fifteenth-century survival’, Renaissance Studies, 6 (1992), 113-72. 26

Clough, 1981, VIII, p. 129.

27 P. Rotondi, Ducal Palace of Urbino: its Architecture and Dec-

oration (New York, 1969); Clough 1981, VIII, p. 138; Clough, ‘Federico da Montefeltro’ (as in note 25), p. 149. 28 Clough, 1981, IX, pp. 8-10. The contract of purchase is dated 13 July 1476 (Clough 1981, III, Appendix V, pp. 50304). 29 Vespasiano da Bisticci, Vite di uomini illustri del secolo XV, ed. by L. Frati (Bologna, 1872); Renaissance Princes, Popes, and Prelates, trans. by W. George and E. Waters (New York, 1963), pp. 295-96. 30 S. Schneelbalg-Perelman, ‘Le rôle de la banque de Medicis dans la diffusion des tapisseries flamandes’, Revue Belge d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’Art, 38 (1969); pp. 19-40.

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31 A. Grunzweig, Correspondance de la filiale de Bruges des Medici (Brussels, 1931), I, pp. 26-38, 98-99; E. Müntz, Les précurseurs de la Renaissance (Paris, 1882), p. 178; Campbell, 2002, pp. 88-89. 32

Schneebalg-Perelman, ‘Le role’ (as in note 30), p. 29.

33

L. Meoni, Gli arazzi nei musei fiorentini: La collezione medicea: Catalogo completo. Vol. 1. Manufattura da Cosimo I a Cosimo II (1545-1621) (Livorno, 1998), pp. 35-61; Campbell, 2002, pp. 493-505. 34

D. Heinz, Europaische Wandteppiche (Braunschweig, 1963), pp. 251-76, 285-317; Campbell, 2002, pp. 465-68 on the production of tapestries at Fontainebleau which seems to have largely stopped with the death of Francis I in 1547, pp. 483-88 on Ferrarese tapestry workshop, and pp. 488-93 on that of Mantua. 35 C. Adelson, The Tapestry Patronage of Cosimo I de’ Medici (doctoral dissertation, New York University, 1990), pp. 2123, 509, doc. 26; Meoni, 1998, p. 36. 36

Adelson, 1990, 83; C. Adelson, ‘Cosimo I’ De Medici and the Foundation of Tapestry Production in Florence’, in Firenze e la Toscana dei Medici nell’Europa de’ ‘500, III (Florence, 1983), pp. 899-924, esp. 909-12; Meoni, 1998, p. 36. 37

Adelson, ‘Cosimo I’ (as in note 36); C. Adelson, ‘The Decoration of Palazzo Vecchio in Tapestry: the ‘Joseph’ Cycle and Other Precedents for Vasari’s Decorative Campaigns’, in Giorgio Vasari tra decorazione ambientale e storiografia artistica (Florence, 1985), 145-77; Meoni, 1998, pp. 35-61, 121-41. 38 G. Small, ‘Cosimo I and the Joseph Tapestries for the Palazzo Vecchio’, Renaissance and Reformation, 6 (1982), pp. 183-96, esp. pp. 189-90, 193. 39

Adelson, 1985, pp. 173-74.

40 G. Vasari, Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects, trans. G. du C. de Vere, 2 vols (New York, 1996) 2, p. 367.

50

Cited in Heroic Armor, 1998, p. 4.

51

Heroic Armor, 1998, p. 4.

52

C. ffoulkes, The Armourer and his Craft From the XI to the XVIth Century (London, 1912 and New York, 1988), p. 104. 53

Pfaffenbichler, 1992, p. 66.

54

C. Gaier, L’industrie et le commerce des armes dans les anciennes principautés belge du XIIIme à la fin du XVme siècle (Paris, 1973), p. 167, n. 165; M. Martens, ‘La Correspondance de caractère économique échangée par Francesco Sforza, duc de Milan, et Philippe le Bon, duc de Bourgogne (1450-1466)’, B.I.H.B.R. 27 (1952) pp. 221-34, esp. pp. 226-27. 55

Pfaffenbichler, 1992, p. 66.

56

Cited by W. J. Karcheski, Arms and Armor in The Art Institute of Chicago (Boston, 1995), p. 77. 57

Pfaffenbichler, 1992, p. 55.

58

Heroic Armor, 1998, pp. 4-5.

59

Pfaffenbichler,1992, p. 14.

60

Pfaffenbichler, 1992, pp. 33-34.

61

For exchange rates, see Prevenier and Blockmans, The Burgundian Netherlands (as in note 15), p. 394. 62

Gaier, 1973, pp. 122-24; Pfaffenbichler, 1992, pp. 20-

22. 63 The Burgundian dukes also employed Parisian armourers: Thomassin de Froimont and Jehan du Conseil both held posts as armourers under Philip the Good (Gaier, 1973, p. 165).

41

Adelson, 1985, pp. 151-53.

64

Cited in Heroic Armor, 1998, p. 16.

42

Adelson, 1990, pp.76-77, 80-81; Meoni, 1998, pp. 41,

65

Pfaffenbichler, 1992, p. 53.

66

Heroic Armor, 1998, p. 75.

67

Heroic Armor, pp. 48-49, 225.

56. 43 Adelson, 1990, pp. 84-87, 332-36; Meoni, 1998, pp. 63-

66. 44 J. K. G. Shearman, Raphael’s Cartoons in the Collection of Her Majesty the Queen, and the Tapestries for the Sistine Chapel (London, 1972); Campbell, 2002, pp. 187-218. 45

Shearman, 1972, p. 14.

46

E. Alberi, Relazioni degli ambasciatori veneti al senato (Florence, 1846), Ser. 2, iii, pp. 96 ff.

178

49 Antonio de Beatis, The Travel Journal of Antonio de Beatis: Germany, Switzerland, the Low Countries, France and Italy, 1517-1518, ed. and trans. by J. R. Hale and J. M. A. Lindon (London, 1979), p. 95.

47

Shearman, 1972, p. 9.

48

Shearman, 1972, pp. 10, 12, 13.

68

C. Blair, ‘Greenwich Armour’, Greenwich and Lewisham Antiquarian Society Transactions (London, 1985), pp. 6-11. 69

W. Shakespeare, Othello, V.2, p. 253.

70

Karcheski, Arms and Armor (as in note 56), p. 66; Pfaffenbichler, 1992, p. 62. 71 Resplendence of the Spanish Monarchy. Renaissance Tapestries and Armor from the Patrimonio Nacional, exh. cat. (New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1991-1992), ed. by A. Domínguez Ortiz, C. Herrero Carretero and J.-A. Godoy (New York, 1991), pp. 155-64.

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Memling’s Impact on the Early Raphael Barbara G. Lane Queens College and The Graduate Center, City University of New York

Raphael’s Madonna and Child with Book in the Norton Simon Art Foundation (Pasadena; Plate 12) bears a striking resemblance to Memling’s half-length Madonna and Child in Berlin (Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen; Plate 13 and Fig. 2B). As Anne van Buren recognised, a study for Raphael’s painting (Fig. 1) repeats the pyramidal figure composition and background landscape of Memling’s panel, with a medieval town to the right of the Virgin in the distance.1 In the final painting, Raphael moved the town to the left of the Virgin, but the rounded bushes sparkling with light and the tall trees with thin foliage silhouetted against the sky resemble the same features in Memling’s landscape.2 The meticulous attention to detail, textural differentiation, and vibrant colour of Raphael’s painting also suggest comparison to Memling’s panel. Raphael was one of the many Italian painters who were profoundly influenced by Memling. At least eleven of Memling’s preserved works can be placed in Italy between 1470 and 1510, far more than any of his Flemish predecessors or contemporaries.3 Flemish painting had been admired and collected in Italy since the time of van Eyck for its glowing colour and naturalistic effects made possible by the oil medium, which Italian painters could not equal in tempera, and by the late Quattrocento, patrons may have begun to expect a certain ‘Flemishness’ in the works they commissioned from Italian artists.4 Memling’s paintings continued to arrive in Italy throughout the 1470s and 1480s and were therefore more accessible and more in vogue than those of earlier Flemish painters. As I shall argue in more detail elsewhere, these works were among the major stimuli for the widespread Italian admiration of Flemish painting during the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries.5 The culmination of the Italian fascination with Memling occurs in the work of Raphael. According to Vasari, Raphael began his train-

ing with his father, Giovanni Santi,6 a poet and painter at the court of Urbino.7 As writers have often noted, Santi probably introduced Raphael to Flemish painting,8 for his Cronaca rimata of about 1482-87 bestowed special praise on Jan van Eyck and Rogier van der Weyden.9 Vasari also tells us that Santi took Raphael to Perugia to study with Perugino.10 Scholars have questioned Vasari’s account, because Raphael was only eleven years old when Santi died in 1494. Some have argued that he remained in his father’s shop in Urbino until 1499 or 1500 before entering Perugino’s workshop.11 Others place him in Perugino’s shop sometime between 1493 and 1496,12 and still others argue that he worked with Perugino as a colleague rather than an apprentice.13 In any case, an association with Perugino would have further stimulated Raphael’s interest in Flemish painting, for Perugino was one of the lateQuattrocento artists most influenced by i fiamminghi in general and, as I shall argue elsewhere, by Memling in particular.14.

Fig. 1. Raphael, Virgin and Child, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, #508a © Ashmolean Museum, Oxford MEMLING’S IMPACT ON THE EARLY RAPHAEL

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Fig. 2. Hans Memling, Triptych of Benedetto Portinari Fig. 2A. Saint Benedict (left panel), Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence © Gabinetto Fotografico della Soprintendenza ai Beni Artistici e Storici di Firenze

Fig. 2B. Madonna and Child (centre panel), bpk/Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin. Photo: Walter Steinkoph

In 1504, Raphael moved to Florence, where he spent much of his time until he was called to Rome in 1508. This is known as his Florentine period, although he travelled to Urbino and Perugia frequently during these years.15 Scholars have recognised that he was profoundly influenced by the paintings he saw in Florence, especially those by Leonardo da Vinci, but his interest in Flemish painting has received less attention. Scattered references to Memling’s influence on Raphael abound in the literature, although the extent of this influence has yet to be evaluated. Through consideration of selected works by Memling that were accessible to Raphael during his Florentine period, this essay will argue that his paintings of these years are more indebted to Memling than scholars have yet acknowledged. Memling’s Berlin Madonna was the centre panel of a devotional triptych (Figs. 2A-C) commissioned by Benedetto Portinari (14661551),16 a Florentine banker working in Bruges for his uncle, Tommaso Portinari. The wings 180

MEMLING’S IMPACT ON THE EARLY RAPHAEL

Fig. 2C. Portrait of Benedetto Portinari (right panel), Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence © Gabinetto Fotografico della Soprintendenza ai Beni Artistici e Storici di Firenze

of this triptych (Florence, Galleria degli Uffizi; Figs. 2A and C) depict Benedetto’s patron saint, Saint Benedict, on the left, and Benedetto at the right, resting his elbow and book on a foreground ledge inscribed with a date of 1487. As the landscape motifs in all three panels of the triptych were quoted in a number of Florentine paintings of the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries,17 it must have arrived in Florence shortly after its execution. Raphael probably saw it in the church of Sant’ Egidio at S. Maria Nuova, which was the Portinari family chapel as well as the hospital church.18 If the Norton Simon Madonna dates before Raphael moved to Florence in 1504, as most writers believe,19 it supports the theory that he had visited Florence earlier, perhaps in the company of Perugino.20 Raphael would also have known some of Memling’s half-length portraits that depict the sitter with a three-quarter or seven-eighths view of the face before a landscape background, such as the Portrait of a Man with a Coin of about 1473-74 in Antwerp (Koninklijk Museum

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Fig. 3. Hans Memling, Portrait of a Man with a Coin, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunsten, Antwerp © IRPA-KIK, Brussels

Fig. 5. Perugino, Portrait of Francesco delle Opere, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence © Gabinetto Fotografico della Soprintendenza ai Beni Artistici e Storici di Firenze.

Fig. 4. Hans Memling, Portrait of A Man with a Letter, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence © Gabinetto Fotografico della Soprintendenza ai Beni Artistici e Storici di Firenze

voor Schone Kunsten; Fig. 3), and the Portrait of a Man with a Letter of about 1475 (Florence, Galleria degli Uffizi; Fig. 4), formerly in the Corsini Collection.21 These portraits, also commissioned by Italians working in Bruges, arrived in Italy during the last quarter of the fifteenth century and literally transformed Italian portraiture.22 In Florence, they influenced such works as Perugino’s Portrait of Francesco delle Opera, signed and dated 1494 on the reverse (Florence, Galleria degli Uffizi; Fig. 5).23 Most earlier Italian portraits depict the sitter in profile against a neutral background or sky.24 Among the earliest preserved Italian portraits before a landscape are Piero della Francesco’s Portraits of Federigo da Montefeltro and Battista Sforza of about 1472-73 (Florence, Galleria degli Uffizi; Figs. 6-7).25 Here, however, the heads are still portrayed in profile rather than in the three-quarter view that became the norm in the last quarter of the fifteenth century, and their panoramic landscapes with low horizons are depicted from a higher viewpoint than in most Italian portraits of these years.26 In contrast, the sitter in Perugino’s porMEMLING’S IMPACT ON THE EARLY RAPHAEL

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Fig. 6. Piero della Francesca, Portrait of Battista Sforza, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence © Gabinetto Fotografico della Soprintendenza ai Beni Artistici e Storici di Firenze

trait turns to look out of the painting as in Memling’s Corsini portrait (Fig. 4), where the figure also rests his hand on a foreground ledge. Among the other similarities between these two portraits are the proportion of the sitter to the size of the panel and the deep landscape behind him. In both works, the landscape is lowest in the centre, with the horizon line approximately at the level of the base of the sitter’s skull and hills rising slightly on either side. The heads of both sitters rise above the landscape, with wisps of hair silhouetted against the sky, and their direct gazes convey a remarkably similar sense of quiet self-confidence. A number of half-length male portraits attributed to Raphael, such as the Portrait of a Young Man in Budapest of about 1503 (Szépmüvesezti Museum; Fig. 8), repeat this portrait type.27 Here again, the sitter rests his hand on a foreground parapet and looks confidently out at the viewer. Other similarities to Memling’s portraits include the proportion of the sitter to the size of the panel and the curving road in the landscape behind him. 182

MEMLING’S IMPACT ON THE EARLY RAPHAEL

Fig. 7. Piero della Francesca, Portrait of Federigo da Montefeltro, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence © Gabinetto Fotografico della Soprintendenza ai Beni Artistici e Storici di Firenze

Fig. 8. Raphael, Portrait of a Young Man, Szépmüvesezti Museum, Budapest © The Budapest Museum of Fine Arts

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Fig. 9. Raphael, Self-Portrait, Hampton Court, The Royal Collection © 2007, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II

Fig. 10. Umbrian, Portrait of a Young Man, Alte Pinakothek, Munich © Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, Munich

Fig. 11. Detail of Fig. 10 © Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, Munich

Fig. 12. Detail of Fig. 17A © Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, Munich

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The Budapest panel is one of a series of disputed early self-portraits by Raphael.28 One of the most controversial of these is the example at Hampton Court of about 1505-06 (Fig. 9), which probably also included the sitter’s arms and a foreground parapet before it was cut down.29 Here, as in a portrait of about 1505 in Munich (Alte Pinakothek; Fig. 10), Raphael’s name is inscribed on the buttons or eyelets of the sitter’s doublet.30 As scholars have recognised, the landscape of the Munich portrait derives from Memling’s Saint John the Baptist (Fig. 17A), to which we shall return presently; the group of trees at the left is quoted from Memling’s panel, and even includes a similar deer drinking from a pool (Figs. 11-12).31 These trees are echoed in a final portrait of this series at the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles, also of questionable attribution (Fig. 13).32 As in the Munich portrait, the sitter in this example is flanked by marble columns that resemble those in a number of Memling’s portraits, such as the donor panel of the previously mentioned Triptych of Benedetto Portinari (Fig. 2C). Perhaps the most famous portraits that Raphael produced during his Florentine period are those of Agnolo and Maddalena Doni (Florence, Palazzo Pitti; Figs. 14-15), painted two or three years after the couple’s marriage in 1504.33 These also derive ultimately from the portrait type established by Memling, although their greater monumentality reflects the influence of Leonardo. Scholars have often noted that the composition of the Maddalena panel is based on the Mona Lisa (Fig. 16),34 which, as I have argued elsewhere, resembles Memling’s Berlin Madonna (Plate 13 and Fig. 2B) in its placement of a pyramidal figure on a loggia in front of a deep landscape.35 As mentioned at the beginning of this essay, the latter was one of the sources of Raphael’s Madonna with Book (Plate 12). The Berlin Madonna may also be reflected in the Portrait of Maddalena Doni, where the luxurious fabrics of the sitter’s costume and the transparent veil covering her shoulders suggest that Raphael was trying to emulate the attention to detail, textural variation, and rich colour of Memling’s works.36 But the work by Memling that had the most profound influence on Raphael was the diptych formed by the Saint John the Baptist in Munich (Alte Pinakothek; Fig. 17A) and the Saint Veronica in Washington (National Gallery 184

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Fig. 13. Circle of Raphael, Portrait of a Young Man in Red, The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles © The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles

of Art; Fig. 17B and Plate 15).37 That these two panels formed a diptych is confirmed by their almost identical dimensions and their similar placement of the saints in the foreground of a bucolic, sun-filled landscape that is continuous across both panels. Raphael must have seen this diptych in the collection of his friend and patron, the poet, humanist, and later Cardinal, Pietro Bembo (1470-1547).38 Lorne Campbell proposed that Bembo’s father, Bernardo (1433-1519), acquired it when he served as Venetian ambassador to the Burgundian court from 1471 to 1474.39 It is first mentioned in the Bembo Collection in a letter of 1502, in which another of Bernardo’s sons, Carlo (d. 1503), described it as a Northern diptych of Saints John and Veronica.40 After Bernardo’s death, it must have passed into Pietro Bembo’s collection in Padua, where Marcantonio Michiel, a Venetian writer and collector, saw it in the late 1520s or early 1530s. Michiel described the diptych in his Notizia d’opere di disegno, attributing it to Memling around 1470 but identifying the figures as Saint John the Baptist and the Virgin and Child.41 Some writers have argued that there were two

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Fig. 14. Raphael, Portrait of Agnolo Doni, Palazzo Pitti, Florence © Gabinetto Fotografico della Soprintendenza ai Beni Artistici e Storici di Firenze

Fig. 15. Raphael, Portrait of Maddalena Doni, Palazzo Pitti, Florence © Gabinetto Fotografico della Soprintendenza ai Beni Artistici e Storici di Firenze

diptychs in the Bembo Collection, one depicting the Virgin and Child in the right wing and one portraying Saint Veronica. Others have reasonably concluded that both sources refer to the same diptych and that Michiel confused the figure of Saint Veronica on the right wing with the Virgin and Child,42 a possibility to which we shall return at the end of this essay. David Alan Brown proposed that Pietro Bembo took Memling’s diptych to Urbino when he moved there from Venice to join the court in 1506, suggesting that Raphael saw it during a trip to Urbino in that year.43 Among the works in which Raphael quoted this diptych is his Holy Family with the Lamb (Madrid, Museo del Prado; Fig. 18), which is signed and dated 1507 on the trim around the neckline of Mary’s bodice.44 The meticulously depicted plants in the foreground of this composition resemble those in both panels of Memling’s diptych, whereas the lamb with fragile, slender legs is modelled on the lamb in the Munich Baptist panel.45 The Virgin’s red dress covered with a blue cape suggests comparison to Memling’s Saint Veronica, as do the rounded trees with highlighted leaves and the cityscape in the upper left.

Fig. 16. Leonardo da Vinci, Mona Lisa, Musée du Louvre, Paris © Photo RMN/ © Hervé Lewandowski/ Thierry Le Mage MEMLING’S IMPACT ON THE EARLY RAPHAEL

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Fig. 17. Hans Memling, Diptych of Saints John the Baptist and Veronica (The ‘Bembo Diptych’) Fig. 17A. Saint John the Baptist (left wing), Alte Pinakothek, Munich © Bayerische Staatsgemäldesammlungen, Alte Pinakothek, Munich

Fig. 17B. Saint Veronica (right wing), National Gallery of Art, Samuel H. Kress Collection, Washington, D.C. © 2007 Board of Trustees, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

One of the paintings that best demonstrates Raphael’s familiarity with this diptych is his Saint George and the Dragon of about 1506 in Washington (National Gallery of Art; Fig. 19), in which Raphael would seem to have been competing with Memling.46 Although the horse and rider in this painting derive from studies by Leonardo,47 they are placed in a landscape modelled on Memling’s diptych. As Brown observed, the landscape of the Washington Saint George is an adaptation in reverse of the one in Memling’s Baptist panel; the outcropping of rocks on the right of Memling’s work appears at the left in Raphael’s panel, whereas the group of trees with slender trunks is in the right background rather than on the left.48 The Saint Veronica includes additional details that reappear in Raphael’s panel, such as the turrets of the city in the background, rising above small rounded trees and silhouetted against the sky, and the tall slender trees growing out of the rocks at the left. Other similarities to Memling’s diptych include the high-

lights on the leaves, the way the sky lightens toward the horizon, the general tonality, and even the specific hues.49 Meticulously described plants like those stretched across the lower border of the Saint George reappear in a number of Raphael’s works of this period. Scholars have argued that these plants derive from Leonardo’s botanical studies,50 but their careful isolation from each other in the foreground of Raphael’s Florentine paintings suggests that Memling’s diptych was also among their sources. This is especially likely in Raphael’s images of the full-length Virgin and Child with the young Saint John the Baptist produced in these years. The figure groups of these paintings derive ultimately from Leonardo’s Madonna of the Rocks at the Louvre, but, like the horse and rider in the Washington Saint George, they are set in deep landscapes derived from Memling.51 The Madonna of the Meadow (Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum; Plate 14), dated 1505 or 1506 in gold Roman numerals on the Virgin’s

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Fig. 18. Raphael, Holy Family with the Lamb, Museo del Prado, Madrid © Museo del Prado, Madrid

Fig. 19. Raphael, Saint George and the Dragon, National Gallery of Art, Andrew W. Mellon Collection, Washington, D.C. © 2007 Board of Trustees, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

Fig. 20. Raphael, Madonna of the Goldfinch, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence © Gabinetto Fotografico della Soprintendenza ai Beni Artistici e Storici di Firenze

Fig. 21. Raphael, La Belle Jardinière Musée du Louvre, Paris © Photo RMN /© Jean-Gilles Berizzi

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neckline,52 is the earliest of this series and perhaps the most indebted to Memling.53 It echoes his Saint Veronica (Fig. 17B and Plate 15) in the hillocks leading the eye back to a town in the left background, the rounded trees at the far right, and the tall feathery trees silhouetted against the sky on the left.54 In the much-damaged Madonna of the Goldfinch of about 1506 (Florence, Galleria degli Uffizi; Fig. 20), a pyramidal figure dressed in red and blue is similarly placed in the foreground of a deep landscape.55 The third example of this series is La Belle Jardinière of 1508 (Paris, Musée du Louvre; Fig. 21), where the tall trees silhouetted against the sky at the far left, the carefully described plants in the foreground, and the Flemish town in the right background also recall Memling’s work.56 These similarities may explain why Marcantonio Michiel identified Saint Veronica as the Virgin and Child when he saw Memling’s diptych in Pietro Bembo’s collection.57 Noting that Michiel made frequent iconographical errors, Jennifer Fletcher argued that what he probably remembered seeing was a ‘woman seated with something involving a head over her knee’, which led him to guess that it was a Virgin and Child.58 This guess may well have resulted from

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Michiel’s knowledge of Raphael’s full-length Florentine Madonnas, such as the example in Vienna, which was probably painted for Taddeo Taddei (1470-1528).59 According to Vasari, Raphael executed two works for Taddei, who, Vasari tells us, was one of Raphael’s best friends during his Florentine period.60 Raphael may have been introduced to Taddei by Pietro Bembo,61 who was a member of Michiel’s social set during the latter’s stay in Rome from 1518 to 1520; in these years, both Michiel and Bembo were close to Raphael, and Michiel’s friendship with Bembo continued for many years thereafter.62 These connections suggest that Michiel was familiar with at least one of Raphael’s fulllength Florentine Madonnas, probably the example in Vienna (Plate 14), which he could have seen in the Taddei Collection when he visited Florence in the summer of 1514 or during a brief stay there in the middle of November 1520.63 The Saint Veronica (Plate 15 and Fig. 17B) may thus have reminded him of a Virgin and Child because it is echoed in Raphael’s paintings of this theme. If so, Michiel would have been the first to recognise, albeit subconsciously, Raphael’s profound indebtedness to Memling.

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NOTES

This essay is based on a presentation at the College Art Association Meeting in Seattle in February 2004 and on the last section of my monograph on Memling in progress, which is expanded from Barbara G. Lane, ‘Memling and the Workshop of Verrocchio’, in Le Dessin sous-jacent et la technologie dans la peinture, Colloque XII, 11-13 septembre 1997. La peinture dans les Pays-Bas au 16e siècle. Pratiques d’atelier. Infrarouges et autres méthodes d’investigation, ed. by Hélène Verougstraete and Roger Van Schoute (Louvain, 1999), pp. 243-50. 1

Anne H. van Buren, ‘The Canonical Office in Renaissance Painting: Raphael’s Madonna at Nones,’ Art Bulletin 57 (1975), p. 46. The drawing is in the Ashmolean Museum; see K. T. Parker, Catalogue of the Collection of Drawings in the Ashmolean Museum, 2, Italian Schools (Oxford, 1956), pp. 257-58, #508a. 2 John Pope-Hennessy, Raphael (The Wrightsman Lectures) (London, 1970), p. 180, recognised the Flemish characteristics of this landscape, noting that the reflection of the castle in the water and the trees are painted with an ‘Eyckian sensibility’. 3 Dirk De Vos, Hans Memling, The Complete Works (Antwerp

and Ghent, 1994), #9, 28, 41, 42, 44, 48, 49, 50, 58, 79, and the Pagagnotti Triptych (#52 and 89). This list differs from the one published in Lane, ‘Memling’, n. 4, as I no longer believe that the following works can be placed in Italy before 1510: De Vos, Hans Memling, #11, 56, and 57 (as discussed in the last section of my monograph on Memling in progress). 4 See Paula Nuttall, ‘Domenico Ghirlandaio and Northern Art’, Apollo 143 (June, 1996), p. 21; and Paula Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence. The Impact of Netherlandish Painting, 14001500 (New Haven and London, 2004), p. 151. 5 This subject is discussed in more detail in my monograph on Memling in progress. For similar opinions, see: Michael Rohlmann, ‘Zitate flämischer Landschaftsmotive in Florentiner Quattrocentomalerei’, in Italienische Frührenaissance und nordeuropäisches Spätmittelalter, ed. by Joachim Poeschke (Munich, 1993), pp. 237-41 and 244-45; Keith Christiansen, ‘The View from Italy’, in From Van Eyck to Bruegel. Early Netherlandish Painting in The Metropolitan Museum of Art, ed. by Maryan W. Ainsworth and Keith Christiansen (New York, 1998), pp. 54-57 (examining Memling’s prestige in Italy); Lane, ‘Memling’, p. 243; Paula Nuttall, ‘Lacking only Breath. Italian Responses to Netherlandish Portraiture’, in The Age of Van Eyck, The Mediterranean World and Early Netherlandish Painting, 1430-1530, exh. cat. (Bruges, Groningemuseum, 2002) ed. by Till-Holger Borchert (Ghent and Amsterdam, 2002), p. 202; Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, esp. p. 204; and Paula Nuttall, ‘Memling and the European Renaissance Portrait’, in Memling’s Portraits, exh. cat. (Madrid, Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza; Bruges, Groeningemuseum; and New York, The Frick Collection, 2005) ed. by Till-Holger Borchert (Ghent and Amsterdam, 2005), pp. 75-83. 6 Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ piú eccellenti pittori, scultori, ed architettori (2nd edn, 1568), ed. by Gaetano Milanesi, 9 vols. (Florence, 1878-85) 4, pp. 316-17. 7 Santi worked first for Federigo da Montefeltro and then Federigo’s son, Guidobaldo; on Santi and his activities for the court, see: Caterina Limentani Virdis, ‘Alcune note e proposte sul fiamminghismo di Giovanni Santi’, in Giovanni Santi. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi (Urbino, Convento di Santa

Chiara, 17/18/19 marzo 1995), ed. by Ranieri Varesi (Milan, 1999), pp. 115-18; Jürg Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael in Florence (London, 1996), pp. 17-19; and Tom Henry and Carol Plazzotta, ‘Raphael: From Urbino to Rome’, in Raphael from Urbino to Rome, exh. cat. (London, National Gallery, 200405) ed. by Hugo Chapman, Tom Henry, and Carol Plazzotta (London, 2004), pp. 18-21. 8

For example, Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, p. 247.

9

Giovanni Santi, La vita e le gesta di Federico di Montefeltro, Duca d’Urbino, ed. by Luigi Michelini Tocci, 2 vols. (Vatican City, 1985), 2, p. 673. Although Santi’s poem does not mention Memling among the many praiseworthy painters active in Bruges, Limentani Virdis, ‘Alcune note’, pp. 117-18, argued that Santi must have known some of Memling’s works or copies of them. She also noted some curious parallels between Santi and Memling, who both died on 11 August 1494. 10

Vasari, Le vite, 4, p. 317.

11 See, for example: Rudolf Wittkower, ‘The Young Raphael’, Allen Memorial Art Museum Bulletin 20 (1963), pp. 159-60; Raphael and America, exh. cat. (Washington, D.C., National Gallery of Art, 1983) by David Alan Brown (Washington, D.C., 1983) p. 110; and L. D. Ettlinger, ‘Raphael’s Early Patrons’, in James Beck, ed., Raphael Before Rome, Studies in the History of Art, 17 (1986), p. 86 (arguing that Raphael served an apprenticeship in his father’s workshop, which continued to function well after the latter’s death). For recent arguments supporting Raphael’s training in Santi’s workshop, see Henry and Plazzotta, ‘Raphael’, pp. 16-18. 12 See, for example: Francis Russell, ‘Perugino and the Early Experience of Raphael’, in Beck, 1986, p. 190; Konrad Oberhuber, ‘The Colonna Altarpiece in the Metropolitan Museum and Problems of the Early Style of Raphael’, Metropolitan Museum Journal 12 (1977), p. 67; and Charles M. Rosenberg, ‘Raphael and the Florentine Istoria’, in Beck, 1986, p. 176. For the suggestion that Raphael was working with Perugino as early as 1493 or 1494 in Florence rather than Perugia, see Luisa Becherucci, ‘Raphael and Painting’, in Luisa Becherucci et al., The Complete Works of Raphael (New York, 1970), p. 12; for the question of when Raphael entered Perugino’s workshop, see also the references cited in Sylvia Ferino Pagden, ‘The Early Raphael and his Umbrian Contemporaries’, in Beck, 1986, p. 105, nn. 5-8. 13 See, for example: Sylvia Ferino, ‘A Master-painter and his Pupils: Pietro Perugino and his Umbrian Workshop’, Oxford Art Journal 3 (1979), p. 13; and Henry and Plazzotta, ‘Raphael’, p. 16. 14 See the last section of my monograph on Memling in progress. 15 For a convenient summary of Raphael’s activities in this period, see Minna Moore Ede, in Raphael from Urbino to Rome, pp. 304-05. Roger Jones and Nicholas Penny, Raphael (New Haven and London, 1983), p. 21, noted that he is mentioned in Perugia and Urbino during these years as well as in Florence; David Alan Brown, in Raphael and America, p. 197, n. 147, suggested that he went back and forth between Florence and Urbino, which ‘[...] he still regarded his home.’ 16 De Vos, Hans Memling, #79. For Benedetto Portinari, see Michael Rohlmann, Auftragskunst und Sammlerbild: Alt-

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niederländische Tafelmalerei im Florenz des Quattrocento (doctoral dissertation, University of Cologne, 1990) (Alfter, 1994), pp. 87-89.

franchi, ‘Firenze’, p. 155; Lane, ‘Memling’, p. 245; Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, p. 221; Tom Henry, in Raphael from Urbino to Rome, p. 82; and Nuttall, ‘Memling’, p. 82.

17 See Rohlmann, ‘Zitate flämischer Landschaftsmotive’, p. 245; and Rohlmann, Auftragskunst, p. 87.

24 For the profile view in Italian portraits, see J. Lipman, ‘The Florentine Profile Portrait in the Quattrocento,’ Art Bulletin, 18 (1936), pp. 54-102; for the relationship of profile portraits to portraits on antique coins and fifteenth-century medals, see: Joanna Woods-Marsden, ‘“Ritratto al Naturale”: Questions of Realism and Idealism in Early Renaissance Portraits’, Art Journal 46 (1987), pp. 211-13; and Campbell, Renaissance Portraits, p. 81.

18 As the panels of Benedetto and Saint Benedict entered the collection of the Uffizi from S. Maria Nuova, scholars assume that the triptych was commissioned for this chapel. 19 A date of 1502-03 was proposed, for example, by Luitpold Dussler, Raphael. A Critical Catalogue of his Pictures, WallPaintings and Tapestries (Munich, 1966), trans. by Sebastian Cruft (London and New York, 1971), p. 7; and Burton B. Fredericksen, ‘Raphael and Raphaelesque Paintings in California: Technical Considerations and the Use of Underdrawing in his Pre-Roman Phase,’ in John Shearman and Marcia B. Hall, The Princeton Raphael Symposium. Science in the Service of Art History (Princeton, 1990), p. 105. Jürg Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael. A Critical Catalogue of his Paintings. 1. The Beginnings in Umbria and Florence, ca. 1500-1508 (Münster, 2001), p. 150, #11, suggested 1504 (but before Raphael moved to Rome); see also Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael in Florence, p. 151. 20

For opinions that Raphael visited Florence before 1504, see: Becherucci, ‘Raphael’, pp. 12-15; Oberhuber, ‘Colonna Altarpiece’, p. 67; Mina Gregori, in Raffaello a Firenze. Dipinti e disegni delle collezione fiorentine, exh. cat. (Florence, Palazzo Pitti, 1984) (Milan, 1984), p. 20; Russell, ‘Perugino’, p. 196; Rosenberg, ‘Raphael’, p. 176; David Alan Brown, ‘Raphael, Leonardo, and Perugino: Fame and Fortune in Florence,’ in Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael in Renaissance Florence from 1500 to 1508, ed. by Serafina Hagar (Washington, D.C., 1992), p. 50, n. 17; Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael in Florence, p. 36; Konrad Oberhuber, Raphael. The Paintings (Milan, 1999), p. 45. 21 De Vos, Hans Memling, #42 and 44. For the early dates of these portraits, see Till-Holger Borchert, in Memling’s Portraits, #10 and 11. 22

As argued in Lane, ‘Memling’, p. 245. See also: Everett Fahy, ‘The Earliest Works of Fra Bartolommeo,’ Art Bulletin 51 (1969), p. 147; Everett Fahy, Some Followers of Domenico Ghirlandaio (doctoral dissertation, Harvard University, 1968) (New York, 1976), p. 59; Jonathan Sherman, ‘The Influence of Hans Memling on Florentine Portraiture, 1475-1505’ (unpublished master’s thesis, Queens College, City University of New York, 1988); Lorne Campbell, Renaissance Portraits. European Portrait-Painting in the 14th, 15th and 16th Centuries (New Haven and London, 1990), pp. 120-21; Rohlmann, Auftragskunst, p. 85; Bert W. Meijer, ‘Piero and the North’, in Piero della Francesco and his Legacy, ed. by Marilyn Aronberg Lavin, Studies in the History of Art, 48 (1995), p. 144; Liana Castelfranchi, ‘Firenze e la ritrattistica di Memling’, in Settanta studiosi italiani. Scritti per l’Istituto Germanico di Storia dell’Arte di Firenze, ed. by Cristina Acidini Luchinat et al. (Florence, 1997), p. 151; Christiansen, ‘The View from Italy’, p. 56; Susanne Kress, ‘Memlings Triptychon des Benedetto Portinari und Leonardos Mona Lisa’, in Porträt-Landscaft-Interieur. Jan van Eycks Rolin-Madonna im ästhetischen Kontext, ed. by Christiane Kruse and Felix Thürlemann (Tübingen, 1999), p. 221; Nuttall, ‘“Lacking only Breath”’, p. 202; Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, pp. 220-21; and Nuttall, ‘Memling’, pp. 78-83. 23 For this portrait, see Ettore Camesasca, L’opera completa del Perugino (Milan, 1969), #37; and Pietro Scarpellini, Perugino (Milan, 1984), #60. The sitter was first identified by G. Milanesi in Vasari, Le vite, 3, p. 604. Its resemblance to examples by Memling was noted by, for example, Frederick Hartt, History of Italian Renaissance Art, 3rd ed (Englewood Cliffs, NJ and New York, 1987), p. 369; Sherman, ‘Influence’, pp. 5354; Campbell, Renaissance Portraits, p. 233, fig. 252; Castel-

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25 In contrast to earlier writers who dated these portraits in the 1460s, Gilbert placed them between 1472 and 1473 and argued that they were commissioned after Battista’s death in childbirth in 1472, as a memorial to her. See: Creighton Gilbert, ‘New Evidence for the Date of Piero della Francesca’s Count and Countess of Urbino’, Marsyas 1 (1941), pp. 41-53; and Creighton Gilbert, Change in Piero della Francesca (Locust Valley, NY, 1968), pp. 29-32 and nn. 44-52 on pp. 92-104. See also Ronald Lightbown, Piero della Francesca (New York, London, Paris, 1992), pp. 231-35. 26 As noted in Lane, ‘Memling’, p. 245. Whereas early writers argued that Piero’s portraits influenced those by Memling (for example, Erwin Panofsky, Early Netherlandish Painting: Its Origins and Character, 2 vols (Cambridge, MA, 1953), 1, p. 349), more recent discussions recognise that the influence went in the other direction; by the early 1470s, some of Memling’s portraits had probably arrived in Italy, and a few writers have argued that these inspired Piero’s landscape backgrounds (see, for example: Lightbown, Piero della Francesca, p. 231; Meijer, ‘Piero’, p. 144; Paola Tinagli, Women in Italian Renaissance Art (Manchester and New York, 1997), p. 58; and Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, p. 288, n. 86). 27 For this portrait, see Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael, pp. 52-53 and 282, #41, accepting it as autograph and suggesting that it derives directly from Perugino’s Portrait of Francesco delle Opera. 28 Joanna Woods-Marsden, Renaissance Self-Portraiture. The Visual Construction of Identity and the Social Status of the Artist (New Haven and London, 1998), p. 112, suggested that this portrait and the other examples of the series are reflections of Raphael’s early self-portraits. Others have argued that the Budapest portrait depicts Pietro Bembo; see esp. K. Garas, ‘Die Bildnisse Pietro Bembos in Budapest,’ Acta Historiae Artium 16 (1970), pp. 57-67, and Becherucci, ‘Raphael’, p. 65 and fig. 30. 29 As first proposed in Becherucci, ‘Raphael’, p. 66; see also John Shearman, The Early Italian Pictures in the Collection of Her Majesty the Queen (Cambridge, 1983), p. 210. 30 Both of these examples were accepted as self-portraits by Raphael in Shearman, Early Italian Pictures, pp. 208-11, #217. The Hampton Court portrait, also accepted by Becherucci, ‘Raphael’, p. 66, was rejected by Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael, pp. 315-16, #X-16. For the Munich portrait, see: Raphael in der Alten Pinakothek, exh. cat. (Munich, Alte Pinakothek, 1983) by Hubertus von Sonnenburg (Munich, 1983), pp. 106-08; and Hubertus von Sonnenburg, ‘The Examination of Raphael’s Paintings in Munich’, in Shearman and Hall, 1990, pp. 77-78. Arguments in favour of attributing it to Raphael occur in Carlo Volpe, ‘Due questioni raffaellesche’, Paragone 75 (1956), pp. 3-18, and Becherucci, ‘Raphael’, pp. 43-44. 31 As first recognised by Volpe, ‘Due questioni’, pp. 1112. See also Lorne Campbell, ‘Notes on Netherlandish Pictures in the Veneto in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries’, Burlington Magazine 123 (1981), p. 471; David Alan Brown, in Raphael and America, p. 156; Von Sonnenberg, ‘Examination’, p. 78; Von Sonnenberg, in Raphael in der Alten Pinakothek, p. 107; Hans Memling’s Saint John the Baptist and

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Saint Veronica, exh. cat. (Washington, D.C., National Gallery of Art, 1994) by John Oliver Hand (Washington, D.C., 1994); and Hans Memling: Johannes und Veronika. Meditationsbilder aus dem späten Mittelalter, exh. cat. (Munich, Neue Pinakothek, 1995) by Peter Eikemeier (Munich, 1995), p. 6. A similar deer appears in the Hampton Court portrait, as noted by John Shearman, ‘A Drawing for Raphael’s Saint George’, Burlington Magazine 125 (1983), p. 25, n. 53; and Shearman, Early Italian Pictures, p. 210. 32 For this portrait, see esp. Fredericksen, ‘Raphael’, pp. 105-09. 33 On these portraits and their dating, see: Raffaello a Firenze, 1984, pp. 105-18, #8-9; Erich Steingräber, ‘Anmerkungen zu Raffaels Bildnissen des Ehepaars Doni’, in Forma et subtilitas. Festschrift für Wolfgang Schöne zum 75. Geburtstag, ed. by Wilhelm Schlink and Martin Sperlich (Berlin and New York, 1986), pp. 77-88, esp. pp. 83-85 (where they are related to the Netherlandish tradition of double portraits popularised by Memling); Alessandro Cecchi, ‘Agnolo e Maddalena Doni committenti di Raffaello’, in Studi su Raffaello. Atti del Congresso internazionale di studi (Urbino-Firenze 6-14 aprile 1984), 2 vols, ed. by Micaela Sambucco Hamoud and Maria Letizia Strocchi (Urbino, 1987), 1, pp. 429-39; Tinagli, Women in Italian Renaissance Art, pp. 93-98; Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael, pp. 294-97, #45; and Jeryldene M. Wood, ‘Young Raphael and the Practice of Painting in Renaissance Italy’, in The Cambridge Companion to Raphael, ed. by Marcia B. Hall (Cambridge, 2005), p. 28.

103-09; John Walker, ‘Ginevra de’ Benci by Leonardo da Vinci’, National Gallery of Art Report and Studies in the History of Art 1 (1967), pp. 2-3; and Nella Giannetto, Bernardo Bembo. Umanista e politico veneziano (Florence, 1985). 40 This letter was written to Isabella d’Este in Mantua, listing paintings that Carlo was lending her from his father’s collection; although no attribution is given for the diptych, writers agree that it was the one formed by the panels now in Munich and Washington. See, for example: Campbell, ‘Notes’, p. 471; Jennifer Fletcher, ‘Marcantonio Michiel, “che ha veduto assai”’, Burlington Magazine 123 (1981), p. 604; and Martha Wolff, in Hand and Wolff, 1986, p. 198. 41 Theodor Frimmel, Der Anonimo Morelliano (Marcanton Michiel’s Notizia d’opere del disegno), Quellenschriften für Kunstgeschichte und Kunsttechnik des Mittelalters und der Neuzeit, n.f. 1 (Vienna, 1888), p. 20, and Marcantonio Michiel, The Anonimo. Notes on Pictures and Works of Art in Italy made by an Anonymous Writer in the Sixteenth Century, trans. by Paolo Mussi, ed. by George C. Williamson (London, 1903), p. 21. For Michiel’s Notizia, see Jennifer Fletcher, ‘Marcantonio Michiel, “che ha veduto assai”’, pp. 602-08; for its dating, see Jennifer Fletcher, ‘Marcantonio Michiel: His Friends and Collection’, Burlington Magazine 123 (1981), p. 461 (placing it in the late 1520s or early 1530s); and M. Schmitter, ‘The Dating of Marcantonio Michiel’s “Notizia” on Works of Art in Padua’, Burlington Magazine 145 (2003), pp. 564-71 (arguing on p. 571 that his entry on the Bembo Diptych was not added to his discussion of the Bembo collection until 1537).

34 See, for example, Raffaello a Firenze, p. 115; Luba Freedman, ‘Raphael’s Perception of the Mona Lisa’, Gazette des beaux-arts, 6th per. 114 (1989), pp. 174-75; Tinagli, Women in Italian Renaissance Art, p. 93; Joanna Woods-Marsden, ‘Portrait of the Lady, 1430-1520’, in Virtue and Beauty. Leonardo’s Ginevra de’ Benci and Renaissance Portraits of Women, exh. cat. (Washington, D.C., National Gallery of Art, 2001-02) by David Alan Brown et al. (Princeton and Oxford, 2001), p. 79; Henry and Plazzotta, ‘Raphael,’ p. 45; and Wood, ‘Young Raphael’, p. 28.

42 This was first proposed by Campbell, ‘Notes’, p. 471. Fletcher, ‘Marcantonio Michiel, “che ha veduto assai”’, pp. 604-05 supported this conclusion, arguing that Michiel’s mistake was due to his lack of knowledge of the legend of Saint Veronica; see below, n. 58 and the accompanying text. See also David Alan Brown, in Raphael and America, pp. 153-54; Martha Wolff, in Hand and Wolff, 1986, p. 198; De Vos, Hans Memling, p. 205; John Oliver Hand, in Hans Memling’s Saint John the Baptist and Saint Veronica; and Peter Eikemeier, in Hans Memling: Johannes und Veronika, pp. 5-6.

35 Lane, ‘Memling’, p. 249. The relationship between these two paintings was also recognised by Frank Zöllner, Leonardo da Vinci, Mona Lisa. Das Porträt der Lisa del Giocondo. Legende und Geschichte (Frankfurt, 1994), pp. 24-26 and 54; and Kress, ‘Memlings Triptychon’, esp. pp. 228-30.

43 David Alan Brown, in Raphael and America, pp. 154-56 and p. 197, n. 146 (noting that Bembo could have had the diptych with him when he was in Gubbio in May 1505 or in Urbino in January 1506, before he joined the court there in September of that year); see also John Shearman, ‘On Raphael’s Chronology 1503-1508’, in Ars naturam adiuvans. Festschrift für Matthias Winner, ed. by Victoria v. Flemming and Sebastian Schütze (Mainz, 1996), p. 205 (noting that Bembo was also in Urbino in the spring of 1505).

36 See: John Shearman, Only Connect...Art and the Spectator in the Italian Renaissance (Princeton, 1992), p. 125 (comparing the fabrics and landscape to Netherlandish traditions); and Henry and Plazzotta, ‘Raphael’, p. 45. For a detailed description of these fabrics, see Tinagli, Women in Italian Renaissance Art, p. 98. 37 For this diptych, see: De Vos, Hans Memling, #50; Martha Wolff, in John Oliver Hand and Martha Wolff, The Collections of the National Gallery of Art, Systematic Catalogue, Early Netherlandish Painting, (Washington, D.C., 1986), pp. 193201; Hans Memling’s Saint John the Baptist and Saint Veronica; Hans Memling: Johannes und Veronika; and Christiane Kruse, ‘Eine gemälte Kunsttheorie im Johannes-Veronika-Diptychon von Hans Memling’, Pantheon 54 (1996), pp. 37-49. 38 On Pietro Bembo, see: C. Dionisotti, ‘Bembo, Pietro’, in Dizionario biografico degli italiani, 63 vols (Rome, 1960-), 8 (1966), pp. 133-51; C. Robertson, ‘Bembo, Cardinal Pietro’, in The Dictionary of Art, ed. by Jane Turner, 34 vols (London and New York, 1996), 3, p. 698; and Carol Kidwell, Pietro Bembo. Lover, Linguist, Cardinal (Montreal and Kingston, 2004). 39 Campbell, ‘Notes’, p. 471; see also Richard Walsh, ‘The Coming of Humanism to the Low Countries’, Humanistica Lovaniensia 25 (1976), p. 170. For Bernardo Bembo, see A. Ventura and M. Pecoraro, ‘Bembo, Bernardo,’ in Dizionario biografico degli italiani, 63 vols (Rome, 1960-), 8 (1966), pp.

44 For this painting, see, most recently, Tom Henry, in Raphael from Urbino to Rome, p. 194, #60, presenting evidence that it is the original by Raphael, rather than the version formerly in the Lee of Fareham Collection (for which see Lee of Fareham, ‘A New Version of Raphael’s Holy Family with the Lamb’, Burlington Magazine 64 (1934), pp. 3-19; and Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael, pp. 191-94, #20, supporting the latter as autograph and providing further bibliography for the controversy over which of these versions is the original). 45 As recognised by Lee of Fareham, ‘New Version’, p. 8; Volpe, ‘Due questioni’, p. 12; and Luciano Bellosi, ‘Un omaggio di Raffaello al Verrocchio’, in Studi su Raffaello. Atti del Congresso internazionale di studi (Urbino-Firenze 6-14 aprile 1984), 2 vols, ed. by Micaela Sambucco Hamoud and Maria Letizia Strocchi (Urbino, 1987), 1, p. 416. 46 As argued by Luciano Bellosi, ‘The Landscape “alla fiamminga”’, in Italy and the Low Countries – Artistic Relations. The Fifteenth Century (Proceedings of the Symposium held at Museum Catharijneconvent, Utrecht, 14 March 1994), ed. by Victor M. Schmidt, et al. (Florence, 1999), p. 104. Oberhuber, Raphael, p. 41, argued that the Netherlandish influence on Raphael is most evident in this work; see also Wood,

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‘Young Raphael’, p. 31. For Memling’s influence on this painting, see Lee of Fareham, ‘New Version’, p. 8; Volpe, ‘Due questioni’, p. 12; David Alan Brown, in Raphael and America, pp. 153-57; Jones and Penny, Raphael, p. 8; Martha Wolff, in Hand and Wolff, 1986, p. 199; Bellosi, ‘Omaggio’, p. 416; John Oliver Hand, in Hans Memling’s Saint John the Baptist and Saint Veronica; Peter Eikemeier, in Hans Memling: Johannes und Veronika, p. 6; and Marina Belozerskaya, Rethinking the Renaissance. Burgundian Arts Across Europe (Cambridge, 2002), pp. 268-69. For the Saint George, see also Fern Rusk Shapley, Catalogue of the Italian Paintings. National Gallery of Art, 2 vols (Washington, D.C., 1979), 1, pp. 391-94; and Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael, pp. 195-200, #21. It was probably painted for Guidobaldo da Montefeltro, as argued by, for example, David Alan Brown, in Raphael and America, pp. 135-38. 47

As noted by David Alan Brown, in Raphael and America, pp. 141-46. 48

Brown, in Raphael and America, p. 156.

49

Brown, in Raphael and America, p. 156.

50 For example, David Alan Brown, ‘Raphael’s Small Cowper Madonna and Madonna of the Meadow: Their Technique and Leonardo Sources’, Artibus et Historiae, 8 (1983) pp. 22-24. 51

As recognised by Christiansen, ‘View from Italy’, p. 56; Marina Belozerskaya, ‘An Unrecognized Source for Raphael’s Madonna of the Goldfinch’, Source, 21 (2002), p. 17; Belozerskaya, Rethinking the Renaissance, pp. 265-67; and Nuttall, From Flanders to Florence, p. 248. 52 The date depends on how the lettering is read; see Jones and Penny, Raphael, p. 33; Brown, ‘Raphael’s Small Cowper Madonna’, p. 17, placing it in late 1505 or early 1506; Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael, pp. 214-19, #26; and Henry and Plazzotta, ‘Raphael’, p. 40. 53 Oberhuber, Raphael, p. 57, noting the ‘Memling-like surface quality’ of the Vienna panel. 54

Brown, ‘Raphael’s Small Cowper Madonna’, p. 13, noted the ‘Flemish-inspired town’ in the Vienna painting. 55 As recognised by Belozerskaya, ‘Unrecognized Source’, pp. 17-21; and Belozerskaya, Rethinking the Renaissance, pp. 265-67. For this example, painted for Lorenzo Nasi and damaged when his house collapsed in a landslide in 1548, see Jones

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and Penny, Raphael, p. 33; Raffaello a Firenze, pp. 77-87, #5; Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael in Florence, p. 42; and Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael, pp. 219-22, #27. 56 As noted by Sylvie Béguin, in Raphael dans les collections françaises, exh. cat. (Paris, Galeries nationales du Grand Palais, 1983-84) ed. by Jean-Paul Boulanger and Geneviève Renisio (Paris, 1983), p. 84, where the plants are identified. Convincing arguments that this painting dates to 1508 are presented in Sylvie Béguin, ‘Nouvelles analyses résultantes de l’étude et la restauration des Raphaël du Louvre’, in Shearman and Hall, 1990, p. 41; this date was supported by Shearman, ‘On Raphael’s Chronology’, p. 203. For this painting, see also Jones and Penny, Raphael, pp. 33-34; and Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael, pp. 257-63, #35. 57

See above, notes 41-42 and the accompanying text.

58

Fletcher, ‘Marcantonio Michiel, “che ha veduto assai”’, pp. 604-05. 59 See: Pope-Hennessy, Raphael, p. 187; Jones and Penny, Raphael, p. 33; Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael in Florence, p. 186; Oberhuber, Raphael, p. 57; and Henry and Plazzotta, ‘Raphael’, p. 40. 60

Vasari, Le vite, 4, p. 321.

61

For Taddei and his friendship with Raphael and Bembo, see: Jones and Penny, Raphael, p. 33; Raffaello a Firenze, pp. 4041; Ettlinger, ‘Raphael’s Early Patrons’, p. 88; Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael in Florence, p. 38; Meyer zur Capellen, Raphael, pp. 38 and 214; Henry and Plazzotta, ‘Raphael’, p. 40; and Sheryl E. Reiss, ‘Raphael and his Patrons: From the Court of Urbino to the Curia and Rome’, in The Cambridge Companion to Raphael, ed. by Marcia B. Hall (Cambridge 2005), p. 46. 62 See Fletcher, ‘Marcantonio Michiel: His Friends and Collection’, pp. 455 and 461. Pietro Bembo was in Rome from 1512 to 1522. 63 Michiel was in Florence from 18 June to 9 July 1514 and for several days after arriving from Rome on 14 November 1520; see E. A. Cicogna, ‘Intorno la vita e le opere di Marcantonio Michiel’, Memorie del Reale istituto veneto di scienze, lettere ed arti 9 (1860), p. 361; and F. Nicolini, L’arte napoletana del Rinascimento e la lettera di Pietro Summonte a Marcantonio Michiel (Naples, 1925), pp. 80 and 83.

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Regional Styles and Political Ambitions: Margaret of Austria’s Monastic Foundation at Brou Laura D. Gelfand University of Akron When Margaret of Austria entered Dijon in 1501, her itinerary included the Chartreuse de Champmol, a site of dynastic significance for Margaret, the daughter of Mary of Burgundy and Maximilian I.1 The twenty-one year old princess passed through Dijon while en route to meet and marry her second husband, Philibert le Beau, the Duke of Savoy.2 Margaret was a descendant of Habsburg and Valois families, and the city of Dijon was of particular importance to her matrilineal Valois ancestors who had made it their political base for much of the fifteenth century. However, Dijon, along with the rest of the duchy of Burgundy had been controlled by the French since 1477, a bitter situation for Margaret and many of the Flemish who fondly remembered the glorious years of Valois rule. Margaret’s visit was a celebratory event that was also imbued with nostalgic sentiments. As Margaret stood before the portal at Champmol, with its sculpted portraits of Philip the Bold and Margaret of Flanders, she would have recognised the dynastic charge the foundation carried in its role as the Valois family mausoleum (Fig. 1). Certainly she would also have recognised the Flemish Gothic architectural style as one with which her family had long been associated. However, in 1501 Margaret could not possibly predict the myriad changes that were to occur in the decades to follow, nor how Champmol might inspire her own patronage. This paper investigates the construction history of Margaret’s most significant architectural commission, the monastic complex of St Nicolas of Tolentino at Brou, a building that reflects Margaret’s visit to Dijon in a number of important ways. The first designers and artists involved with this project were French but working in an Italianate style, then currently in vogue. Early in the building’s history these

artists were dismissed and a Flemish designer and atelier completed the building in a Flemish style. As I have written elsewhere, the changes in the building’s plan as it was designed and constructed are correlated with Margaret’s growing awareness of her public and political identity as regent of the Netherlands. However, such changes also display Margaret’s understanding of regional architectural styles.3 This paper will touch on the meaning inherent in such regional styles and discuss the intended messages behind Margaret’s patronage. Margaret of Austria is best known today for her important political role as regent of the Netherlands, a post she occupied, with one brief interruption, from 1507 until her death in 1530.4 Margaret was a remarkable patron of both literary and visual arts. The court she established at Mechelen, where she raised her nephew, the future Charles V, and his two sisters, was renowned for its rich art collection and the intellectuals and writers it employed.5

Fig. 1. Claus Sluter, Portal of the Chartreuse de Champmol, Dijon. Photo: L. D. Gelfand

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Fig. 2. Facade of the Church of St Nicolas of Tolentino at Brou. Photo: L.D. Gelfand

Margaret’s early life and marriages testify to the ordeals experienced all too frequently by women of noble birth in the Renaissance. As a child Margaret was betrothed to the French dauphin and raised in the French court only to be refuted by the dauphin in her teens. Her dislike of the French may stem from this experience, although a number of later events contributed to this as well. She then married the sickly Don Juan of Castille who died within months of their wedding, and to whom she bore her only child, a daughter who died soon after birth. Margaret then returned to the Netherlands where she was betrothed in 1501 to Philibert le Beau, the Duke of Savoy. Margaret found herself widowed for a second and final time at the age of 24, when Philibert died in 1504.6 Shortly after Philibert’s death Margaret began the fulfillment of a vow that had originally been made by her mother-in-law, by founding the church and monastery of St. Nicolas of Tolentino at Brou (Fig. 2).7 In 1480, Philip of Bresse, the father of Philibert le Beau, had miraculously survived a hunting accident and his wife, Margaret de Bourbon, vowed to 194

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rebuild a decrepit Benedictine monastery outside Bourg-en-Bresse in gratitude. The responsibility for fulfilling this vow had fallen to Philibert after the untimely death of his mother and it was then left to Margaret of Austria to complete after Philibert’s sudden death, it too the result of a hunting-related accident. Pope Julius II paved the way for the construction of the church and monastery by issuing two papal bulls and, on 28 August 1506, Margaret laid the first stone in one of the cloisters of her foundation.8 A Lombard order of Augustinian canons was housed in the monastery and most scholars have agreed that the church was dedicated to St Nicolas of Tolentino because Philibert had died on the Saint’s feast day. After its founding, Margaret of Austria began to press for the monastery’s rapid completion, but she was called to Mechelen to assume the duties of regent a few months later. The remainder of her involvement with the church at Brou was carried out long-distance through detailed communications and, although she never saw the foundation again, she closely monitored its progress until her death.9 Margaret of Austria’s social standing and the political intrigues she negotiated as regent are reflected in the changes that occurred in the planning and construction of the monastery at Brou. Early plans were for a small monastic complex with a double cloister and a church housing only the tombs of Margaret of Bourbon and Philibert. The scale of this foundation was appropriately modest for the widowed duchess of Savoy who would have had relatively limited financial resources. This initial plan was primarily intended to fulfill the vow made by Margaret’s mother-in-law; accordingly Margaret of Bourbon’s tomb, and that of her son Philibert, would have served as the central focus of the church. However, the conception of the foundation was greatly expanded two years into Margaret’s regency when, in 1509, she declared her intention to retire to Brou and to be buried there together with Philibert and Margaret of Bourbon. Margaret of Austria had refused to consider other marriage arrangements following the death of Philibert, strongly asserting her desire to remain a widow for the remainder of her life. The newly expanded plan for the foundation at Brou indicates her intention to

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Fig. 3. Plan of the monastery and church of St Nicolas of Tolentino at Brou, after Poiret

remain unmarried but, more significantly, it shows Margaret’s recognition that the regency of the Netherlands made her an individual who both deserved and could afford a suitably impressive burial site (Fig. 3).10 Jean Lemaire, Margaret’s court poet, who had encouraged her to build an impressive edifice in his poem, La Couronne Margaritique, was placed in charge of the first set of designs for the church. He was also responsible for hiring artists to work on the building and was even given the task of purchasing stone, a job for which he seems to have been particularly poorly suited. Lemaire was an internationally known author and he had served in the courts of Pierre de Beaujeu, the Duke of Bourbon (d. 1503); Margaret of Austria twice, once when she was duchess of Savoy and once when she was regent; and Anne of Brittany, the Queen of France.11 By 1509, the cloisters were underway, but construction of the church had not begun.12Letters exchanged between Margaret and Jean Lemaire indicate that he, together with Jean Perréal and Michel Colombe, had been contracted to design a set of models for

three tombs, including Margaret’s.13 Colombe and Perréal had been employed at the French court before entering Margaret’s service, and she was undoubtedly familiar with the work they had done there. In Nantes, Perréal and Colombe had created a tomb for the parents of Anne of Bretagne, François II and Marguerite de Foix (Fig. 4). This imposing tomb, which is strongly Italianate in design, includes life-size gisants of the king and queen atop a black granite slab. Saints are placed in shallow niches around the sides of the tomb and large carved personifications of the four cardinal Virtues stand at the corners.14 How much the completed tombs at Brou rely on the original plans drafted by Perréal and Colombe, or indeed the ideas underlying the tomb in Nantes, is difficult to establish with any certainty.15 However, it was with Margaret’s marriage to Philibert that her ties to the Italianate styles of the French court were strengthened. The second marriage of her father, Maximilian, to Bianca Maria Sforza of Milan (d. 1510) brought her into direct contact with the art of Northern Italy.16 REGIONAL STYLES AND POLITICAL AMBITIONS

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Fig. 4. Jean Perréal and Michel Colombe, tomb of Francois II and Marguerite de Foix, 1499, Cathedral, Nantes, France. Photo: L.D. Gelfand

Margaret also consulted the Italian sculptor, Pietro Torrigiano who received payment from Margaret in 1510 for work he had done for her the previous year repairing the broken neck of a sculpted portrait of Mary of France (Fig. 5).17 Margaret spoke with the Italian sculptor about the designs of the tombs at Brou during this period, however Torrigiano left the Continent for England and the patronage of Henry VIII in 1511.18 Dow theorises that the choice of Torrigiano in 1511 was a politically significant one since it was in this year that Henry VIII sent 1,500 troops to aid Margaret of Austria in her struggle against the Duke of Guelders, an ally of the French king. Dow believes that this open expression of solidarity with Margaret of Austria against the French is echoed in Henry’s selection of a sculptor who had so recently worked for the regent.19 What seems clear is that during this phase of the project Margaret planned to outfit the building with 196

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tombs that were Italian Renaissance in style. Since Perréal was entrusted with the design of the church as well as that of the tombs, it is very likely that the plans for both were Italianate, but no evidence survives about his original intentions for the style of the church or its tombs. The fact that Margaret looked first to artists working in the Italian style reflects, at least in part, the international quality of court styles during this period. The modern border between France and Italy was not the impassable boundary many modern scholars seem to imagine it was, and Savoy was actually one of the most important and accessible points of passage between these two territories. Artistic, linguistic, and other exchange had enriched this area for hundreds of years. There are no natural frontiers in the areas surrounding Brou, rather the geological conditions make this a particularly pleasant transalpine route, with roads and river highways facilitating easy pas-

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Fig. 6. Tomb of Philibert le Beau, Brou. Photo: L.D. Gelfand

Fig. 5. Pietro Torrigiano, Henry VII’s Monument, Westminster Abbey. London, 1518. Museum of London, London. Photo © HIP/Art Resource, NY

sage.20 The prominence of Italian style at the French court was surely something that Margaret of Austria knew, especially since she had been raised in the court, but her initial wish to emulate this style changed just a few years into the process of planning her foundation.21 Perhaps her troubled relationship with France, as evidenced by her difficulties with Louis XII at precisely the same moment, may have had something to do with her deliberate turn away from the Italianate designs favoured by the French court.22 In any case, the building that was eventually constructed and the tombs within it are a clear statement by Margaret asserting her Flemish heritage and definitively rejecting French and transalpine styles. In February 1512 Jean Lemaire left Margaret’s service and returned to the French court after a falling out with the regent. Perréal also left Brou after arguing with both Lemaire and Margaret. Margaret quickly replaced the French team with a Flemish master mason, Louis van Boghem, who was sent to Brou in August 1512 to complete the design and construction of the church. Van Boghem significantly altered

Perréal’s building designs; he realigned parts of the church, changed its dimensions and created a new vocabulary of ornamentation. Flemish stylistic elements were incorporated into every aspect of the church and tombs at this point.23 Jean de Roome, also known as Jean de Bruxelles, and a team of Flemish sculptors were brought to Brou and given the task of completing most of the sculpture for the building. The Flemish sculptor Conrad Meit arrived in Brou in 1526 to sculpt the double gisants on the tombs of Margaret and Philibert (Figs. 6 and 7).24 Margaret remained keenly interested in every aspect of the foundation’s construction and van Boghem’s contract stipulated that he travel to Mechelen every year to confer with her about his progress.25 The completed church exhibits a vividly Brabantine, flamboyant Gothic style that, as I have argued elsewhere, was probably intended to remind contemporary viewers of the great Burgundian foundations of the Valois past (Fig. 8).26 Margaret’s appointment as regent meant that she had a great deal more money at her disposal, but this does not account for the stylistic changes that occurred at Brou after her move to Mechelen. After 1509 the church was no longer intended as simply a memorial to her Bourbon in-laws and husband: rather it asserted the importance of Margaret herself and, after 1512, it encoded references to her Valois heritage. These are significant changes that are correlated with the transitions that Margaret was REGIONAL STYLES AND POLITICAL AMBITIONS

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Fig. 7. Tomb of Margaret of Austria, Brou. Photo: L.D. Gelfand

Fig. 8. Interior of St Nicolas of Tolentino, Brou, view toward the altar. Photo: L.D. Gelfand

experiencing in her own life, especially her regency and the elevation of her social and economic status. Margaret’s relative freedom from the fetters that encumbered most married noblewomen enabled her to commission the architectural monument for which she is best remembered. It is important to address Margaret’s position as regent in somewhat more depth, because this, in many ways clarifies her decision-making process about the design of the monastery at Brou. Margaret faced some serious challenges as regent. Inheritance and control of the Burgundian Netherlands had been problematic during the years preceding and following the death of her mother, Mary of Burgundy. When Charles the Bold died without leaving a male heir in 1477, the French king, Louis XI, moved onto Burgundian lands including the duchies of Burgundy, Artois, and Guelders. These lands had served to anchor the Burgundian Netherlands from about 1400, and their loss devastated expansionist dreams and patriotic sentiments fostered by the Valois dukes. Louis XI claimed the lands for the French Crown

thanks to a spurious reading of the initial gift of the lands to Philip the Bold.27 French Salic laws dictated that in the absence of a male heir the properties would revert to France.28 However, Burgundians did not observe Salic laws and believed that Mary of Burgundy, Margaret’s mother, could rightfully inherit these lands. Their possession became a highly contentious issue for descendants of the Valois dukes. Further complicating the situation, battles over the regency of the Netherlands had begun in 1482, immediately following the death of Mary of Burgundy, who most of the Flemish had supported, and these were waged continuously for over a decade.29 Maximilian I, Mary’s husband and Margaret’s father, was a Habsburg and seen by the Flemish as foreign. Many towns preferred French governance to the German alternative.30 Humiliatingly, Bruges rebelled against the taxes Maximilian levied to fund his war with the French and actually took him captive for four months in 1488.31 Maximilian’s war effort and his struggles with the Flemish cities in revolt combined

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Fig. 9. Portal of St Nicolas of Tolentino. Photo: L.D. Gelfand

to create a period of severe inflation, further aggravating the political situation into which Margaret stepped as regent.32 Margaret did not enter her position of regent from a place of strength; a widowed female appointee of her Habsburg father, she was given the reigns of an economically depressed region that had emphatically displayed its resentment of Habsburg rule. One of the few things that Margaret had on her side was the perception by the Netherlandish people that she was their ‘princesse naturelle’. She was perceived by them as being more closely linked to the Valois than the Habsburgs, and Margaret wisely used this to her advantage. In an effort to garner economic and symbolic power, Margaret asked for, and received from Maximilian, the duchy of Burgundy so that after February 1509, she was Archduchess of Austria and Duchess of Burgundy, Dowager

Duchess of Savoy, a countess of three counties, and a Lady of nine different cities and lands.33 Margaret’s social and political circumstances may be traced through the changes that occurred in the planning and construction of her monastery in Brou. While a number of possibilities may be suggested for why Margaret fired the French team who began the project and replaced them with Flemings, most scholars have interpreted the documents to indicate that Margaret had grown impatient with the French workmen and the team of Lemaire and Pérreal. However, if this was her only concern, one could reasonably have expected Margaret to continue to use the designs that were already created and replace Lemaire and Pérreal with artists working in a similarly French/Italianate style. This would surely have expedited the completion of the church, something she clearREGIONAL STYLES AND POLITICAL AMBITIONS

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ly desired. The fact that Margaret decided to hire Louis van Boghem and completely change the style used at Brou indicates that she made a deliberate decision to change the appearance of her church to one that may have better reflected the political identity she wished to broadcast. Brou is an outpost of sorts, far from the Netherlands that Margaret governed, but the monastery stands out as a Flemish building in this southern region. Margaret’s Valois heritage helped smooth her way through a difficult political situation. In commissioning a building in the Flemish style she was following in the footsteps of her great Valois ancestors, not simply by imitating the style of their commissions, but also in their exploitation of architecture for propaganda purposes, a type of dynastic marking and display seen at Champmol. Inventories of Margaret’s palace in Mechelen show that she used the display of portraiture in her public rooms to highlight her Valois matrilineal ancestry and downplay her Habsburg lineage. The use of Flemish style in Savoy may have been the product of a similar desire.

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Clearly, Margaret recognised the differences between regional styles and understood what meaning such styles conveyed to various audiences. Further, she used this understanding in the hiring and firing of master masons and designers in the early phases of construction at Brou. Her intimate involvement in every detail of the project indicates that she alone had the final say in terms of what style was eventually used in the design and decoration of the building. Turning to the portal at Brou, over which portraits of Margaret and Philibert pray with their patron saints, we may recall the portal iconography at Champmol (Fig. 9). As a female regent with limited ways in which to gain the support of the Netherlandish people she governed, an understanding of iconography and style may have aided Margaret in creating a public persona that was recognised as Burgundian. Her decision to construct a flamboyantly Flemish building in Savoy highlights Margaret’s efforts to promote a political identity that she hoped would be recognised as both familiar and appropriate.

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NOTES

Acknowledgments: I would like to thank Madame Michèle Astier-Duflot, archivist at the Musée de Brou, for her tremendous help and generosity. This work was sponsored in part by a Myers Faculty Development Grant from the University of Akron and I would like to thank Mary Schiller Myers for her continued support of the faculty and students of the School. 1 Cyprien Monget, La Chartreuse de Dijon d’apres les documents des archives de Bourgogne, 3 vols (Tournai, 1895-1905), II, pp. 203-04. Margaret visited Dijon on 16 November 1501. 2 Jane de Iongh, Margaret of Austria, Regent of the Netherlands, trans. by M. D. Herter Norton (New York, 1953), p. 114. Margaret was married by proxy to the brother of Philibert le Beau, the Grand Bastard of Savoy on 22 November. She then traveled to a convent near Geneva for the actual marriage ceremony. 3 The most recent study of the church of St Nicolas of Tolentino is by Marcus Horsch, Architektur unter Margarethe von Osterreich, Regentin der Neiderlande (1507-1530), (Brussels, 1994), pp.167-71, who compares the style of the architecture at Brou with the church of Notre-Dame du Sablon in Brussels. Alexandra Carpino discusses Margaret’s possible motivations in ‘Margaret of Austria’s Funerary Complex at Brou: Conjugal Love, Political Ambition, or Personal Glory?’ in Women and Art in Early Modern Europe: Patrons, Collectors, and Connoisseurs, ed. by Cynthia Lawrence (University Park, 1997) pp. 37-52. See also G. van der Osten and H. Vey, Painting and Sculpture in Germany and the Netherlands, 1500-1600 (Baltimore, 1969). 4 There are numerous studies of Margaret’s life; a good, accessible biography of Margaret is by C. Willard in Women Writers of the Renaissance and Reformation, ed. by Katharina Wilson (Athens, 1987), pp. 350-62. Other works consulted for information on Margaret’s life and regency include E. Tremayne, The First Governess of the Netherlands: Margaret of Austria (London, 1908), M. Bruchet, Marguerite d’Autriche: Duchesse de Savoie (Lille, 1927); G. de Boom, Marguerite d’Autriche-Savoie et la Pré-Renaissance (Paris and Brussels, 1935); J. de Iongh, Margaret of Austria, Regent of the Netherlands (New York 1953); and P. Guérin, Marguerite d’Autriche-Bourgogne, Archduchesse de Brou (Lyon, 1992). Any discussion of Margaret of Austria or her patronage would be incomplete if it failed to mention the important work of Dagmar Eichberger. In addition to numerous important articles on Margaret of Austria’s collection, her most recent book is Leben mit Kunst – Sammelwesen und Hofkunst unter Margarete von Osterreich, Regentin der Niederlande (Turnhout, 2002). 5

Culture in Early Modern Europe, ed. by Allison Levy, (Aldershot, 2003), pp. 145-59. The essay centres on the use of Margaret’s matrilineal iconography at Brou and how this relates to the political situation into which she stepped as regent. 7 Margaret was also the patron of the church of Battel-lesMechelen and the convent of the Annonciades near Bruges where her body was initially taken after her death before her final interment at Brou. Michélant provides a brief discussion of this and lists the beneficiaries of Margaret’s will which included the church of the Annonciades and the foundation at Brou. See M. Michélant, ‘Inventaire des vaisselles, joyaux, tapisseries, peintures, manuscrits [...] de Marguerite d’Autriche, régente et gouvernante des Pays-Bas, dressé en son palais de Mechelen le 9 Juillet 1523’, in Compte-Rendu des séances de la Commission royale d’histoire ou recueil de ses bullétins, Brussels, Académie Royale des Sciences, 3e serie, 12 (1871), pp. 5-78 and 83-136. 8 J. Baux, Recherches historiques et archéologiques sur l’eglise de Brou (Bourg-en-Bresse, 1844), pp. 192-93. The entire populace of Brou and a number of important clerics attended the dedication service which took place in a torrential downpour. 9 Much of this appears in her correspondence which was published by M. Dufay, Observations sur la Correspondance de Jean Perréal, dit de Paris, avec Marguerite d’Autriche concernant l’Eglise de Brou (Bourg-en-Bresse, 1853). 10 P. Rousselet, Histoire et description de l’Eglise de Brou, elevée à Bourg-en-Bresse, sous les orders de Marguerite d’Autriche, entre les années 1511 et 1536 (Paris, 1767), p.10. After Philibert’s death Margaret made certain that she would have the necessary funds to construct the church at Brou. To this end Charles III, Philibert’s successor, signed a treaty with her in Strasbourg on 5 May 1505, in the presence of Maximilian I. The treaty stipulated that lands that had been part of Margaret’s dowry be returned to her, including the provinces of Bresse, Vaud and Faucigny, which she was ceded for life. Margaret also received the county of Villars and the seigneury of Gourdans, together with all the rights of justice, high, medium and low, first and second degree jurisdiction, the homage of the nobles, the power to appoint officers, a counselor to watch over the judges, and the right to buy any of the goods from the domain of Bresse which had been removed. 11 Jacques Paviot, ‘Burgundy and the South’, in The Age of Van Eyck: The Mediterranean World and Early Netherlandish Painting, 1430-1530, exh. cat. ((Bruges, Groningemuseum, 2002) ed. by Till-Holger Borchert (London, 2002) p. 175. 12 Baux, Recherches historiques, p. 79-80, and Bruchet, Marguerite d’Autriche, p.149. See P. Vitry, Michel Colombe et la sculpture français de son temps (Paris, 1901), pp. 365-73, and 49092 for documents related to the sculptor’s participation.

Margaret’s activities as a writer of poetry complement her remarkable patronage of literary, visual, and musical arts. Her political agenda was furthered by her commissions in all these areas, as has been discussed by C. M. Müller, ‘Marguerite d’Autriche (1480-1530): Poétesse et mécène’, in Reines et princesses au Moyen âge, ed. by M. Faure (Montpellier, 2001), pp. 763-76. For her literary patronage see F. Thibaut, Marguerite d’Autriche et Jean Lemaire de Belges, ou de la littérature et des arts au Pays-Bas sous Marguerite d’Autriche (Paris 1888: reprinted Geneva 1970).

13 J.-G. Lemoine, ‘Autour du tombeau de Philibert le Beau a Brou, une description du projet Perréal-Colombe par Jean Lemaire de Belges’, Revue belge d’Archéologie et d’Histoire de l’Art 10 (1941), pp. 35-52, describes the project for the tomb of Philibert, together with a discussion of the significance of the ten sculpted Virtues that surround it.

6 I have published some of the background material on the construction of the church at Brou included here in my essay, ‘Margaret of Austria and the Encoding of Power in Patronage: The Funerary Foundation at Brou’, in Widowhood and Visual

14 P. Pradel, Michel Colombe, le dernier imagier gothique (Paris, 1953), pp. 44-45. This work was completed by the sculptor in Tours and installed in the Église des Carmes in Nantes in 1507.

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15 See A. Chastel, French Art: the Renaissance, 1430-1620 (Paris, 1995), pp. 127, for a reproduction and discussion of the tomb of François II and Marguerite de Foix in Nantes, created by Colombe and Perréal from 1499 to1507, shortly before their arrival in Brou. Jean Lemaire assumed an important role during these early stages of the foundation’s planning. He went to Rome in 1506 to negotiate with Pope Julius II and even selected stone for the building, a task for which he seems to have been entirely unsuited and received much criticism. For a concise history of Lemaire’s role in the construction see W. Cahn, Masterpiece: Chapters on the History of an Idea (Princeton, 1979), p. 49. 16 Dagmar Eichberger, ‘The Habsburgs and the Cultural Heritage of Burgundy’, in The Age of Van Eyck, p. 188. 17 M. Bruchet and C. Cochin, Une lettre inédite de Michele Colombe (Paris, 1914). The document related to this is published in F. Grossman, ‘Holbein, Torrigiano and some portraits of Dean Colet’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 13 (1950), pp. 202-36, esp. p. 208. See also Claude Cochin, ‘Un lien artistique entre l’Italie, La Flandre et l’Engleterre’, La Revue de l’Art Ancien et Moderne (Paris, 191419), pp.180-82, and Helen Jeanette Dow, The Sculptural Decoration of the Henry VII Chapel, Westminster Abbey (Edinburgh, 1992), pp. 35-36. 18 Cochin, Un lien artistique, p. 180 and Dow, The Henry VIII Chapel, p. 36. Torrigiano specialised in tombs upon his arrival in England where his first known project was the effigy for the tomb of Lady Margaret Beaufort, Henry VII’s mother. Torrigiano went on to make the effigies of Henry VII and his wife for the Lady Chapel of Westminster Abbey. A fascinating and thorough analysis of Henry VII’s own endeavours to establish a perpetual monument to himself and secure the salvation of his soul through prayers is found in Margaret Condon, ‘God Save the King! Piety, propaganda and the perpetual memorial’, in Westminster Abbey, The Lady Chapel of Henry VII, ed. by T. Tatton-Brown and R. Mortimer (Woodbridge UK, 2003), pp. 59-98. 19

Dow, Henry VIII Chapel, p. 36.

20 C. Edson Armi, Design and Construction in Romanesque Architecture: First Romanesque Architecture and the Pointed Arch in Burgundy and Northern Italy (Cambridge, 2004), p. 10. 21 For an analysis of this cultural exchange in the fifteenth century see Till-Holger Borchert, ‘The Mobility of Artists: Aspects of Cultural Transfer in Renaissance Europe’, in The Age of Van Eyck, pp. 32-51. 22

Tremayne, First Governess, p. 106.

23 See J. Gauthier, ‘Conrad Meyt et les sculpteurs de Brou’, Réunion de Sociétés Sauvantes des Départements de la Sorbonne – Section Beaux-Arts (1898), pp. 250-82; J. Duverger, ‘Vlaamsche Beeldhouwers te Brou’, Oud Holland 47 (1930), pp. 1-27; and M. Fransolet, ‘L’Atelier flamand de Brou’, Annales de la Société d’émulation de l’Ain (1931), pp. 65-86. E. M. Kavaler, ‘Renaissance Gothic in the Netherlands: The Uses of Ornament’, Art Bulletin 82 (2000), pp. 226-51, relates the style of the church and tombs at Brou, together with a number of other contemporary structures, to the formal structures found in literature and music of the period. 24 C. Lowenthal, ‘Conrad Meit’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, New York University, 1976), p. 43. Meit was sent to Brou in 1524, but a contract for the completion of the transi figures and putti was not signed until 1526. Meit brought three of his own workers with him and was supervised by van Boghem. His work on the figures was completed in 1531 when Margaret’s executors made their final payment.

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25 M.-F. Poiret and M.-D. Nivière, Brou, Bourg-en-Bresse (Brou, 1990), pp. 38-39. 26

See Gelfand, Encoding of Power, pp. 145-52.

27 See Paul Viollet, ‘Comment les Femmes on été excludes en France de la succession à la couronne,’ Memoires de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 34 (1893), pp. 5-58, esp. pp. 5-7, in which the author explains that Salic laws are not as historically entrenched as some might think and that they were first instituted after the death of Louis X, coming into definitive acceptance only during the reign of Charles VII. The document in which Jean le Bon initially gave Burgundy to Philip the Bold is reprinted in Alfred de Ridder, Les Droits de Charles-Quint au Duché de Bourgogne (Louvain, 1890), pp. 152-58. 28 The legality of Louis’s claims was highly questionable and involved his ‘interpretation’ of the initial gift that Jean le Bon had made to his son Philip the Bold in 1363. Louis XI claimed the duchy of Burgundy as a royal appanage of the French Crown that had merely been left to a member of the royal family for maintenance. Were this the case the lands would be subject to French laws and would rightfully revert to the Crown in the absence of a male heir. Supporters of Mary’s claims saw the duchy of Burgundy as a fief rather than an appanage and believed that the lands had been inherited by Jean le Bon because he was the closest relative to the preceding duke, Philip of Rouvres, rather than because he was king. Thus male succession was not needed and, additionally, it was not specified in the original gift of Burgundy to Philip the Bold. See Yves Cazaux, Marie de Bourgogne, temoin d’une grande entreprise a l’origine des nationalities europeennes (Paris, 1967), pp. 191-92. See also Richard Wellens, ‘Les Etats Generaux des Pays- Bas des origins à la fin du regne de Philippe le Beau, (1464-1506)’, Anciens Pays et Assemblées d’Etats 64 (1974), pp. 155-56. 29 For a thorough analysis of the rights that Mary of Burgundy had over various parts of the duchy of Burgundy, see Wim P. Blockmans, ed., Le privilege general et les privileges regionaux de Marie de Bourgogne pour les Pays-Bas: 1477 (KortrijkHeule, 1985). 30 See Wim P. Blockmans, ‘Autocratie ou polyarchie? La lutte pour le pouvoir politique en Flandre de 1482 a 1492, d’apres des documents inedits’, Bullétin de la Commission Royale d’Histoire 140 (1974), pp. 258-368. Maximilian’s problems were particularly severe with the city of Ghent but Bruges was subject to periodic rebellions as well. 31 For a detailed description of the conflict between Maximilian and the city of Bruges, see Richard Wellens, ‘La revolte brugeoise de 1488’, Handelingen van Genootschap voor Geschiedenis ‘Societé d’Emulation’ te Brugge 102 (1965), pp. 552. 32 Peter Spufford, Monetary Problems and Policies in the Burgundian Netherlands, 1433-1496 (Leiden, 1970), offers an analysis of the economic policies from the time of Philip the Good to Maximilian that elucidates the financial impetus behind the wars and revolts waged following the death of Mary of Burgundy. 33 The document in which Margaret requests these properties is reprinted in E. Quinsonas, Matériaux pour servir à l’histoire de Marguerite d’Autriche (Paris, 1860) II, 167-206. Margaret was Countess of Burgundy, Charolais, Romont, Bage-enVillars, and Dame of Salins, Mechelen, Chateau-Chinon, Noyers, Chausssin, La Perriere and the lands of Bresse, Vaud and Faucingy. See De Iongh, Margaret of Austria, p. 144.

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Moralised Triumphal Chariots – Metamorphosis of Petrarch’s Trionfi in Northern Art (c. 1530 – c. 1560) Yona Pinson Tel-Aviv University

Italianate Renaissance visual metaphors imbued with late medieval principles and values characterise the various adaptations of the Petrarchan trionfi in Northern Art. The Petrarchan triumphs appear first in French courtly art, in both illuminated manuscripts and tapestries series, from the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. Besides the conventional triumphal procession, a novel iconographical pattern emerges in which the allegorical triumphal chariot is replaced by a victorious personification stepping over the defeated protagonist, an original scheme paraphrasing the metaphor deriving from the Psychomachia of a victorious virtue standing above a defeated vice.1 This moralistic vertical pattern, inspired by religious ideas, was later adopted by French block-book illustrators and reappeared in a later sixteenth-century German engraved series.2 The idea of a triumphal procession as a framework for moralising admonition is, however, a characteristic Northern Renaissance invention. Our study focuses mainly on the meaningful translation of the emblematical Petrarchan chariots into a Christian moralistic idiom, defining a new composite visual language, in which the Italianate pattern is fused with Northern imagery. The triumphal chariot metaphor was adopted as a framework for two apparently different types of processions: The Triumph of Deadly Sins, fashionable in both courtly art and the more popular graphic arts reflecting religious sentiments, and Le triumphe de Haulte folie (the Triumphal Procession of Dame Folly), in which secular motifs are imbued with didactic and satirical tenor. In particular we will look at two motifs deriving from Petrarch’s trionfi: the triumph of love as metamorphosed into the triumph of lust, and the triumph of time imbued with

moralistic values. In this context we will discuss two seemingly opposed artistic productions: Pieter Coecke van Aelst’s designs for The Triumphal Chariot of Lust, (from a series of tapestries of The Deadly Sins), and the Triumph of Venus, into each of which is woven Christian imagery. In the second half of the sixteenth century, in Antwerp, we witness the appearance of moralised, engraved versions of these themes. In two works, one by an unknown artist, and the other ascribed to Pieter Bruegel the Elder, we will see how both create a new weave combining the traditional triumph of time with the triumph of death. This new invention stresses the destructive and punitive power of time, vanquishing vanity and earthly matters. Both artists borrow from the Italian visualisations of Petrarch, which they combine with elements derived solely from Northern traditions. The idea of a triumphal procession as a framework for an allegorical and moralistic admonition, a characteristic Northern Renaissance invention, had received both literary and visual expression that was reflected in courtly art through illuminated books and tapestries. Artists and inventors of the Northern Renaissance urban processions adopted the scheme of allegorical triumphs based on the classical triumphal procession, but altered and adapted them to their cultural climate. The popularity of Petrarch’s Trionfi also greatly influenced both the artistic imagery (especially in the domain of prints), and the urban parade.3 The motif of the triumphal chariot penetrated in turn more popular urban manifestations, such as the semireligious civic parades in Antwerp, the Ommegangs, where the tone of the representations is obviously imbued with didacticism and satire.4 Northern artists further elaborated upon this new visual topos of a moralistic admoniMORALISED TRIUMPHAL CHARIOTS

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Fig. 1. Unknown artist, The Triumphal Chariot of Venus, woodcut illustration, Le triumphe de Haulte folie (Lyons, Antoine Volant, c.1550), XXXII- XXXII

tion through the newly adopted classicist motif. The Flemish court painter Pieter Coecke van Aelst (a contemporary of Le triumphe de Haulte folie’s illustrator), was highly influenced by Italian art and thought, as is evidenced by the cartoons he created for a series of tapestries featuring triumphal chariots of the Seven Deadly Sins (Fig. 6 and Plate 16). The parade of emblematic chariots translates the Petrarchan Triumphs into a Christian moralistic idiom, defining a new composite visual language, in which the Italianate style is fused with imagery derived from the work of Hieronymus Bosch. Even the borders of the tapestries offer an adaptation of the Italian grotesque motif, transformed into emblematic metaphors related to the vices, and especially to lust.5 The Triumphal Procession of Dame Folly (Le triumphe de Haulte folie, Lyons, Antoine Volant, c. 1550),6 a booklet by an unknown author, demonstrates, in many respects, affinities with Sebastian Brant’s edifying discourse in the Ship of Fools. Like the Ship of Fools, it is a rather sombre, didactic work written in the vernacular and addressed to the wider urban audience. Both the author and the editor of this composite work may have been inspired by Brant’s example, adopting an analogical type of emblematical structure for their own book. As in Brant’s seminal model, each poem is accompanied by a motto (inscriptio) followed by an illustration and verses that function as a kind of moralistic commentary. In many respects this format should be regarded as a 204

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characteristic Northern manifestation that joins Italianate visual metaphors with medieval and late medieval moralising principles and values. This modest, illustrated book, while one of a vast number of popular publications intended for the larger public that featured simple woodcuts, is also representative of a sub-culture of popular didactic works presumably designated for a literate but not highly educated reading public, especially women. Appealing to a middle-class urbanite already familiar with the new vogue of books à l’antique, such as Petrarch’s Trionfi, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and emblems books,7 this booklet may, however, have also been of interest to illiterate women who could have read the ‘visual text’ conveyed through the woodcuts. The anonymous author of the moralising procession of Dame Folly traces a procession led by voluptia and luxuria, towards death and damnation that conforms to the misogynist approach found in analogous contemporary French secular treatises.8 The triumphal parade of carnal vices opens with Voloupt¯as/Venus, Dame Folly’s daughter (Voloupté, XI: v. 62), seducing men-fools into joining the train of sensual pleasures. The triumphal procession of Lust culminates with the Triumph of Venus, goddess of love and lewdness (v. 281-82). In her double role as Venus-Luxuria and goddess of fols d’amour (Fig. 1), Venus, wearing fashionable contemporary dress is enthroned on her triumphal chariot drawn by he-goats, emblems of bestial sexuality symbolising lust,9

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Fig. 2. Dame Venus, woodcut illustration, Sebastian Brant, The Ship of Fools, Basel, 1494, Chapter 13: ‘Of Amours’.

Fig. 3. Daniel Hopfer, Venus and Cupid, engraving, Princeton, Princeton University, Firestone Library.

while pointing to her emblem of power, a winged heart pierced by an arrow.10 Although wings are not a common attribute of Venus, the painter-engraver could have had in mind the famous Dame Venus illustration from Brant’s Ship of Fools (Fig. 2), where the painterengraver depicted a winged, seductive, elegantly dressed young woman. The text further explains the meaning of this metaphor: ‘evil loves are flighty things/My offspring wears a pair of wings’.11 The Brantian imagery is further elaborated in a print by the Augsburg engraver, Daniel Hopfer, conveying the idea of a perilous goddess of Love (Fig. 3), in which a music-making Eros accompanies a naked and winged Venus. Her left hand at once grasps a thistle and acts as a perch for a demonic bird. Thistle and a bird are her emblems indicating her dangerous sexuality.12 Dame Venus is encircled by small winged devils; another larger one engaged in ensnaring the souls of the victims of sensual love, peeps out from behind her. Underneath the foot of this bourgeois

Venus, we may discern a skull; together with her diabolic entourage it symbolises the doomed fate awaiting her admirers. It appears that both the Master of The Ship of Fools and Daniel Hopfer could have drawn their inspiration from the already established imagery of Venus carnalis. In a late fifteenth-century German didactic woodcut entitled Amor carnalis, Venus is depicted as a naked, winged, and blindfolded woman, holding her son Amor’s attributes of bow and arrows. Beneath her feet are a skull pierced by a sword and the jaws of Hell.13 Venus-Luxuria, the venerated goddess of fools, will provide her admirers but brief pleasure and rejoicing, since the ‘fools of love’ who join her convoy will soon be led towards their ‘sad end’ and damnation (Luxure desduit et liesse/souvent meinet à damennement:/Folle amour prent fin par tristess. XXXIII, v. 288-290). The notion of the brevity of carnal love that quickly turns to sadness was current in contemporary French emblematical literature. In the MORALISED TRIUMPHAL CHARIOTS

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Fig. 4. Léon Davent, (Master L. D. after Luca Penni), The Triumphal Chariot of Luxuria, Paul Proute Gallery, Paris.

emblematical collection of proverbs, les dectez moraux, pour faire des tapisserie, (c. 1500-05; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France Ms. 24461, fol. 24r), triumphant Venus appears with her emblematic palm frond accompanied by a blind Cupid. The verses, however, stress the idea that Dame Venus attracts her admirers, promising them pleasant love that will soon turn into sorrow.14 The motif of triumphant Venus-Luxuria was elaborated in contemporary Northern Renaissance visual manifestations intended for the elite public as well as for the larger bourgeois audience.15 It occurs in a contemporary series of engravings devoted to the Seven Deadly Sins intended for the courtly milieu (engraved by the Master L.D. identified as Léon Davent), designed by Luca Penni,16 who entered the service of François I (c. 1530), and became one of the propagators of the new Franco-Italian School of Fontainebleau. The Triumphal Chariot of Luxuria (Fig. 4), associates Venus, the incarnation of Lust, 206

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with folly and death. Among the chained prisoners escorting Dame Venus’s chariot are young and old men, indigents alongside members of the ecclesiastic establishment, as well as a grotesque grimacing fool. The naked sensual goddess of Love, enthroned on a sumptuous chariot, is holding her attribute, a flaming torch, inciting the fire of love (usually held by Cupid).17 A serpent is entwined around the torch. Usually a mythological emblem of fertility, in this moralising context the serpent may be understood as symbolic of evil and satanic temptation. Unlike the Petrarchan chariot of the Triumph of Love drawn by horses, the Renaissance triumphal cart of Venus is drawn either by doves and/or swans, as in our Bellefontaine version. Venus’s chariot is also accompanied by beasts that symbolise the vices, sexual appetite and folly.18 In particular, we may note the enchained ape holding an apple, which may symbolise both sexual appetite and folly.19 Winged Death stands on the triumphal

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Fig. 5. Pieter Coecke van Aelst, The Triumph of Love, drawing, c. 1530, École nationale supérieure des Beaux- Arts, Paris.

cart behind Venus-Luxuria. With its skeletal right hand it seizes Venus-Luxuria by the back of her head, directing her gaze forward, while raising a skull aloft in its extended left hand, an image that might have been inspired by the contemporary Dance Macabre.20 The shadow cast across Venus’s face by the death head along with the carrion crow flying above the procession completes this unusual memento mori weave.21 At the front of the triumphal chariot of vice a blindfolded Cupid takes aim with his bow and arrow. Although Cupid generally figures as a positive persona in Renaissance illustrations of Triumphus Amoris, in sixteenthcentury France, Cupid could also have been associated with death.22 In another contemporary Northern Renaissance version of the Triumph of Love address-

ing particularly elite circles, we can discern an analogical moralising approach. In a drawing attributed to Pieter Coecke Van Aelst (Fig. 5),23 the artist has replaced the traditional figure of Amor with a provocative, naked VenusLuxuria, enthroned on her luxurious chariot led by wild white horses. Dame Venus holds a scepter and a heart pierced with an arrow, the emblems of her power, while from above Eros shoots arrows at mythological and biblical heroes. In the far right background we can discern the Temptation and Fall of Adam and Eve, and in the middle ground the tragedy of Pyramus and Thisbe is juxtaposed with the figure of Samson, another victim of passionate love. In front of Venus-Lust’s cart, we can recognise King David playing his harp, followed by his son Solomon in the company of MORALISED TRIUMPHAL CHARIOTS

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Fig. 6. Pieter Coecke van Aelst, The Triumph of Lust, tapestry c. 1532-33, 459 x 832 cm, Palacio Real del Madrid. Photo © Patrimonio Nacional.

one of his wives who carries an idol.24 The artist has conceived Venus’s triumphal chariot as a dangerous vehicle that crushes its victims beneath its wheels.25 One such casualty is Pluto, who was also a victim of furious love (Ovid, Metamorphoses, 5:385-424; Fasti 4:417-450). He is depicted holding his emblematic fork while being trampled beneath the wild horses’ hoofs, soon to be crushed under the weight of the chariot’s wheels. Another ancient divinity incarnates the vanquished victims of love – crowned but naked Neptune lying in the left foreground, holding his trident, is portrayed as a defeated lover about to be punished for his affairs (Ovid, Metamorphoses 2:569-594 and 12:189-207). An additional unexpected divine victim of Venus and Amor about to be punished for his amorous pursuits is Jupiter, the supreme ruler of gods and mortals, recognisable by his emblematic eagle and thunderbolt. In his edifying version of the Petrarchan Triumph of Love, Coecke appears also to elaborate upon the original French scheme paraphrasing the medieval Psychomachia vertical pattern, but now perilous love prevails over her victims. Thus the noble Petrarchan Triumphal Chariot of Love has been transformed 208

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and assimilated with Coeck’s own dreadful images as may also be seen in the Triumph of Time from this series (Fig. 7). Coecke’s moralised interpretation of the Petrarchan Triumph of Love shows many deliberate analogies with The Triumph of Lust tapestry (Fig. 6 and Plate 16), from a seven-piece set devoted to the theme The Seven Deadly Sins, that he designed between 1532-33 (woven in Brussels c. 1542-44).26 In this elegant series intended for courtly circles, Coecke, who was employed by the Netherlandish courtly milieu, presents a typical Northern Renaissance artistic blend of Italianate style and Antwerp Mannerism. As one of the leading artists and art theorists of his day,27 Coecke stimulated interest in Italianate tendencies in Antwerp and later in Brussels, and paved the way for the emergence of Romanist style in south Netherlandish artistic centres towards the mid-sixteenth century. The souvenirs of his journey to Italy and especially Rome echo in the background landscape of the tapestry, where we can discern the silhouette of the Colosseum, together with other remains of Ancient Rome, and he also ably demonstrates his erudition and knowledge of the classical heritage through his many ref-

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Fig. 6a. Pieter Coecke van Aelst, The Triumph of Lust, detail. Photo © Patrimonio Nacional

erences to mythological and Ovidian motifs. However, Coecke creates a distinctive Northern Renaissance weave that joins the new Italianate ideas with a didactic, moralising tone. The author of this extraordinary composition presents a sumptuous triumphal chariot in an ambitious landscape, demonstrating his assimilation of Roman architectural souvenirs, together with infernal views deriving from the Northern artistic tradition of Hieronymus Bosch’s idiomatic vocabulary. On a throne atop an elaborately ornamented and festooned triumphal chariot, sits the winged female personification of Luxuria.28 The seductive beauty is crowned with roses, the flowers of Venus, according to Renaissance vocabulary. She is, however, also identified (as are the other personifications) as the devil’s

messenger, through the small horns, visible among the blossoms in her crown, thus relating her to the forces of evil. Admiring herself in the mirror, another emblem of Lust,29 she raises in her right hand a golden chalice alluding to the ‘cup of abominations’, further relating her with the apocalyptic whore of Babylon (Revelation 17:4). It is no coincidence that her chalice (topped with an idol), emblem of temptation and seduction, is raised before the smoky plumes of the infernal realm. Another feature alluding to the true perilous nature of this attractive personification is the twisting golden hybrid dolphin/serpent tail that forms the armrest of Lust’s throne; its tail fin resembles the decorative finial on Lust’s bodice. Peeking out from beneath the billowing clouds of the hellish realm in the lower left corner of the scene is a monstrous grinning head derived from Bosch’s vocabulary. Lust’s chariot is decorated with red and white roses, the flowers of Venus. The side of the cart features various musical instruments and a lute, alluding to carnality, lies at Luxuria’s feet. In Northern visual culture, musical instruments were often related to carnal love and debauchery, but also conveyed the notion of fleeting time.30 To this weave of metaphors Coecke adds a female dancer caught in a vigorous movement. (Fig. 6a and Plate 17).31 Her figure combines classicism with courtly mannerism, thus conveying the characteristic aesthetic values announced by Coecke. This dancer is clearly linked to Venus-Lust through her pose, which complements the pose of her mistress and echoes elements of her mistress’s throne. The drapery flowing over the dancer’s right arm mirrors the curves of the demonic arm of Luxuria’s throne, and she raises her left arm toward the beautiful personification, almost cupping the demonic tail. Her gesture is nearly aligned with the gesture of Luxuria raising her cup of abominations. Furthermore, the maiden’s right arm held parallel to the chariot featuring the decorative carvings of musical instruments, clearly relates her dance with the metaphorical sounds of the carnal music. Since the Middle Ages, female dancers expressed the negative effects of profane music leading to lust. Serving the body through music was considered a sign of the body’s debasement.32 Sensual dance was conceived as menacing the right order and inciting licentiousness MORALISED TRIUMPHAL CHARIOTS

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and was, therefore, considered as a vehicle of temptation in the exempla of contemporary Northern moralising literary sources.33 Sebastian Brant relates dance to Satan’s invention on the one hand, and to the provocations of ‘pagan Venus’ on the other.34 He is followed by Erasmus who warns against dancing in De contemptu mundi; an equally negative attitude directed specifically towards women was pronounced by Juan Luis Vives in De institutione feminae Christianae, published in Antwerp in 1524.35 Adopting the idea of punitive triumphal chariots as a framework for the series of triumphal procession of The Deadly Sins, as in his previous design for the Triumph of Love (Fig. 5), Coecke shows victims of love and carnal pleasure crushed beneath the chariot’s wheels. A woman lying in the path of the chariot’s oncoming wheels throws herself upon a sword. She seems to address the viewer, as if begging to acknowledge her identity as the Ovidian heroine, Thisbe (Metamorphoses, 4:55-166).36 Another woman, clad in a red dress, lies prostrate beneath the front wheels of the cart. The embryonic fruit of her passion lying beside her on the ground identifies this figure as Semele who was consumed by her love of Zeus (Metamorphoses, 3:287-309). A prominent place in the composition is given to the giant Hercules, holding his enormous club and turning his anguished face toward the beholder.37 I would suggest that the inclusion of the mythological hero among Love’s victims refers to his ruinous love affair with Deianeira. In her attempts to regain his love, Deianeira presented him with a tunic permeated with a poisonous love potion that had been given to her by the jealous Centaur Nessus, leading to the hero’s horrible demise (Metamorphoses, 9: 134-210).38 The possibility that the artist portrays himself as the self-conscious Hercules is intriguing; Bauer and Steppe already suggested the close resemblance between the engraved portrait of the artist (published by Lampsonius in 1572) and Hercules.39 The artist’s self-portrait as Hercules might add an ironic note, but it also hints at self-admonition or culpability, notions that Coecke’s famous contemporary Jan Mabuse Gossaert may have intended when he portrayed himself as the fallen Adam, victim of his passions.40 Set between the giant Hercules and the beautiful personification of Lust, just on the other 210

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side of the chariot, we may discern a knight already ensnared by Lust’s attractions. He admiringly regards her, apparently stupefied by her charms. Juxtaposed to Hercules in the foreground is a young crowned prince with rather delicate features mounted on a white horse. Gracefully holding a wand in one hand and grabbing the reigns in his other, this figure turns his gaze back towards the enthroned Luxuria, confirming that he too has succumbed to the power of carnal desires. Who is this charming lad? Does he belongs to the realm of pagan victims of love, or to the biblical examples, as proposed by the anonymous author of the Madrid manuscript who identifies him as King Solomon, ruled by Lust and led by his thousand wives and concubines toward idolatry (Kings, 3:3-4).41 Whether this royal persona belongs to the mythological repertoire or to the biblical stock of images, he is clearly related by the artist to the forces of evil; careful examination of his horse’s trappings reveals two monstrous creatures concealed in the rich golden weave. Coecke establishes a standardised compositional and iconographical pattern in this sumptuous series of The Deadly Sins. In each of the seven pieces the triumphal procession emerges from the Devil’s realm and, as we can see in our tapestry, the personification still has one hand in the tourbillion of infernal smoke. Leading the cortege is Venus, mounted on a white horse decorated with a golden heart; she is clad in á l’antique dress that reveals her naked breasts. Venus-Luxuria holds an emblematic red banner emblazoned with a he-goat, the familiar symbol of Lust, together with two birds, one of which perches on the goat’s horn.42 We find the analogical juxtaposition of a he-goat and a bird designating the personification of Libido in Northern iconography in the sixteenth century.43 In contemporary Northern culture, birds were conceived as symbols of carnal desires and copulation. The loose golden tresses falling around Venus’s shoulder and back heighten her voluptuousness, but also designate her licentiousness, as do the wildly waving golden locks of the female dancer, discussed above. Unlike the personification of Lust, VenusLuxuria takes an active role in this allegorical procession assisting her son Cupid, who shoots his fatal arrows toward the victims of love, young and old, men and women. A young lad riding a caparisoned mule, holding a bow and

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arrow of his own, gazes suggestively out at the viewer. Next to him an elderly man on horseback looks back in the direction of Luxuria’s cart. Both men wear hats decorated with long cock feathers designating their frivolity and folly. Before them, marching behind Venus’s horse, we may discern a couple, apparently a married woman with a handsome lad whose headdress is decorated with flowers and feathers. They might allude to the satirical motif of ill-matched couples. In the immediate right foreground, just in front of this pair, a richly dressed woman rides a lavishly bedecked donkey, another emblem of folly.44 She turns towards the beholder; her gesture indicates that she intends to transmit a message. Indeed, her position indicates that she plays a decisive role in this complex allegory; however, her identity remains a mystery for me, though Bauer and Steppe, leaning on the Madrid manuscript, identify her as Medea, another victim of deranged love. It seems that we have not a clue that really permits this identification. In the background we recognise the very moment of Daphne’s metamorphosis with the frustrated Apollo trying in vain to stop the transformation (Metamorphoses, 1:452-567). Coecke thus creates an intriguing blend of mythological and biblical personalities, each representing a different aspect of reckless lust. He interlaces these characters with moralistic imagery familiar from the semisecular repertoire of contemporary prints and paintings. Behind Luxuria’s triumphal chariot, almost engulfed in the infernal turbulence, two elegant couples, derived from the moralised genre of the Garden of Love,45 are shown in genuine acts of lovemaking: a frivolous cavalier is wooing a young lady, while a courtly pair is already engaged in passionate embrace. An infernal view appears on the left in each of the trionfi in this tapestry series, thus intriguingly designating the procession’s progression from the realm of evil into the world.46 Coecke ingeniously quotes and elaborates motifs derived from Boschian vocabulary. In doing so, I contend that he is intentionally responding to the tastes of his sophisticated audience who were as curious about the art of the enigmatic Hieronymus Bosch, as they were about works of art reflecting the Italianate style. A contemporary tapestry series in the style of Hieronymus Bosch, woven in Brussels in the years 1540-42 that was in the Royal French collec-

tion of Francis I, testifies that works of art after Bosch not only appealed to the courtly taste but were in demand by the courtly milieu.47 Inside the inferno, behind Luxuria’s triumphal cart, the devilish figure of Death wields his emblematic hourglass and a large arrow, replacing the traditional scythe. Triumphant Death armed with an arrow rarely appears in fifteenth-century Italian representations and later Northern engravings.48 I would suggest that Coecke deliberately arms Death with an arrow reminiscent of the one held by Cupid. In so doing, he relates Amor’s weapon with the punitive power awaiting the sinners. However, Coecke may also have intended to allude to the motif of the fatal exchange of arms between Death and Amor, a theme that an elite audience may have been familiar with through literary sources and emblems. This motif involving the switching of roles between the blindfolded Amor who incites carnal temptations, and Death, can be found in some contemporary versions and elaborations of the theme of the Danse aux Aveugles, which as Panofsky pointed out, was in turn adopted in emblematical literature.49 In a woodcut from a French adaptation of Andrea Alciati’s Emblemata by Jean Le Fevre, Death steals Cupid’s weapons while he sleeps and substitutes his own.50 Death emerges amidst a swarm of insect-like and reptile-like demons, deriving apparently from some apocalyptic and infernal views in Bosch’s art.51 However, Coecke might also have drawn inspiration for the association of Death and hellish creatures from Venetian late fifteenthcentury woodcut illustrations or Florentine single-leaf engravings of moralised versions of the Triumph of Death, in which souls are consumed in the flames of Hell or carried off by devils.52 The border of each of the tapestries is composed of rich garlands of fruits and flowers, with various birds interlaced among the flora, and in the lower corners a trio of playful putti amuse themselves. The border composition appears to derive from the repertoire of marginal decorations of late fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century Flemish illuminated manuscripts, where the margins quite often are thematically related to the centre, adding a supplementary meaning.53 In the centre of the top border a cartouche held by two putti carries a brief Latin explanatory inscription: MORALISED TRIUMPHAL CHARIOTS

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Fig. 7. Pieter Coecke van Aelst, The Triumph of Time, drawing, c. 1530, École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris.

CVRA PLACENS, PRAEDVLCE MALUM, TRISTISQ: VOLVPTAS, HEV VERSA FVRVENS PECTORA COECAT AMOR (The pursuit of pleasure leads to misery and sorrow, for unbridled love blinds and deranges the heart).54 The epigrammatic inscription, although alluding to the misfortune of those ensnared by the powerful attractions of Venus/Lust, does not elucidate, however, the complex weave of images that derive from various written and also visual texts, including biblical, mythological, and secular moralist sources. Coecke, himself, might even have been the author of this rich and complex iconographical programme, as mentioned also in the Madrid manuscript.55 He was an erudite artist, familiar with humanist treatises as well as with a wide repertoire of Renaissance images, and was inspired by classicist writings. However, 212

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like other contemporary artists in Antwerp, he also created moralistic genre-like images including tavern and brothel scenes, some featuring the fashionable theme of the Prodigal Son in bad company.56 The intricate programme which holds some unsolved puzzles for modern scholars was originally intended for a highly cultivated courtly milieu who would have enjoyed both its comprehensive aesthetic sophistication as well as the challenge of deciphering the interlace of metaphors and allusions. This kind of large composition would have served as an intellectual entertainment, functioning as a conversation piece. Coecke’s moralised interpretation of Petrarch’s Trionfi is further expressed in his design for the Triumph of Time (Fig. 7), from a set of drawings for circular stained glass panels.57 Unlike the traditional Italian Renaissance presentation of the motif, Coecke, as I noted above, com-

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Fig. 8. Triumph of Time, engraving, Florence, from Trionfi series, c. 1470-90, British Museum, London

bines the idea of triumphal procession with a vertical, Psychomachia-like layout, derived apparently from the fifteenth-century French Trionfi. A plain cart now replaces the sumptuous triumphal chariot, although the traditional stags which draw it are, like time, fleet-footed. The cart is covered with dry branches and surmounting it is the muscular figure of a naked Saturnian Father Time devouring his offspring.58 A club replaces the winged Time-Saturn’s traditional crutch. Supplementary wings at his feet designate fleeting time. As opposed to the traditional figuration of Father Time in Italian illustrations of the theme, Coecke portrays an energetic figure in dynamic movement; he is practically running, illustrating the notion of the ephemeral nature of time. Adopting the medieval Psychomachia idea of triumph, Coecke presents defeated Fame in the foreground;59 her broken trumpet and books lie scattered before her. A warrior is

crushed underneath the wheels of the cart, his shield bearing the fearsome head of Medusa lies at his side; quiver, banner, sword, empty cuirass and helmet fill the foreground, along with crawling serpents. On the right, a defeated Hercules holding an enormous pillar is being trampled under the stags’ hoofs. It would appear that Coecke deliberately relates defeated Fame and vanquished Fortitude, symbolised through the defeated Hercules, to the vainglory of military force.60 Since these circular drawings were most probably intended for stained glass in a bourgeois residence, and thus meant for private eyes, it is intriguing to consider whether the artist might have been offering a comment on current political events.61 Coecke’s metamorphosed version of the Triumph of Time offers a new moral lesson that departs from the generally neutral tone of conservative presentations of Time in illustrated Italian versions of the theme. In Coecke’s version the sinister, destructive nature of Time becomes more pronounced, thus relating Time to Death. This idea later inspired Pieter Bruegel the Elder (Fig. 9), followed by an unknown Netherlandish artist (Fig. 11). Coecke may allude to the metaphor of the ravages of Time through the motifs of dry branches atop the cart, and barren trees and tree stumps visible in the left landscape background, along with the view of a ruined monument on the right. He could also have been inspired, however, by some late fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century printed Italian editions (issued mainly in Venice) or single-leaf engravings of the Trionfi, (Fig. 8),62 where the landscapes of leafless trees and tree stumps, together with architectural ruins convey the theme of decay.63 Nonetheless, Coecke expands upon the motif of barren trees, translating it into Northern idiomatic language. Unlike the Italians models, he confronts the dry, almost dead trees with a fully foliated tree, placed prominently on the right. Such coupling of foliated and defoliated trees or branches could emblematically express the idea of choice between good and evil, illustrating the Northern proverb: ‘Choice brings anxiety’ (Keur baert angst). Although this expression is known only from a late source, quoted by the Dutch poet Roemer Visscher in his emblem book, Sinnepoppen (Amsterdam, 1614, p. 11), it might have already been a familiar saying in Coecke’s time. The illustration in MORALISED TRIUMPHAL CHARIOTS

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Visscher’s emblem book depicting two trees, one in full foliage and the other rotting, attempts to promote anxious thoughts about life’s choices, an idea that was already expressed in some late sixteenth- and early seventeenthcentury paysages moralisées. Hieronymus Bosch refers to this emblematical imagery in the background of the Rotterdam Wayfarer (c. 1494 or later, Rotterdam, Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen). Careful examination of the right background reveals two trees just below the gallows’ hill: the one on the left is in full foliage while that on the right is completely bare.64 The tree’s foliage frames the medallion on the right and a group of seven birds of prey swoop down from the left. Cohen notes the introduction of birds into late fifteenth-century engraved versions of The Triumph of Time.65 In the Florentine single-leaf engraving (Fig. 8), four birds appear in the sky above Father Time, echoing Time’s four wings. According to Cohen, Petrarch had associated birds with fleeting time, comparing the speed of time to that of the falcon’s flight. However, Cohen also points out that four birds might refer to the four units of time: hours, days, months and years, as well as to the four seasons.66 Although Coecke might be aware of the bird motif through his knowledge of Italian prints, he alludes, however, not to the notion of fleeting time but rather to the destructive power of Time. Close inspection of Coecke’s design reveals that the swooping birds are not falcons but vultures, usually associated with death. Vultures were associated with sin and death since they were known to feed upon corpses. In medieval bestiaries, and especially in the Book of Birds, the Aviarium ascribed to Hugh of Fouilloy, the vulture symbolises the sinner, and is associated with the ravages of war: ‘But the nature of the vulture is said to be such that any sinner can be understood through the vulture. Indeed the vulture follows the army that it might feed upon the corpses of the dead, because the sinner follows wayward men who are in the army of the Devil […]’.67 I would suggest that Coecke borrowed deliberate attributes of Time, like the falcon motif or the snake, familiar through Italian engraved illustrations of Time, and transformed them into a new moralistic weave, accentuating the sinister relation of Time with evil and Death. Although the image of the snake biting its tale was tradi214

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tionally associated with Saturn-Time symbolising eternity,68 Coecke purposefully portrays serpents crawling on the earth and on the defeated Hercules.69 In Medieval and Northern Renaissance art, serpents were associated with evil and death; serpents, like worms, were associated with corruption and death in medieval and Renaissance thought.70 Crawling on the ground, the serpent visually links the defeated warrior crushed by Time’s cart on the left with the empty cuirass lying on the right. Coecke thus ingeniously compares the idea of the futility of Time and the vanity of war to destruction and Death. The association between Time, Vanity, and Death, was later highlighted in Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s moralised version of the Triumph of Time, an engraving published in 1574 by Philips Galle (Fig. 9). Bruegel, elaborating upon motifs derived from Italian iconographical sources related to the theme of Time, translates the Petrarchan Triumph of Time into a ‘vernacular’ vocabulary for an educated audience familiar with his inventive moralised works. The triumphal procession passes through a familiar Northern landscape imbued with allusions to sin, folly, and perdition. The Latin inscription apparently added to the second state (signed Jo. Galle) conveys the destructive aspect of Time: TEMPUS ET SINGULA CONSVMENS (Times consumes everything).71 Two weary horses replacing the traditional rapid stags, their yokes bearing symbols designating the course of time, sol and Luna, lead the cart. In adding the course of day and night to the traditional course of months and seasons exemplified through zodiac symbolism, Bruegel is offering his audience a new reading of the motif. Bruegel’s portrayal of Father Time deviates radically from traditional representations as well. The grotesque Saturnian personification of Time strikes a dynamic contraposto pose perched atop an enormous hourglass, while furiously devouring his offspring. He is clad in a short, ragged tunic that reveals his bare muscular legs; one foot shod and the other bare, alluding to instability and inconstancy,72 echoed further through the asymmetrical wheels of his cart. His devilish nature, conveyed through his flame-like hair, is also suggested in the devil’s head decorating the front of the triumphal cart, visible to the right of the cart’s front wheel. The cart, like that in

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Fig. 9. Pieter Bruegel the Elder, (after), Triumph of Time, engraving, published by Philippe Galle, 1574, (second state, unknown location).

Coecke’s drawing, is strewn with dry and foliated branches. Along with the personification, the cart carries an enormous sphere encircled by animated signs of the zodiac, alluding to the world, and out of the top of which grows a tree, half in foliage and half barren.73 Sagittarius aims his bow and arrow at Father Time, beneath whose foot dangles the crab of Cancer. Bruegel presents more than just the obvious zodiac signs symbolising the traditional motif of the course of time, and his audience, familiar with his visual vocabulary, would have been attuned to his multi-layered metaphorical weave. In his 1564 Adoration of the Kings (National Gallery, London), Bruegel had confronted his viewers with the task of deciphering the meaning of concealed emblematical figurations, including an analogical CentaurSagittarius embedded in the embroidery of the old king’s dress. In that context the CentaurSagittarius was related to the forces of evil.74 In the print now under consideration, the central axis of the composition constituting from bottom to top the crab,75 the personification

of Time and the enormous emblematic tree,76 may denote the negative and devilish nature of Time. A big mechanical clock wedged into the crutch of the tree designates the fleeting of time.77 The scorpion (Scorpio) crawling on the trunk might refer to the forces of evil, or the devil’s agent;78 however, in Northern Renaissance imagery, it was also associated with death.79 Bruegel combines ideas and images deriving from mythological sources with symbolic language that he had previously used in a religious net of ideas and translates them into a new weave.80 The motif of dry and foliated branches echoes throughout Bruegel’s composition, appearing in the emblematic tree, in the branches lining the cart itself, and in the background landscape where dry trees on the left hill are opposed with foliated trees on the right. As in Coecke’s drawing, the trees function as a metaphor for life, death, and the destructive power of time, but also for moralistic choice. The perilous nature of Time is further suggested through the small wrecked ship in the left background; one pasMORALISED TRIUMPHAL CHARIOTS

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senger raises his arms in a desperate cry for help. His cry will go unheeded for the town on the far shore is burning, filling the sky with smoke. Bruegel had used this idiomatic language in his series of The Deadly Sins, where it explicitly referred to the infernal punishments awaiting the sinners. However, in Bruegel’s rich visual vocabulary smoke also might denote vanity, translating the metaphor of humana fumus, paraphrasing the idea of the worthlessness of human life.81 Another moralistic admonition in Bruegel’s own idiomatic language can be read in the right middle ground where peasants dance around a maypole, oblivious to the destructive power of Time followed by Death with his scythe.82 This metaphorical image recalls Bruegel’s sinister depiction of peasants dancing below the gallows, ignoring the presence of death, in the 1568 Magpie on the Gallows (Hessisches Landesmuseum, Darmstadt). The couple approaching the tavern in the right middle ground of the print, with the woman prominently leading the man, alludes both to the topos of the power of women and the theme of debauchery. Though Bruegel cites the classical Renaissance notion of the renewal of the cycle of time through the ancient symbol of the snake biting its tail raised in the left hand of the personification, as I contend, he, nonetheless, stresses the destructive aspects of time, and the punishment awaiting the fools-sinners, who are about to be overtaken by Time and Death. Various objects scattered on the ground, filling the foreground of the composition have been, are, or will be crushed under the wheels of the triumphal cart of Time.83 Unlike Coecke’s allegory, here the emblematical still life embraces a wider range of social ranks and professions: a crown and a scepter designating the temporal rulers of the world lie beside a cardinal’s hat, a sword and a helmet. Books and musical instruments may symbolise the liberal arts, but also convey the idea of vanity. With a hint of irony Bruegel adds the painter’s palette, maul-stick and brush to the paraphernalia of the moralised still life. A large shovel, along with other utensils, designating the peasants and artisans lying next to the crown, indicate the universality of the worthlessness of human endeavour once confronted with triumphing Time and Death. The pillar being crushed under the cart’s front wheel may denote the loss of strength and supremacy, and 216

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the idea of ephemeral human power. The broken column, could, however also designate Time as destroyer.84 An elegant wine-pitcher, together with a pewter plate and a mirror, money-chest and a purse,85 symbolise the vanity of earthly matters; the latter items designate, at the same time, pride and avarice. Lying on the ground just in front of the horses is an open overturned pitcher, suggestively close to the border of the composition. As I have noted in my study of Bruegel’s Triumph of Death (1562-64, Museo del Prado, Madrid), the overturned pitcher could have suggested to the audience the notion of the ‘end of the feast’.86 Although the publisher entitled the print The Triumph of Time, Bruegel effectively fuses together three triumphant figures in this cortege: the personification of Time holds pride of place, followed by Death and finally Fame. The ominous personification of Death, holding an enormous scythe and riding atop an undernourished, lethargic ass, appears small in comparison to muscular Time and the rather masculine Fame who, mounted on the emblematical elephant,87 brings up the rear of the procession. Bruegel intriguingly inverts the traditional Petrarchan order of the triumphal parade, where Death is usually followed first by triumphant Fame, and then by Time and Eternity. Furthermore, Fame too becomes a menacing power, with her emblematical elephant about to trample on the symbolical still life. A contemporary engraved series of triumphal metaphorical chariots by an unknown author was published in Antwerp.88 Dedicated to the Ages of Man, Time and Death, it opens with The Triumph of Childhood, with Peace, Innocence and Chastity enthroned on a chariot inscribed Aurora; on the banner held by a putto we recognise the zodiac signs of Spring. The next chariot dedicated to Youth, expresses the idea of a moralistic choice between vices and virtues, folly and prudence. This cart is also led by a putto holding a banner, but now with the zodiac signs of summer. A saturnian cripple holding a banner with the zodiac signs designating autumn leads the third chariot of Old Age (Fig. 10). In analogy with Bruegel’s invention, we may note the emblematical still life crushed under the chariot’s wheels. The chariot ingeniously relates the notion of Time and Death through the dry branches on which black carrion birds perch. The personification

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Fig. 10. Unknown author, The Triumph of Old Age, engraving, Paris, Bibliothèque national de France, Estampes, Te 1 fol. 23.

of LVCTUS (mourning), clad as the traditional Northern pleurant, holds a torch alluding to a funeral procession.89 Unlike the previous chariots dedicated to the theme of The Three Ages of Man, The Triumph of Time and Death (Fig. 11) belongs to the Northern tradition of moralised Petrarchan Trionfi. Following the Petrarchan tradition of the Triumph of Death, the chariot is drawn by two oxen. However, here both the personifications of Time and Death ride on the oxen while leading the chariot on a furious ride. Both are armed with their symbols of destruction, Death holding an arrow is followed by Time, with his large scythe. Men, a woman and a horse are crushed under the chariot’s broken wheels. A lute on the left and a spade on the right, like in Bruegel’s triumphal procession, might designate vanity, alluding also to various occupations. On the chariot, the three fates cut the thread of life. This motif occurs in earlier sixteenth-century French versions of Petrarchcan Triumphs. In a drawing accompa-

nying Jean Robertet’s French version of the Trionfi, Atropos, Lachesis and Cloto,90 replace the grinning skeleton, the common personification of Death. However, in the Psychomachia pattern, the fates step over vanquished Chastity. In our engraved version of The Triumph of Time and Death, we may discern the typical juxtaposition of motifs derived from Northern iconography. Mourning pleurants are now progressing in a funeral procession, along both sides of the chariot. Bearing a sumptuous coffin, the chariot turns into a Triumphal Funereal chariot (pompa funebris) followed by a triumphant Fame. The unknown author, addressing as it seems the educated circles of the mid-sixteenth century, was attracted by both Italianate art and Bosch’s enigmatic language. Interlaced into this intriguing weave is the motif of an owl perched on a dry tree, which in Bosch’s idiomatic vocabulary signified death.91

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Fig. 11. Unknown author, Triumph of Time and Death, engraving, Paris, Bibliothèque national de France, Estampes, Te 1 fol. 24

Conclusion In Northern visual culture the triumphal procession often serves as the framework for a moral lesson. This new metamorphosed pattern is clearly reflected through the didactic booklet, Le triumphe de Haulte folie, where the idea of the triumphal parade is adopted as a vehicle of moral instruction. In Northern moralised elaborations of the Triumph of Love (Figs. 4 and 5), the traditional Petrarchan god of Love is replaced by Venus-Luxuria, a seductive female turned into a femme-fatale topos. She is accompanied by her son Cupid who shoots arrows at the victims of love. But this triumphal cortege is often infused with images of death as the victims of love are crushed under Venus-Luxuria’s chariot. The scene turns into an animated memento mori narrative, where the triumphal procession of love is metamorphosed into a moralistic lesson, warning the beholder against the perils of carnal love. 218

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In both Coecke’s and Bruegel’s versions of the Triumph of Time (Figs. 9 and 10), we are confronted with multifaceted lessons that depart from the traditional Italian examples. Coecke, followed by Bruegel, introduced into the Petrarchan scheme of the Triumph of Time a moralised landscape background together with an emblematical still-life in the foreground, enriching the didactic lesson with social criticism. Bruegel, followed by the anonymous engraved version of the Triumph of Time and Death (Fig. 11), highlight the destructive nature of Time, presenting Time and Death as rather punitive powers. Bruegel deliberately confronts his audience with an enigmatic multi-layered composition. Translating Italian imagery into a ‘vernacular’ vocabulary, he invites the viewer to decipher the puzzling weave of images in which he stresses the idea of the universality and worthlessness of human life embracing all levels of society.

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NOTES

1 Anonymous French artist, drawing for François Robertet, Les triomphes de Pétrarque, Recueil de poèmes et dessins variés, Paris, Bibliothèque national de France, c. 1500, Ms. fr. 2446, fols. 2v-7r. François Avril and Nicole Reynaud, Les Manuscrits à peintures en France, 1440-1520 (Paris, 1993), no. 193; Edith Wyss, ‘Matthäus Greuter’s Engravings for Petrarch’s Triumphs’, Print Quarterly, 17 (2000), pp. 347-69, esp. p. 349, fig. 127; C. A. Mayer and D. Bently-Cranch, ‘François Robertet: French Sixteenth-century Civil Servant, Poet and Artist’, Renaissance Studies, 11 (1997), pp. 208-22. Simona Cohen, ‘The Image of Time in the Renaissance Depictions of Petrarch’s Trionfo del Tempo’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Tel Aviv University, 1982, p. 125) points out that the Italian tradition had never introduced the personification of Fame into the illustrations of Time, an iconographical pattern adopted in many French illustrations of the motif. 2 Matthäus Greuter, series of engravings for Petrarch’s Triumphs, 1596, Vienna, Graphische Sammlung Albertina. 3 In France, especially during the reign of the humanist king Francis I, cultivated audiences were familiar with Petrarch’s Triumphs through French translations and adaptations. Earlier editions already appeared in an adapted version by Georges de la Forges (1514). Later editions appeared under the privilège du roi in 1519, 1520, 1525, 1531, 1539 and 1545. On the influence of the trionfi motifs on the royal entries, see Victor E. Grahm, ‘The Entry of Henri II into Rouen in 1550: A Petrarchan Triumph’, in Petrarch’s Triumphs. Allegory and Spectacle, ed. by Konrad Eisenbicheler and Amilicare A. Innucci (Toronto, 1990). Barbara Swain, Fools and Folly During the Middle Ages and the Renaissance (New York, 1932), p. 178, notes that the essentially medieval book ‘was combined with the paraphernalia of a “triumph” suitable to the taste of the most Italianate city of France’. For the triumphal entries in France and in the Netherlands see Yona Pinson, ‘L’evolution du style renaissant dans les Entrées de Charles Quint à Valenciennes’, Gazette des Beaux- Arts, 113 (1989), pp. 201-13, idem, ‘Imperial Ideology in the Triumphal Entry into Lille of Charles V and the Crown Prince (1549)’, Assaph, Studies in Art History, 6 (2001): pp. 205-32. See also Tamar Cholcman, ‘The Ephemeric Art of Death. The funeral Procession of Albert of Austria, Governor of the Netherlands: Jacob Franquart’s Pompa Funebris, 1622’ (Master’s thesis, Tel Aviv University, 1998, in Hebrew with English summary). 4 See Sheila Williams and Jean Jacquot, ‘Ommegangs Anversois du Temps de Bruegel et de Van Heemskerck’, in Les Fêtes de la Renaissances II: Fêtes et Cérémonies au Temps de Charles Quint, ed. by Jean Jacquot (Paris, 1960), pp. 359-88. 5

Vienna, Kunsthistorisches Museum. See Georges Marlier, La Renaissance flamande, Pierre Coeck d’Alost (Brussels 1966), pp. 334-38; Renaissance et Maniérisme dans les Écoles du Nord. Dessins des collections de l’École de Beaux–Arts, exh. cat. (Paris, École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, 1985), (Paris, 1985) no. 48. 6

Le triumphe de Haulte folie, a facsimile edition, accompanied by an introduction and a glossary by Anatole de Montaiglon (Paris, 1880), reprinted and re-edited by Bassac, (La Petite liberarie du XIX siècle, 1993). In his preface, Montaiglon points out that the woodcuts were originally designed for Le triumphe de haulte et puissance Dame Vérole (Lyons, 1539; Paris Bibliothèque national de France Rés. Ye 5077), a compendium of edifying proverbs and didactic sayings (see idem, 5-6). It is worth noting that it was quite common for a pub-

lisher to keep a stock of images that were re-used either in the same book, as in Brant’s Ship of Fools or in other similar books. For reusing of plates in the same book, see Erika Betty Goodman Michael, The Drawings by Hans Holbein the Younger for Erasmus’ Praise of Folly (Ann Arbor, 1985), pp. 265-67. For a more in-depth discussion of Le triumphe de Haulte folie, see my book, The Fools’ Journey. A Myth of Obsession in Northern Renaissance Art, Chapter 5: ‘The Triumph of Dame Folly’ (Le triumphe de Haulte folie), (forthcoming). 7 Two contemporary illustrated moralisations of Ovid’s texts issued in Lyons were also arranged similarly to an emblem book. Trois premiers livres de la Metamorphose d’Ovide, Traduictz en vers François […] Mithologizes par allegories historiales, naturelles et moralles.[…] Illustrez de figures et images convenants […], Lyons, G. de Roville and M. Bonhomme, 1556, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Rés. pYc 162; and La Metamorphose d’Ovide figurée, Lyons, J. de Tourens, 1557, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Rés. pYc 1270. 8 One should consider this work in analogy with Jodicus Badius Ascensius’s La Nef des Folles, French adaptation by Jehan Drouyn, Paris, c. 1500; Pinson, The Fools Journey, chapter 4. 9 In a later moralistic representation of Venus-Libido, Goltzius represents her as a seductive half-naked woman with a bird perched on her hand and accompanied by a he-goat; both animals would have been recognised as emblems of carnal appetite. (Jacob Matham after Hendrick Goltzius, Venus–Libido, engraving, Amsterdam, Rijksprentenkabinet, Rijksmuseum.) 10 The winged heart might have a double meaning for the contemporary audience. Wings and feathers were associated with frivolity, instability and folly whilst, at the same time, wings were also related with sexuality and lust. See Eddy de Jongh’s seminal essay, ‘A bird’s-eye view of erotica. Double entendre in a series of seventeenth–century genre scenes’, in Questions of Meaning. Themes and Motifs in Dutch Seventeenthcentury Paintings, trans. and ed. by Michael Hoyle (Leiden, 2000), pp. 21-58. In Cornelis Anthonisz’s series of woodcuts, The Misuse of Prosperity (1546), the personification of Unchastity (Oncusheit), a seductive young woman, is holding a plume in her hand. According to Christine Armstrong, it can be explained in terms of Lust’s power to move her admirers, suggesting that they are blown about easily. (Christine Megan Armstrong, The Moralizing Prints of Cornelis Anthonisz (Princeton, NJ, 1990), p. 62 and fig. 25d.) 11 Sebastian Brant, The Ship of Fools, translated and commented by Edwin H. Zeydel, (New York, 1962), p. 89. 12 For the meaning of thorns and thistle as connotations of sin and lust see, Yona Pinson, ‘Connotations of Sin and Heresy in the Figure of the Black King in Some Northern Renaissance Adorations’, in Artibus et Historiae, 34 (1996), pp. 15977, esp. pp. 166-67. 13 Erwin Panofsky, ‘Blind Cupid’, Studies in Iconology. Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Renaissance (New York, 1972), p. 107 and note 41; p. 114, note 60, fig. 84. 14 Venez a moy d’entente curieuse/Oui voulez suivre vie voloupteuse/Je suis Venus votre maistress/Ce beau rameu d’odor delicieuse/signiffie que plaisance amoureuse/Se change tost et reduit en tristesse. (As quoted by Alison Saunders, Sixteenth-century French Emblem Book, A Decorative and Useful Genre (Geneva, 1988), pp. 41-42)

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15 For a pageant of Venus in the Royal Entry at Reims in 1484, see Josèphe Chartrou, Les Entrées solennelles et triomphales à la Renaissance (1481-1551), (Paris, 1928), p. 50. However, the motif of a triumphant Venus was adopted in turn in the carnival parade, where a pageant of the Goddess of Love could be associated with fertility as well. Samuel L. Sumberg, The Nuremberg Schembart (New York, 1941), pp. 163-66. However, the motif of the Triumph of Venus occurs in early-sixteenth-century moralistic humanist writings. The German humanist, Heinrich Bebel uses the metaphor of procession in his Triumphus Veneris (1509), to convey the idea of the eternal punishment that awaits all levels of society that venerate sexual love. See also Paul Vandenbroeck, ‘Hieronymus Bosch: The Wisdom of the Riddle’, in Hieronymus Bosch. The Complete Paintings and Drawings, ed. by Jos Koldeweij, Paul Vandenbroeck and Bernert Vermet, (Rotterdam, Amsterdam and Ghent, 2001), pp. 100-93, esp. pp. 109-10. 16 See Kathleen Wilson-Chevalier, ‘Sebastian Brant: The Key to Understanding Luca Penni’s Justice and the Seven Deadly Sins’, Art Bulletin, 78 (1996), pp. 236-63, esp. pp. 252-57. 17 I do not agree with Wilson-Chevalier who argues that the torch held by Venus should be related with syphilis and prostitution, see Wilson-Chevalier, p. 253. 18 Alongside the triumphal chariot are a boar and a bear, symbols of vices as well as established emblems of Luxuria. In The Large Garden of Love, by an unknown Netherlandish Master, (engraving, c. 1450), the artist introduces in the apparently idyllic garden, an enchained ape ‘playing’ with a boar cub, in the foreground; a bear is entering the scene from the wood in the background on the right, while stags, another emblem of lechery, may be discerned in the left background. A deer is also prominently featured walking alongside the chariot in Penni/Davent’s invention. Hieronymus Bosch adopted these emblematical beasts for the metaphorical cavalcade in the central panel illustrating Luxuria in the Garden of Earthly Delights. A stag designating lechery also appears later in Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s, Luxuria (1558), from his series The Seven Deadly Sins. A taureau (ox/bull), also a well known attribute of Venus designating Lust leads the triumphal procession. The ox and stag are followed by a horse that might, in this context, be read as symbolic of unrestrained passion. The wild unbridled horses in Bosch’s metaphorical cavalcade may also carry similar meaning. (For the symbolic meaning of the horse, see: Guy de Tervarent, Attributs et Symboles dans l’Art Profane. Dictionnaire d’un langage perdu (1450- 1600), (Geneva, 1997), p. 118. 19 Mair von Landshut already associated chained apes with lust and folly in his depiction of brothels in two engravings, The Balcony (1496) and The Hour of Death, (1499). For the meaning of the chained ape, see Erwin Panofsky, The Life and Art of Albrecht Dürer (Princeton, 1955), p. 67; Erwin Panofsky, Studies in Iconology (New York, 1962), pp. 195-96. Horst W. Janson, Apes and Ape Lore in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance (London, 1952), chapter 5, ‘The Fettered Ape’; see also the instructive discussion on this topic by Margaret A. Sullivan, ‘Peter Bruegel the Elder’s Two Monkeys: A New Interpretation’, Art Bulletin, 63 (1991), pp. 114-26. The idea is bluntly expressed in Israel van Meckenem’s print, Two Monkeys (Albertina,Vienna), in which a male and female ape, engaged in love-making, caress each other. In a later seventeenth-century Dutch painting by Pieter van Roestraten, The Proposition, (Frans Hals Museum, Haarlem), an enchained ape peeps under the dress of a drunken ‘lady’, whose leg lays suggestively on her ‘suitor’s’ lap. However, the ape might also be related to folly, and been rhymed with the ass. 20 See for instance, Hans Holbein the Younger, Les simulacres & histories faces de la mort, Lyons, 1538: ‘The Nun’ (fol. Eviii), and ‘The Countess’ (fol. G.). 21

Penni could have been inspired by the illustration in chapter 13, ‘Of Amours’, in Brant’s Ship of Fools, where Death peeks out from behind Dame Venus (Fig. 2).

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22 I discuss the relationship between Cupid and Death in greater detail in my book, The Fool’s Journey, chapter 5. 23 The Beaux-Arts drawing is part of a series dedicated to the Petrarchan trionfi, apparently modelli for grisaille stained-glass (grisets) rondelles, most likely for a bourgeois residence; Renaissance et Maniérisme, exh. cat. no. 49. The Paris Ecole des BeauxArts possess four drawings from the series: The Triumph of Love, The Triumph of Chastity, The Triumph of Time (Fig. 7), and The Triumph of the Divinity. (The Triumph of Death is in Vienna, Albertina). According to Edith Wyss (‘A “Triumph of Love” by Frans Francken the Younger: From Allegory to Narrative’, Artibus et historiae, 38 (1998), pp. 43-60, esp. pp. 53-54 and fig. 14), Venus’s chariot in Northern Petrarchan Triumphs of Love, replacing the traditional chariot of Cupid, appears for the first time in a Flemish tapestry designed apparently by Bernard van Orley (Kunstgewerbe Museum, Berlin). However in van Orley’s design the chariot of Venus appears in the sky in analogy with contemporary illustrations of the planets. 24 In this unique visual interpretation, Pieter Coecke Van Aelst might have been inspired by Brant’s seminal text on this subject. See Brant, Ship of Fools, chapter 13: ‘Of Amours’, where he names the victims of love, both mythological and biblical heroes. Solomon’s idolatry was conceived in Northern Renaissance art and thought as a topos related to the Power of Women. In a circular dry point print by the Housebook Master (one of a pair of medallions,Rijksprentenkabinet Amsterdam), dedicated to the Power of Women (c. 1485), the artist renders King Solomon kneeling before a pillar topped with an idol, juxtaposed with one of his seductive wives. For a discussion of the motif in relation to the topos of the power of women, see Susan L. Smith, The Power of Women. A Topos in Medieval Art and Literature (Philadelphia, 1995), pp. 193-94. 25 An illustration of The Triumph of Love on a fifteenth century painted salver attributed to Apollonio di Giovanni (or his shop), (Victoria and Albert Museum, London), includes in the foreground episodes referring to the topos of the power of women derived from both biblical and pagan sources. We find among the victims of passionate love Samson, along with Hercules, Virgil and Aristotle, episodes that do not figure, however, in Petrarch’s original text. This gap between image and text has been explained as an illustration to a lost commentary. Smith suggests another tempting interpretation, proposing that the painter, seeking examples of love’s power, ‘relied on an iconographic tradition established more than a century earlier in northern Europe and that had somehow made its way to the south’ (Smith, p. 196). 26 Purchased in 1544 by Mary of Hungary from Pieter van der Walle; Marlier, Pierre Coeck d’Alost, pp. 331-42; Tapestry in the Renaissance. Art and Magnificence, exh. cat. (New York, The Metropolitn Museum of Art, 2002, ed. by Thomas P. Campbell et. al. (New Haven and London, 2002), no. 47. The tapestry set, with the name of the artist, is recorded in a midsixteenth century manuscript conserved in the National Library in Madrid (Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid, Ms. 6015). 27 In 1539 Coecke published a summary of Vitruvius’s treatise on architecture, followed by Serilio’s writings on architecture in Dutch and in French. 28 Each of the other six personifications of sins in this triumphal parade is winged. 29 Luxuria in the medallion of the vices in the rose-window in Notre-Dame de Paris is depicted as an elegant young courtesan at her toilet, admiring herself in the mirror. (For reproduction see, Emile Mâle, The Gothic Image. Religious Art in France of the Thirteenth Century, trans. by Dora Nussey (New York, 1958), fig. 59.) 30 Yona Pinson, ‘Music’, in Encyclopedia of Comparative Iconography. Themes Depicted in Works of Art, ed. by Helene E. Roberts, 2 vols (Chicago and London, 1998), 2, pp. 629-37, esp. pp. 634-36.

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31 Campbell, Tapestry in the Renaissance, p. 411, suggests that the figure might be the personification of Inconstancy. Marlier, Pierre Coeck d’Alost, p. 340, however, suggested a bacchanal Maenad. 32 For the meaning of the female-dancer in the Middle Ages and later medieval iconography, see Françoy Garnier, Le Langage de l’image au Moyen Âge. Signification et Symbolique (Paris, 1982), p. 122; Michael Camille, Images on the Edge. The Margins of Medieval Art (London, 1992), p. 122. 33 Ethan Matt Kavaler, Pieter Bruegel. Parables of Order and Enterprise (Cambridge, 1999), p. 187. 34

Brant, The Ship of Fools, chapter 61: ‘Of Dancing’.

35 Margaret A. Sullivan, Bruegel’s Peasants. Art and Audience in the Northern Renaissance (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 26-29. 36

According to the Madrid manuscript she is identified as Lucretia, who committed suicide after being raped by Tarquin. However, this identification does not seem plausible, since Lucretia was not considered a victim of her passions, on the contrary, she usually represents rather the virtuous, married woman. On this topic, see Ilja M, Veldman, ‘Lessons for Ladies: A Selection of Sixteenth and Seventeenth-Century Dutch Prints’, Simiolous, 12 (1986), pp. 113-27, esp. pp. 12124. 37

According to Marlier, Pierre Coeck d’Alost, p. 341, Hercules designates the virtuous choice, identified as Hercules at the Crossroad; according to Campbell (Tapestry in the Renaissance, p. 411), Hercules is introduced into the scene, being the father of fifty-two children born to the fifty daughters of King Thestius. Carrying his emblematical column, Hercules heads the triumphal cortege of Love in a Venetian illustrated blockbook edition: Petrarch, Trionfi, Venice, Petrus de Plasis, 149092. f. aaviiiv. 38

Jean de Meun singled out the episode of Deianeira and the poisoned shirt in the late medieval Roman de la Rose, alluding to the power of love topos, and highlighting its perils (Smith, The Power of Women, p. 250, note 30). 39

Campbell, Tapestry in the Renaissance, p. 411.

40 Hienrich Schwartz, ‘Jan Gossaert’s Adam and Eve’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts, 42 (1953), pp. 145-68. In Jan Gossaert’s c. 1525 version of Adam and Eve (drawing, Providence, The Museum of Art, Rhode Island School of Design, Walter H. Kimbal Fund), Adams features bear a close resemblance to the painters own, known to us through Lampsoniuss portrait. Interestingly as well, Adam is shown as if ruled over by an active, seductive Eve who reaches for his genitals. 41 Campbell, Tapestry in the Renaissance, p. 411. I do not know how much we should consider the Madrid manuscript as a reliable source for deciphering the complex iconographical program of the tapestry. According to this text, for example, the angelic figure hovering above the cortege is identified as Chastity, thus creating a Psychomachia pattern. However, since in each of the compositions of this set an angel appears hovering above the chariot pointing out the moralistic message, we may question some of the readings suggested by this source. According to the Madrid manuscript (Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional de Espa˜na Ms. 6015 fols. 5-5v), the chariot of Dame Luxuria, was followed by Aeneas, Paris, Achilles, Hercules and Solomon (Aeneas paris Achilles/Solomon Hercules et/aultres infinis accompaignent dame luxure/soubz la conduite de venus). Tapisserien der Renaissance nach Entwüfen von Pieter Coecke van Aelst, exh. cat. (Vienna, Schloss Halbtrum, 1981) ed. by Rothraud Bauer and Jan Karel Steppe (Vienna, 1981), p. 9495 42 Identified as a ram by Bauer and Steppe, Tapisserien der Renaissance p. 73; they further point to three birds identified as magpies symbolising Vanity, Dissipation and Robbery.

43 For the erotic meaning of the birds, see de Jongh, ‘A bird’s-eye view of erotica’. For the depiction of Libido see p. 25 and fig. 3; an engraving by Jacob Matham after Hendrick Goltzius; Abraham Janssen depicted a naked Venus Lascivia, in her toilet with a two small birds (sparrows) perching on her hand. For the meaning of birds in Bosch’s Madrid Garden of Earthly Delights, see Yona Pinson, ‘Hieronymus Bosch: Marginal Imagery Shifted into the Center and the Notion of Upside Down’, in The Metamorphosis of Marginal Images: From Antiquity to Present Time, ed. by Nurith Kennan-Kedar and Asher Ovadia (Tel Aviv, 2001), pp. 203-12. 44 The ass may also be related to the folly of love, as we can learn from Sebastian Brant’s elaboration of the theme of destructive power of Dame Venus; see Sebastian Brant, The Ship of Fools, chapter 13:’ Of Amours’, and Fig. 2. 45 I discuss this in further detail in my book The Fool’s Journey, chapter 9: ‘Death and the Fool, Unbidden Guests in a Garden of Love’. 46 In his later series of Seven Deadly Sins, his son-in-law, Pieter Bruegel the Elder set the illustration of the sin before an infernal background, hence permitting a different reading of the iconographical program; the hellish view is now seen as the result of vicious behaviour, and thus is the punishment awaiting the sinners. 47 Golden Weavings. Flemish Tapestries in the Spanish Crown, exh. cat. (Munich, Bayerisches Nationalmuseum; Mechelen, Manufactuur De Wit; Amsterdam, Nieuwe Kerk, 1993), ed. by Guy Delmarcel et al., (Mechelen, 1993), nos. 14-16: The Departure of Saint Anthony; Saint Anthony in Prayer, and The Hay Wagon. 48 Tervarent, Attributs et Symboles dans l’Art Profane.

p. 226,

VI. 49 Panofsky, ‘Blind Cupid’, pp. 124-25 and note 76. I discuss the issue in my forthcoming book, The Fool’s Journey, chapter 5, ‘The Triumph of Dame Folly (Le triumphe de Haulte folie)’. 50 Amour et Mort, après vin boire:/Changeerent de flesches et arcs:/Et sur cecy debvez vous croire,/Que aussi firent de foce et ars:/Mort cuydant tuer ses souldars,/Vieilles gens amours mettoit:/Et Cupido gettant des darts,/Aux jeunes la vie ostoit./Livert de Emblemes de maistre André Alciat, mis en francoyse, et presenté a monsiegner L’admiral de France, Paris, Chrestien Wechel, 1534 (Glasgow, University Library, SM23B; L066; D156) and 1536 (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Rés. Z 2521). The motif of the exchange of arrows between the drunken Cupid and Death, was apparently borrowed from a poem by Jean Lemaire le Belges (1473 – c. 1515), Trois Contes de Cupido et Atropos, see Jean-Georges Kastner, Les Danses de Morts, Dissertation et recherches historiques [...]de la Danse macabre[…](Paris, 1852), p. 20. 51 As in Bosch’s two panels of Eden: the left wing of The Haywain triptych, in Madrid, Museo Nacional del Prado, and on the left wing of The Last Judgment, Vienna, Gemäldegalerie der Akademie der Bildenden Kunst; see my discussion on this issue, Yona Pinson, ‘Fall of the Angels and the Creation of Eve in Bosch’s Eden: Meaning and Iconographical Sources’, in Flanders in a European Perspective. Manuscript Illumination around 1400 in Flanders and Abroad, ed. by Maurits Smeyers and Bert Cardon (Leuven, 1995), pp. 693-707; The Last Judgement, Munich, Alte Pinakothek, Pinson, ‘Hieronymus Bosch: Marginal Imagery’, pp. 208-09. 52 See for example, The Triumph of Death, woodcut from Petrarch’s Trionfi, Venice, Ciovanni Capcasa, 1492-3, f. fiiiiv; The Triumph of Death, single-sheet engraving, Florence, c. 1470-80; J. B. Trapp, ‘Illustrations of Petrarch’s Trionfi from Manuscript to Print and Print to Manuscript’ in Studies of Petrarch and His Influence (London, 2003), pp. 207 and 209, and figs. 6 and 16.

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53 See my discussion on this issue in ‘Hieronymus Bosch: Marginal Imagery’, especially pp. 206-08. 54

Campbell, Tapestry in the Renaissance, p. 411.

55

Bauer and Steppe, Tapisserien der Renaissance, p. 57, suggest that he could have been assisted by a humanist who could also have been the author of the Latin verses. 56 We know some drawings by Coecke: The Prodigal Son in a Tavern, Rotterdam, Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen, inv. P. Coecke, no. 2, signed Petrus van Aelst inv. f. 1529. A large drawing, Scenes of Life of the Prodigal Son, c. 1530, apparently conceived as a preparatory design for a tapestry is now in the J. Paul Getty Museum in Malibu. 57

Renaissance et Maniérisme, exh. cat. no. 51.

58

According to Simona Cohen (‘The Early Renaissance Personification of Time and Changing Concepts of Temporality’, Renaissance Studies, 14 (2000), pp. 301-28, esp. pp. 31819 and fig. 12), Time devouring an infant appeared for the first time in an illustration for Trionfo in a Florentine illumination, 1468 (Trionfi, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS. Ital. 518, fol.17v), illustrating the saying Tempus edax rerum. The motif appears in later mid-sixteenth century Venetian editions of Petrarch’s Trionfi (Panofsky, ‘Father Time’ in Studies in Iconology, p. 81 and note 44; fig. 56). 59 Coecke inverts the traditional order of the Italian Trionfi where the triumphant Fame usually follows Time and Death, suggesting that this inversion is meaningful. 60 In Renaissance thought and art Hercules symbolised For-

titudo but was also related to Fame (Tervarent, Attributs et Symboles, p. 251). 61 Charles V was engaged in perpetual conflict during that period (1520-21, 1536-38 and 1539-44), especially against Francis I, King of France, who claimed the Roman Imperial Crown, with battles marked by the disaster of Pavia (1525) and the Sack of Rome (1527), known as the Italian Wars. (‘Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor’, The Columbia Encyclopedia, 6th edition, 2001.

http://www.bartleby.com/65/ch/Charles5HRE.html) 62 Triumph of Time, Florentine engraving from Trionfi, series,

c. 1470-1490, London, British Museum; Triumph of Time, Venetian woodcut illustrations from Trionfi, Jacopo di Capscas di Codeca, 1493 and a later 1508 version, G. de Gregoris, Trieste, Biblioteca Civica. (For reproductions see Panofsky, ‘Father Time’, figs. 52 and 53 and Cohen, ‘Early Renaissance Personification of Time’, figs. 13 and 15. 63 Panofsky, ‘Father Time’, p. 81. In Italian Renaissance imagery, the juxtaposition of barren and foliated trees might designate, on the contrary, the idea of rinascita, both in the Ovidian sense of resurrection and of recycling in nature. This metaphor was adopted and elaborated by Dante, as a symbol of resurrection and redemption (see Gerhart Ladner, ‘Vegetation Symbolism and the Concept of Renaissance’ in Essays in Honor of Erwin Panofsky (DE ARTIBUS OPUSCULA XL), ed. by Millard Meiss (New York, 1961, pp. 302-22). As pointed out by Ladner, the bare tree or tree stump symbolism, versus the full-foliated tree, was employed in both secular and religious arts. This emblematic image, featuring also in heraldic imagery, designates the continuity of temporal rule (see Ladner, figs. 3, 4, 5, and 6). On the other hand, in a religious context in late medieval and Renaissance iconography, it symbolises Christ’s resurrection and human redemption (see Ladner, figs. 8 and 13). 64 On this issue, Yona Pinson, ‘Hieronymus Bosch – Homo Viator at a Crossroads: A New Reading of the Rotterdam tondo’, Artibus et historiae, 52 (2005), pp.57-84, especially pp. 6770.

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65

Cohen, ‘Early Renaissance Personification of Time’, p.

118. 66

Cohen, ‘Early Renaissance Personification of Time, p.

118. 67 The Medieval Book of Birds. Hugh of Fouilloy’s Aviarium, ed. and trans. and commented by Willene B. Clark, Medieval and Renaissance Texts & Studies (Binghamton, New York, 1992), p. 201. (My emphasis Y. P.). As noted by Clark, (note 1), the vulture as a carrion bird following armies, was already noted by St Ambrose (Hexameron, 5.23.81). Although I do not believe that Coecke read the original relevant medieval texts he might have been familiar with these notions through secondary sources and sermons. 68 In the 1508 Venetian woodcut illustration, Triumph of Time, Time is holding a circular dragon-like snake. See Panofsky, ‘Father-Time’, p. 81 and fig. 53. 69 Although snakes were associated with the episode from Hercules’s infancy, where his crushing of them signaled his strength, it is clear that Coecke relates the snake rather to the hero’s defeat. 70 Tervarent, Attributs et Symboles, p. 402, XII. Elaine Schefer, ‘Death’ in Encyclopedia of Comparative Iconography, 1, pp. 221-233, esp. p. 224. 71 For the translation of the Latin inscription in both the first and the second states of the print, see H. Arthur Klein, Graphic Worlds of Peter Bruegel the Elder (New York, 1963), pp. 175-76. See, Larry Silver, ‘Ungrateful dead: Bruegel’s Triumph of Death re-examined’, in Excavating the Medieval Image. Manuscripts, Artists, Audiences: Essays in Honor of Sandra Hindman, ed. by David S. Areford and Nina A. Row (Aldershort, 2004), 266-333 especially pp.270-1. 72 See Pinson, ‘Hieronymus Bosch – Homo Viator at a Crossroads’, p.60 and note 17. 73 In mid-fifteenth-century Italian illustrations of the Triumph of Time, Time appears carrying a globe, designating his cosmic control, as pointed out by Cohen, ‘Early Renaissance Personification of Time’, pp. 303-11, and figs. 1 and 2. 74 Yona Pinson, ‘Bruegel’s 1564 Adoration: Hidden Meanings of Evil in the Figure of the Old King’, Artibus et historiae, 30 (1994), pp. 109-27, esp. pp. 113-14, notes 14-24, and figs. 4 and 5. 75 The crab designating June might be associated with negative meanings as we can learn from a later emblem in Roemer Visscher’s, Sinnepoppen, Amsterdam, 1614, where a crab depicted together with cards and dice warns against gambling, ‘Do not teach it to your children’ (leert het u kinderen niet). 76 Wrongly identified by Klein, Graphic Worlds of Peter Bruegel, p. 175. A big mechanical clock wedged into the crutch of the tree further designates the fleeting of time. 77 As pointed out by Cohen in ‘Early Renaissance Personification of Time’, p. 311, mechanical clocks appear already in mid-fifteenth-century Italian illustrations of the Triumph of Time, replacing the hourglass. On the left the scales (Libra) hang from a branch. Scales were related later to Time in Cesare Ripa’s Iconologia, where it expresses the idea that time equalises all things (Cesare Ripa, Baroque and Rococo Pictorial Imagery, The 1758-60 Hertel Edition of Ripa’s Iconologia, ed. by Edward A. Maser (New York, 1971), no. 11). 78 In his 1564 Adoration, Bruegel inserted the emblematical scorpion into the attire of the old king in three places, see Pinson, ‘Bruegel’s 1564 Adoration’, p. 121, notes 51-55, and figs. 1, 2, and 3. 79 According to Tervarent, Attributs et Symboles, p. 395, V, the scorpion, like the serpent, was associated with the earth,

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and the realm of death; appearing together with a skull it designates decay and death. 80 See my discussion on this topic, Pinson, ‘Breugel’s 1564 Adoration’, p. 121, notes 51-55, and figs. 1, 2, and 3. 81 Smoke spews from a pot in Bruegel’s moralistic engraved lesson, The Witch of Malleghem, 1559. In a later emblem from Gabriel Rollenhagen’s Nucleus emblematum (Arnhem, 1611), smoke rises from the bubble-world, designating vanity and the futility of human life. 82 Sullivan (Bruegel’s Peasants, pp. 132-33), relates the careless dancing peasants in the Triumph of Time, with the moralised elaborations of Bruegel’s Peasant Dance. 83 In a French version of Petrarch’s Trionfi (1547), published in Lyons by Jean de Tournes and illustrated by Bernard Salomon, an emblematical still life appears apparently for the first time in the foreground of the Trionfo d’Amore, conveying the idea of the universality of Love’s victims. We may discern attributes of both temporal and ecclesiastical authorities, the wealthy, as well as the peasantry. See Wyss, ‘Matthäus Greuter’s Engravings for Petrarch’s Triumphs’, p. 350 and fig. 128. Bruegel himself had already employed an analogical device of moralised still life in the foreground of Elck (1558) and also in the Alchemist, from the same year. 84 For the symbolism of the column see de Jongh, Questions of Meaning, pp. 121-23. A broken column together with ruins illustrates the idea of Time as destroyer in Ripa’s Iconologia. 85 Purses and chests designating greed appear in two of Bruegel’s moralistic engravings published by Hieronymus Cock, Avarice, and the satirical, Fight of the Piggy Banks and Strongboxes. 86

In his Triumph of Death (Museo del Prado, Madrid c. 1562-64) Bruegel introduces the motif of the interrupted feast in the lower right corner, where the feasting lovers are sur-

prised by death. In the foreground a disguised Death turns wine-pitchers upside-down, illustrating literally ‘the end of the feast’. (See Yona Pinson, ‘The Interrupted Banquet in Bruegel’s Triumph of Death (c. 1562-1564)’, The Profane Arts of the Middle Ages, 6 (1997), pp. 303-15.) 87 Usually the chariot of Fame is drawn by elephants. Bruegel, deviating from the traditional pattern, inventively depicts Fame mounted on her emblematic beast. 88 The Triumph of Time and Death belongs to a series by an unknown artist. (Williams and Jacquot incorrectly suggest that the series was published by Jacques (Jacob) de Weert (active in Amsterdam and Paris from the late sixteenth into the seventeenth century). According to Williams and Jacquot, it might reflect or even reproduce the 1562 Antwerp Ommegang that was dedicated to the ages of man, time and eternity (see Williams and Jacquot, ‘Ommegangs Anversois’, pp. 374-77). A later version of the print was made by the Antwerp artist Hieronymus Wierix. 89 For the theme of pleurants in the Northern Renaissance see Kathleen Morand, Claus Sluter. Artist of the Court of Burgundy (London, 1991), pp. 365-69 and L’art à la cour de Bourgogne. Le mécénat de Phillipe le Hardi et de Jean sans Peur (13641419), exh. cat. (Dijon, Musée des Beaux-Arts, 2004 ;Cleveland, OH, Cleveland Museum of Art, 2004-2005), (Paris, 2004), pp. 233-34. 90 Bibliothèque national de France, MS.fr. 24461 fol. 4v; the motif was adopted for a triumphal chariot of Death in a French tapestry dedicated to The Triumph of Death with Robertet’s verses (London, Victoria and Albert Museum, inv. no. 439-1883. See Mayer and Bently-Cranch, ‘François Robertet’, p. 217 and figs. 4 and 5. 91 See Pinson, ‘Hieronymus Bosch – Homo Viator at a Crossroads’ for further discussion.

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Spiriti veramente divini: Sculptors from the Low Countries in Italy, 1500-1600 Frits Scholten Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Gaspar del Castillo was the leader of one of the largest sculpture projects in the second half of the sixteenth century, the mausoleum of the Spanish Habsburgs in the Escorial. It was an enormous undertaking that suffered a lot of setbacks which caused substantial delays and, as a result, the work was not finished according to the agreed four years, but lasted almost ten years. One of the reasons for the delay was the lack of skilled workmen, especially sculptors. When the project, which started in 1579, became bogged down five years later, Del Castillo went searching for suitable craftsmen. He returned without any result from the Netherlands in early November 1585, ‘where in all the States there is not one craftsman of the art because of the long war’.1 The fact that he tried his luck in the distant Netherlands is less surprising than it may seem. From the first half of the sixteenth century, sculptors from the Low Countries had established a great reputation in the south as reliable and skilled artists. A number of them had travelled to Italy and built careers for themselves as court sculptors. One of them was Adriaen de Vries from The Hague (1556-1626), who first appeared in Italy in 1581, at the large and famous Florentine workshop of his fellow countryman Giambologna (‘Jehan van Boulogne’, 1529-1608).2 Five years later, de Vries would help to set into motion the Escorial project; in 1586 de Vries started to work for the Milanese sculptor, Pompeo Leoni, who was responsible for the fifteen, larger than life-size, gilded bronze sculptures that were to decorate the high altar of San Lorenzo de El Escorial (Fig. 1). The fact that de Vries moved from Florence to Milan was undoubtedly due to the prestigious and royal character of the commission, and also to the prospect of obtaining a position as a sculptor at the Habsburg court. It turned out to be a successful gamble as de Vries continued his career as court sculptor, first at the

court of Savoy in Turin, followed by service at the court of the Habsburg emperor Rudolf II in Prague. Adriaen de Vries was certainly not the only sculptor from the Low Countries who made a career in Italy. Before him, several of his colleagues had tried their luck in the south, also attracted by the good artistic climate. Although their careers differed significantly, there are also some remarkable parallels, which suggest that the careers of these Italy-travellers were determined by a set of common starting points, motivations and expectations. These sculptors, their careers, and most of all, their commonalities will be discussed below.

Fig. 1. Adriaen de Vries, Bust of Emperor Rudolf II (detail), bronze, 1603, h. 112 cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna SPIRITI VERAMENTE DIVINI

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Mobility Since the Middle Ages artists from the Low Countries were known to be fond of travelling. Guicciardini mentions in his Descrittione di tutti i Paesi Bassi (Antwerp, 1567) that Dutch artists spread all over Europe. In his 1604 Schilderboeck, Karel van Mander, the Dutch painter, artist-biographer, and a traveller to Italy himself, also writes about the great number of Dutch artists who travelled abroad. They tended to be much more mobile than their colleagues from other European countries, and together with the painters, gold, and silversmiths, the sculptors held a vanguard position. A relatively recent statistical investigation on the relationship between culture and economy between 1400 and 1800 showed that the emigration of Dutch sculptors was the highest of all their colleagues in Europe.3 While of all investigated European sculptors about sixteen per cent had been mobile, either inside within own country or abroad, the percentage of sculptors from the Low Countries on the move was significantly higher, at about twenty-four per cent. On the other hand, Spanish, English and Swiss sculptors tended to remain in their own countries with only ten to fourteen per cent travelling abroad. The mobility score for artists from the Low Countries is still higher if one looks exclusively at foreign migration: the Low Countries provided no less than twentyeight per cent of all European artists who operated outside their own borders, followed by the Germans with about twenty per cent. For all the remaining countries this percentage was on average only seven per cent! This great mobility was a consequence of the high degree of urbanisation in the Netherlands, with the Antwerp metropolis leading the way. Between 1400 and 1800 the proportion of artists per head of population was higher in Netherlandish towns than anywhere else. These urbanised artists generally were born into the lower middle class of merchants, which since the Middle Ages had formed an important breeding ground for artistic talent. With this background of trading contacts, it is hardly surprising that many of them tried their luck beyond the borders of their native cities. The same study also showed that the heyday of the migration of Dutch artists was the period from 1500 to 1650.4 Between 1500 and 226

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1550 approximately one hundred and twenty-five artists from the Low Countries moved abroad. This number would rise to approximately two hundred in the following fifty years and peak at approximately three hundred between 1600 and 1650.5 By comparison, in the same period (1600-1650), ‘merely’ about one hundred and thirty-five German and only one hundred and fifteen Italian artists moved abroad. Italy was the main destination for the migrating Netherlanders. About a quarter looked for work and inspiration in the south. In the period 1550-1650 this number showed a significant rise and coincided with the heyday of Dutch sculptors in Italy. Undoubtedly, Rome had the greatest power of attraction for Northern artists because of the large number of remains from the Classical era, which were to be seen everywhere in the city, but Florence and Venice were also favourite destinations among Northern artists. These cities had a strong cultural climate, and they could offer a good chance for commissions or tenures at one of the many workshops. Antwerp, as an artistic centre and as the most important metropolis for trade in the Netherlands, probably formed a crucial trait-d´union between the North and Italy. Yet, most of the sculptors who became successful in the south during the sixteenth century rarely came directly from the Scheldestad. It is even remarkable that they originated from very different places, varying from the Franco-Flemish area between Hainault and Picardy – where traditionally a lot of stone sculpture was produced and exported – to cities like ‘s Hertogenbosch in Brabant, Nijmegen in Guelders, or Delft and The Hague in the province of Holland. Both an earlier exception and trendsetter was the Antwerp sculptor Cornelis Floris (15141575) who was already in Italy before 1538. Italy as a school of learning Karel van Mander, based on his own experience, described Italy and especially Rome, as hooft der Pictura scholen – the most important school of painting for Dutch artists. Though he addressed painters, his comments are also valid for sculptors. Because of the large amount of remains from the Classical period, Italy was

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the pre-eminent school of learning for the Northern artists or fiamminghi – literally, ‘Vlamingen’ (Flemings), a common denotation used in the sixteenth century for the Dutch and Germans.6 The Roman sculptor, Guglielmo della Porta, spoke to his Florentine colleague Ammannati in similar terms: Roma è pur Roma. Qui bisogna venire, qui affaticarsi, qui studiare a chi vuol sapere….7 Van Mander even considered that the presence of Classical sculpture gave the Italian artists an advantage in rendering the human figure and narrating allegorical representations.8 The Dutch could only catch up by travelling to Italy themselves to study the ruins of the antiquity and, at the same time, modern Italian art. From the moment Northern artists discovered the Italian Renaissance, and through that, Classical Antiquity, Rome was held to be the preeminent seat for study and learning. The year 1508 is considered the classic beginning for the Dutch journey to Italy, when the painter Jan Gossaert travelled to Rome as part of the retinue of Philip of Burgundy, commissioned to record antiquities for his patron. Other painters and sculptors, such as the aforementioned Cornelis Floris from Antwerp, soon followed, and probably also the sculptor-architect Jacques du Broeucq (1520-84), from Hainault. Though the latter’s sojourn in Italy is not documented, his use of style is hardly explicable without direct knowledge of Italian sculpture.9 It is remarkable that when these artists returned home they applied Italian classicism to a Northern, mostly decorative derivation with a strong attention to grotesques. At least as important as the knowledge about the Renaissance style was the fact that Italy also offered a technical training. Northern sculptors like Floris had none or little training in working with white marble, the classic material par excellence, but which could be learned in Italy in abundance. Furthermore, the practice of applying several different coloured types of marble, used as a stylistic means to evoke Classical Rome, was shown to the Northern artists in Italy. The painter Raphael, in particular, was an important forerunner and source of inspiration.10 Floris returned to his homeland with knowledge of this new classicism and immediately incorporated it in his projects. Working with full-scale models in clay and plaster – a tech-

nique that probably was unknown in the North before 1550, but already standard sculpture practice in Italy in the first half of the sixteenth century – seems to have been introduced to the Netherlands by Floris.11 These new working methods were an excellent way in which to transmit his ideas to the many assistants and apprentices in his workshop. The layout and design of this large and versatile workshop – with clear divisions of labour and a well-developed marketing system, where the art of printing played an important role – was probably based on Italian examples. His Italian experiences are therefore part of Floris’s remarkable success story after his return to Antwerp in 1538. The fact that he, in 1549, received his first prestigious commission from abroad, the tomb for Dorothea of Denmark in Königsberg, showed that he had already built himself a great reputation and must have owned a well-equipped workshop. The making of this tomb would be the start of a series of royal commissions from far outside the city borders of Antwerp.12 Religion and war For the generation of sculptors after Floris, other reasons to travel to Italy besides study and the attraction of antiquities played an important role. The unstable political and religious situation in the Netherlands, as a consequence of the rising Reformation and the insurrection against the Spanish Habsburg authority, led to a deterioration of the climate for commissions and an uncertain future. Sculptors were especially sensitive to the economic situation because they were strongly dependent on commissions from the Church on the one hand, but, on the other hand, their art form became a target for sharp criticism by the religious reformers in the wake of Calvin. These followers condemned religious sculpture as idolatry. While Luther took a more tolerant point of view, Calvin rejected any sort of religious sculpture and tolerated only profane sculpture under strict conditions.13 It is not known if sculptors emigrated for purely religious reasons, fleeing from the rising Protestant movement. Adriaen de Vries is an example of just the opposite. He came from a family that sympathised with the SPIRITI VERAMENTE DIVINI

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Reform movement and which had to move from The Hague to Delft where a more tolerant climate for Protestants prevailed. Nonetheless, that background was no hindrance for de Vries to pursue a career in Italy and Prague in service of Catholic patrons.14 A sculptor from a generation before, the fiammingo Willem Danielszoon van Tetrode (c. 1520/25-1580) experienced that religion, art and economy really could be in line with each other.15 He stayed in Florence, Rome and Pitigliano between 1548 and 1567. The iconoclasm that raged through the Netherlands in the late summer of 1566 and which destroyed many sculptures and altars in the churches of Tetrode’s native city of Delft, probably made the sculptor return to the Netherlands. Presumably, he was lured back to Delft with an offer from a group of Catholic humanists to help restore the local Oude kerk. His first work was the repair of some damaged Gothic capitals of the building but, after two months, he was asked to make a new high altar to fill the empty space of the destroyed old altar. To judge by the extant documents and accounts of the materials purchased – metals and all kinds of stone from the southern Netherlands – it seemed that the new altar had been a huge and sumptuous construction in a modern, Italian Renaissance style, decorated with several statues. On 23 April 1573, a second wave of iconoclasm swept over Delft, during which Tetrode’s creation was destroyed. Completely disillusioned, the sculptor fled to Cologne, which had become a haven for several artists from the Netherlands. Here the Roman Catholic life flourished and new commissions were to be expected. Since 1568 ongoing scenes of iconoclasm and war had negative effects on the economy of the Low Countries, which resulted in large waves of migration from the southern to the northern provinces.16 At the same time this severe climate also stimulated the migration of Dutch artists to other European countries, with Italy in particular. The above-mentioned remark by Del Castillo from 1585 on the lack of good sculptors in the Low Countries as a result of the ongoing war – not surprisingly in 1585, the year of the Fall of Antwerp – illustrates the poor artistic climate of that time. The unfavourable economic situation in the Netherlands was undoubtedly the reason that 228

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many fiamminghi of the second generation never returned to their homeland, whereas those who set out for Italy before 1550 generally did. It seems that an important factor of remaining in Italy was the kind of speciality of sculpture: those who had specialised in working with marble often stayed in Italy where ‘their’ material was abundant and the amount of commissions in their profession larger than those north of the Alps. For example, Jacob Cobaert (c. 1530-1615), Niccolò Pippi (?-1599) from Atrecht (Arras), and Gillis van den Vliete (‘Egidio della Riviera’, (?-1602) from Mechelen – all from the southern part of the Low Countries – found permanent employment in Rome as sculptors in marble, in the restoration of antique sculpture as well as in ecclesiastical projects.17 Sculptors with a good experience in working in bronze, on the other hand, quite often found employment north of the Alps, especially in Germany where there not only existed a moderate religious climate, but also a strong competitive patronage among the princes, the church and city authorities.18 Court artists An important motive for many of the artists was the search for employment at court. Such a position would offer them all sorts of social and financial privileges, and given their status as court artists, they were protected from city laws and guild regulations.19 Because the introduction of the Renaissance came about first via the great nobility and the court of the Spanish governor in Mechelen, for a sculptor with aspirations to obtain a position at court it was an absolute advantage if he was trained in Italy. North of the Alps there was a great demand for artists who were familiar with the antiquity and the modern Italian visual language of the Renaissance. Willem van Tetrode, for example, experienced that at his return from Italy. When he relocated to Cologne in 1574, he soon found employment in the service of the archbishop of Cologne, Salentin von Isenburg.20 In an engraving, which he had made of two of his statues in the collection of the archbishop, he mentioned his new position not without pride. This happened to several other artists from his generation, later on as well: for example,

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Fig. 2. Benvenuto Cellini (design) & Willem van Tetrode (execution), Base of the statue of Perseus, marble and bronze, c. 1545-1554, Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Florence

Johan Gregor van der Schardt (1530-after 1581) from Nijmegen worked from 1569 for Emperor Maximilian II in Nuremberg and from 1576 for the Danish king, Frederic II;21 and Hubert Gerhard (c.1550-1620) found successful employment with the Fugger banker family in Augsburg, Duke Wilhelm V of Bavaria in Munich and Archduke Maximilian III of Tyrol in Mergentheim and Innsbruck.22 The obscure sculptor, Hans Mont from Ghent (c. 1545-after 1583), worked for Emperor Rudolf II in Prague, who later also became the employer of Adriaen de Vries. De Vries also acquired commissions from the city Augsburg, the Danish king and important noblemen at the Habsburg court. Italy too offered talented, ambitious sculptors from the Netherlands the chance to work in the

service of princes, bishops or noblemen. Generally the fiamminghi sought jobs at the big workshops of prominent court sculptors, where they had the possibility to master a trade through work on diverse and prestigious commissions. At the same time, work in a prominent workshop associated with a court often paved the way for a more independent career as court artist. Success stories about several Netherlanders in Italy proved that such a system worked. Willem van Tetrode worked initially with Cellini in Florence, whom he assisted with the socle of a statue of Perseus among other things (Fig. 2). Later he worked in the great workshop of Guglielmo della Porta in Rome. There, Tetrode probably caught the attention of the powerful patron Cardinal Alessandro Farnese, because there are several indications that he stayed a considerable time in the cardinal’s entourage.23 In 1558 he started his employment for the Lord of Pitigliano, Niccolò Orsini, possibly on the recommendation of the cardinal, for there existed close ties between the Farneses and the Orsinis. The most successful fiammingo was Giambologna who perhaps was lured to Rome for the Jubilee Year of 1550. Two years later, on the way back to the Low Countries, he had a chance to establish himself in Florence under the protection of the wealthy banker Bernardo Vecchietti. Through him Giambologna succeeded to catch the attention of the Medici family in 1558. In service of the Medicis, he developed into the most important figure on the Florentine sculpture stage, and would become the most successful and influential sculptor of his time in Europe, due to a combination of talent, ambition, business ingenuity and a well-developed ability to organise his workshop.24 His large workshop would become a great attraction for all kinds of sculptors from the North. A number of the most important fiamminghi worked under his leadership or were influenced by his style: Hubert Gerhard from ‘s Hertogenbosch, Pierre Francqueville (1548-1615) from Kamerijk (Cambrai), Hans Mont from Ghent, Adriaen de Vries, Elias de Witte, alias Elia Candido (? 1574) from Bruges, and the Germans Hans Reichle (c. 1570-1642) and Hans Krumper (c. 1570-1634). As apostles of his style, they made an important contribution to the European success of Giambologna. SPIRITI VERAMENTE DIVINI

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Fig. 3. Giambologna, Equestrian statuette of Emperor Rudolf II, bronze, c. 1600, h. 63 cm, Nationalmuseum, Stockholm

The European demand for fiamminghi The demand for well-trained fiamminghi sculptors was demonstrated by the energy that monarchs and princes north of the Alps put into attracting these artists to their courts. The artists obtained the status of court artist whilst the princes derived prestige from the presence of a great sculptor at their courts. In the tight European market of sculptural talent, it was not easy to tie artists to a court, especially outside Italy. With lucrative offers and privileges – and here one is forced to compare with the sport world of today – artists easily could be lured away. During the sixteenth century the Habsburgs and their noble entourage spared no pains in their attempt to lure talented sculptors to their court. Hence, the role of art agents and envoys was of great significance as proven by the extant correspondence and records of witnesses. At the beginning of the sixteenth century, when the technology of bronze-casting – at least with regard to sculpture – was still in its infancy in the North, Emperor Maximilian I tried to revive the art at his court with help of 230

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the unfortunate Gilg Sesselschreiber and his more successful heir Stephan Godl. They were entrusted to make a large mausoleum in the Hofkirche in Innsbruck, which would honour the Habsburg dynasty with a series of monumental bronze statues of the ancestors and relatives of the emperor (Fig. 3).25 In terms of ambition and of its laborious and delayed course this project could be compared to the earlier-mentioned El Escorial mausoleum of the Spanish Habsburg King Philip II in the second half of the century. Throughout the sixteenth century, the Habsburg dynasty showed a preference for bronze – as a material reference to imperial Rome – but later emperors no longer looked for artists in their own country as the superiority of Italian bronze sculpture was generally recognized. In 1568-69 Maximilian I attempted to employ an Italian sculptor with reputation.26 He ordered his envoy in Venice, Veit von Dornberg, to make investigations, the results of which were reported elaborately in his letters to the emperor. In the letter of 22 January 1569, the names of two prominent Venetian sculptors were mentioned – Alessandro Vittoria and Danese Cattaneo – along with the name of one Dutch artist. Perhaps Von Dornberg tried to prepare the emperor for the difficulty of persuading a famous Italian sculptor to come to the North and settling instead for a fiammingho: Moreover, a certain Netherlander (‘Belgicus’), called Johannes, who has been in Rome for some time and for the time being is living in Bologna, has arrived in Venice, and one tells that he really is very exceptional, as well as in sculpture as in the technique of casting, and he is recommended to me by many, especially the very distinguished patriarch of Aquila, Barbaro, who among other things provided a commentary on Vitruvius and is counted as one of the most prominent persons of his time in the science of architecture. He has been recommended to me as a person who, with the utmost carefulness, measured the most elegant figures and statues and rendered these very precisely in sketches and copies in Rome, and could serve Your Imperial Majesty very well, because he has no wife or children. I will try to get further information about this man as soon as possible from Bologna.27

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The emphasis which Von Dornberg put on the knowledge of antique sculpture is striking, and illustrative of how important it was, north of the Alps, to have first hand knowledge of antiquity. In the following two letters, of 19 February and 23 April, Von Dornberg reported that the earlier mentioned Dutchman, whom he now called Giovanni Fiamengo (‘Flemish John’), indeed would be the best choice, but that at this point he was about to take on a longterm commission in Bologna. For that reason, he admonished the emperor to decide quickly when he would want to employ the artist. Von Dornberg made an offer to the artist, whose real name was Johan Gregor van der Schardt, to travel to the imperial court and stay there for two months ‘on trial’. Van der Schardt accepted this offer. Von Dornberg could therefore write to the emperor on 30 May 1569: The sculptor Giovanni Fiamengo, whom I wrote about to Your Majesty in my previous letters, has returned from Bologna, and is determined to serve Your Majesty, came accompanied by an other [man] who works for him in the same profession. He visited me with a request for money, to buy a horse and for travel expenses, which I did not comply with, partly because I have not Your Majesty’s authorisation to do it and partly because I have not so much money at my disposal.28 On the 16 June, Van der Schardt, who had been provided with the necessary money and a letter of recommendation, travelled to the imperial court in Prague or Vienna, by way of Venice, together with his assistant. The envoy sent the emperor confirmation two days later: The day before yesterday, the sculptor Giovanni Fiamengo, left from here to Your Majesty’s court; he has been recommended by me on several occasions to come into your service. I had given him 40 scudi in gold for travel money, and he is so modest, that he, not as others would have done, asked for more money for daily wages. 29 Van der Schardt indeed did go into imperial service, initially establishing himself in Prague and later in Nuremberg. He would keep the

Fig. 4. Johan Gregor van der Schardt, Self-portrait, Terracotta and oil paint, c. 1573, h. 23 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

position as Statuarij noster until the death of the emperor in 1576. In 1571, ‘because of personal affairs’, he got permission to return to Italy, to conclude ‘business that was important to him’, but the emperor expected that he would return as soon as possible into his service.30 When, in 1576, his position as imperial sculptor became uncertain, Van der Schardt left for the Danish court in Copenhagen, where he worked for two years. He re-established himself in Nuremberg in 1578, mainly working for local middle class patrons such as the merchant-collector Paulus Praun, for whom he made, among other things, a self-portrait (Fig. 4).31 He died in or shortly after 1581. The new emperor, Rudolf II, also searched diligently for sculptors trained in Italy who were familiar with working in bronze – a quality which Van Dornberg already explicitly mentioned in the second letter to Maximilian II about Van der Schardt. Rudolf exerted himself, moreover, to set up a modern bronze foundry at the court in Prague. In 1602 Martin Hilliger, descendant from a prominent Saxon family of bronze founders, was appointed to organise the foundry. After an attempt to SPIRITI VERAMENTE DIVINI

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lure Giambologna from Florence to Prague had failed, his former assistant Adriaen de Vries was appointed court sculptor in 1589, followed in 1601 by his appointment to imperial Kammerbildhauer.32 Like Van der Schardt, the move by de Vries from Italy to the North is well documented in the archives.33 His ‘transfer’ (to keep with modern sport terminology) to Prague, did not go as smoothly as that of Van der Schardt, because first he had to be released from his service with the Duke of Savoy, Carlo Emanuele I of Turin. In this process the key role was once again played by a diplomat, this time the Count of Ozegna, Savoy’s emissary to the Habsburg court. The diplomatic correspondence between Ozegna and Duke Carlo Emanuele in Turin gives an unusually clear picture of the circumstances around the tugof-war over a first class sculptor between the two princely courts.34 In 1589, de Vries was given permission to move from Turin to Prague, a move that the duke saw as temporary as he was under the assumption that the sculptor had been lent to the emperor. On 18 July 1589 Ozegna reported that de Vries had arrived in Prague, after quite a hazardous journey of about one month by way of Milan, through the Brenner Pass to Innsbruck, and further by boat along the Inn eastwards to Linz. During the boat ride the sculptor almost drowned, an incident about which no details were reported. Via Budweis he travelled further to Prague, where he arrived on the 15 July. It would be almost another month before he was presented to the emperor, who was still at his summer residence at Brandeis. The audience on the 10 August was more than a formality. While the emperor was pleased at the arrival of de Vries, a discussion unfolded between Ozegna and the emperor during the sculptor’s introduction about the status and the duration of his stay.35 Although Ozegna pointed out that the sculptor was only lent to the emperor by Carlo Emanuele for the duration of one year, Rudolf wanted de Vries to stay at his court indefinitely. Illustrative of the scarcity of talented sculptors is the comment by the emperor that in Italy no mancano questa sorte d´huomini (‘no lack of this kind of people,’ namely, good sculptors). Ozegna kept his point of view but added diplomatically that Carlo Emanuele was pleased to give up the sculptor to Rudolf for as long as it pleased the 232

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emperor and that he wished che havesse il valor di Michel Angelo (‘that he would have the value of Michelangelo’). The expectations around the thirty-year-old Adriaen de Vries were indeed high. The dispute about de Vries’ position continued at the second audience. Again Rudolf claimed that de Vries no longer was employed by the court of Savoy, and even claimed that the sculptor had already offered his services from Milan, therefore before he even had begun his service for Carlo Emanuele. Ozegna and de Vries, however, continued to contradict the emperor. Rudolf admitted his mistake only after the correspondence notes were read, whereupon de Vries sighed and said that it would take a thousands years before he would be allowed to return to Turin. Ozegna, diplomatic as always, said that only God knew when that moment would come, ‘because the emperor knows no higher desire than to occupy himself with the art of painting and sculpture’.36 In reality, de Vries would never return to service at Savoy. He remained active for the most part of his working life in Prague, except for a sojourn of one year in Rome and of five years in Augsburg. Nevertheless, during these periods of absence the emperor tried to know where he was through his envoys. From Rome, the imperial agent Coraduz sent a note to Rudolf in October 1595, that he still had not seen de Vries, but ‘sobald derselbe sich melde oder er finden könne, werde er dem kaiserlichen Befehle nachkommen’ (as soon as the same [de Vries] announces himself or he [Coraduz] finds him, he shall obey the imperial command).37 The same Coraduz also had the task of searching for a good sculpture founder for the imperial foundry in Prague. On his way back he said he would negotiate with Giambologna in Florence about a better sculptor and caster. It was understandable that Rudolf wished to keep up the quality of the imperial foundry after the departure of de Vries. The foundry allowed him to produce bronze sculptures on a large scale, which meant that he could compete not only with the Medici in Florence, who had, after all, Giambologna at their command, but also with his brother Maximilian III of Tyrol, who in Innsbruck had at his disposal a good foundry and the sculptor Hubert Gerhardt – again a

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Fig. 5. Hubert Gerhard, Hercules, Nessus and Deianeira, bronze, c. 1601-1602, h. 58 cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

Fig. 6. Adriaen de Vries, Triton, one of the figures of the Fountain of Neptune, made for Frederiksborg Palace in Denmark, bronze, 1615-1618, h. 157 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (on permanent loan from the Nationalmuseum, Stockholm)

fiammingo - in his service who like de Vries was trained under Giambologna. A good illustration of the competitive patronage of the emperor is the way in which de Vries and Gerhard were used as artistic rivals in 1602. When two bronze sculptures by Gerhard arrived in Prague, (Fig. 5) as a gift from Maximilian III to his elder brother, the emperor could not help but remark:

This incident gave rise to the start of Adriaen de Vries’ group of Hercules, Nessus and Deianeira (Musée du Louvre, Paris), by which the imperial sculptor proved to Rudolf that he could indeed make a better composition (stöllung). After the death of the emperor, de Vries remained in Prague, although the court of the new emperor Matthias moved to Vienna and de Vries did not receive any new commissions. However, in 1615, an envoy of the Danish King Christian IV – who tried to compete with Habsburg patronage – presented himself. The envoy, the Danish mint-master Nicolaus Schwabe invited de Vries to make a large Neptune fountain for the Frederiksborg Castle, a commission that the fiammingo, who in the meanwhile had become the most important bronze sculptor outside Italy, finished in the following three years (Fig. 6).

die arbeit daran sey subtil und sauber, allein die stöllung derselben, wären etwas schlecht, der meister Adrian alss Ir. Mt. Bildgiesser, mach dieselb umb ein grosses besser […] (the workmanship is subtle and pure, but the positioning of the figures rather poor. Master Adriaen, as His Imperial Majesty’s sculptor, is far more accomplished in this).38

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Marble and bronze At the end of the seventeenth century, Baldinucci told a fascinating anecdote about an encounter in Rome between the young Giambologna and the elderly Michelangelo. Though one can doubt the trustworthiness of this story, the event showed an essential aspect of the development of Giambologna’s style that is indicative of a whole generation of fiamminghi. The young, ambitious sculptor showed the Nestor of Italian sculpture a carefully modelled figure in wax, hoping for a favourable critique from the old master. Before Giambologna’s eyes, however, Michelangelo kneaded the wax figurine with only a few hand movements into a new composition. Thereafter, he gave the figure back to Giambologna with the words: ‘Go away, do learn to model well before you finish something’.39 In a certain way this moment symbolised a definite change in Giambologna’s style: instead of aiming for a carefully finished surface – as was common in sculpture of the Low Countries – he became a fervent modeller of three-dimensional sketches in clay and wax, bozzetti, to record his ideas and to test the spatial qualities of his compositions. Disegno became his new motto. The development of modelling skills in wax or clay not only offered a good base for monumental work in stone, as Michelangelo probably argued, but it also made the road clear for work in bronze as wax models were the basis for bronze statues. It is remarkable that most of the successful sculptors of Giambologna’s generation worked with bronze and that they developed into modellers pur sang: Willem van Tetrode, Johan Gregor van der Schardt, Elias de Witte (‘Candido’), Hubert Gerhard and especially Adriaen de Vries. This preference for bronze, which north of the Alps was used only on a small scale for sculpture, is rather remarkable. Perhaps it can be connected to the fact that some of these sculptors were trained as goldsmiths in their own country and hence were already familiar with wax modelling and metal casting. Because the goldsmith’s art in the Netherlands stood in very high esteem, and at the same time sculptural elements increasingly became part of works in gold and silver in the sixteenth century, the changeover from this métier to sculpture was not so great. 234

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The first mention of Adriaen de Vries in Italy, in Giambologna’s workshop in March 1581, points indeed to such a background. He was defined as ‘m:ro Adriano orefice fiammingo’ (master Adrian, Netherlandish goldsmith), and he was also involved in the making of two silver crucifixes after a model by his master.40 In the same year, Hubert Gerhard was in Florence with Jacob Bylivelt (Biliverti) from Delft, one of the most important goldsmiths at the Medici court. Bylivelt functioned as a support for young Dutch artists – as entries in his cashbook/diary show. In 1580 Pierre Francqueville from Kamerijk (Cambrai) was mentioned in the cashbook. It is unclear, however, whether Gerhard and Francqueville really worked (as goldsmiths) for Bylivelt.41 Hubert Gerhard would later show himself, together with his Italian associate Carlo del Palagio, as a very skilful modeller of statues in terracotta, stucco and bronze.42 In view of their common origins in Delft, it is possible that Willem van Tetrode in turn encouraged Bylivelt to try his luck in Florence.43 Tetrode himself had been trained as a sculptor in stone, although his Delft background would not suggest this as his native town had almost no tradition in this area. He probably obtained his training elsewhere – in Utrecht or in the southern Netherlands? In any case, he was already a fully qualified sculptor when he went into service of the goldsmith Benvenuto Cellini, since he was entrusted with several important commissions (Fig. 7). For the ambitious Cellini, it was important to have a sculptor at his disposal in his bottega. It allowed him to manifest himself in the field of marble sculpture, an art that was held very highly in Florence, and make him into an ottima artista in the words of his friend Varchi.44 One can not rule out the possibility that Tetrode – together with various other assistants among which two Dutchmen, Ansi (Hans, Johannes) and Mattio (Matthijs) – executed an important part of Cellini’s marble work and that the latter himself never used a chisel.45 In his turn, Tetrode must have learned bronze casting from Cellini, a profession to which he applied himself ever since. Giambologna, whose reputation first of all was due to his work in bronze, was originally trained as a stone sculptor under the charge of Jacques du Broeucq from Mons who mostly worked with local types of stone such as

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was an important centre for the production of tombstones and epitaphs, while elsewhere there were centres for alabaster work.46 Why Giambologna, although faithful to his original profession, started to work with bronze around 1560 is not known. Perhaps a commercial consideration played a role: working in bronze offered artists a quicker chance at fame because of the ability to reproduce and distribute their compositions more easily. Indeed, this step would bring Giambologna great success and fame. His bronze statuettes were much sought after collectibles throughout Europe and often found their way to princely Kunstkammern. This, however, did not apply so much to his former assistants Gerhard and de Vries, who took more to make unique compositions. De Vries, it seems, did not choose bronze as a medium for reproduction, but instead chose it for the intrinsic qualities of the metal. It offered him a chance to preserve his modelled compositions in a lasting, precious material. For that matter, most of Giambologna’s regional colleagues – sculptors like Jacob Cobaert, Niccolò Pippi, Gillis van der Vliete, or Pierre Francqueville – continued to work as stone sculptors in Italy. Reputation

Fig. 7. Benvenuto Cellini (design) & Willem van Tetrode (execution), Ganymede, marble, c. 1549-1550, Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Florence

alabaster and veined marbles. Giambologna originated from the southern part of the Netherlands, the region that stretched from Hainault to the coast, an important centre of stone sculpture of the Low Countries since the Middle Ages. From this area a great deal of stone sculpture was exported to the North and other places. Doornik (Tournai), for example,

At the end of the sixteenth century the fiamminghi had achieved a solid place for themselves in Europe in the vanguard of sculpture. They reached the highest positions imaginable in the most important art centres and were famous everywhere. Vasari’s praise, for example, is striking, but not unique.47 In the second edition of the Vite in 1568, Vasari considered Giambologna worthy of praise, and this was followed by a more extensive biography of the sculptor in Borghini’s Il Riposo in 1584. Lomazzo praised Adriaen de Vries in 1590, directly after Giambologna. According to him, both artists were di grandissimo ornamento alla nostra Italia.48 Baldinucci refered in 1681 to de Vries as an assistant to Giambologna. Vasari was also enthusiastic about Johan Gregor van der Schardt, describing him in Guiccardini’s words as a scultore studiosissimo e dilligente.49 Willem van Tetrode was mentioned by him as: SPIRITI VERAMENTE DIVINI

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Fig. 8. Adriaen de Vries, Fountain of Hercules, bronze, c. 1590-1593, Drottningholm Palace, Stockholm

un Guglielmo Tedesco, che fra alter opera a fatto un molto bello e ricco ornamento di statue piccoline in bronzo, imitate dale antiche migliori, a un studio di legname, cosier lo chiamano, che il conte di Pitigliano dono al Signor Duca Cosimo…,50 a reference to a lost masterpiece by Tetrode, a large cabinet or studiolo decorated with bronze statuettes after famous classical marble sculptures in Rome.51 Moreover, Lomazzo praised Tetrode together with Vincenso de’Rossi as due spiriti veramente divini (two really divine minds).52 North of the Alps the fame of the fiamminghi was great too, at least in their lifetime. Gabriel Kaltemarckt’s list of the most important sculptors to be represented in a royal Kunstkammer includes, besides famous Ital-

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ians, a number of the best known fiamminghi: Jacques Dubroeucq – Giambologna’s teacher, Cornelis Floris, Willem van Tetrode, Johan Gregor van der Schardt, and Giambologna ‘from Douai in Flandres [...] presently considered the greatest sculptors in all Europe’.53 Remarkably, however, most of them sank, soon after they died, into oblivion. Hubert Gerhard, for example, was only mentioned for the first time in 1790 in the (art-)historical literature.54 In contrast to Gerhard, Adriaen de Vries received, thanks to the fountains he made in Augsburg, a mention by Joachim von Sandrart in his Academie in 1675, but soon after he was forgotten too, until he was rediscovered by Füssli in his Allgemeines Künstlerlexikon in 1819.55 One reason for this collective loss of memory with regard to these sculptors can be explained by the low regard for Mannerism by art historians until the second half of the twentieth century.56 Furthermore, Dutch art history neglected the fiamminghi for a long time because they did not fit into the characteristic canon of style for the Low Countries. Finally, recurrent confusion about names often played a role: various sculptors were known in Italy by different names to those in their own country. For instance, it was not until 1939 that Gugliemo Tedesco, who was mentioned by Vasari, could be identified in Dutch literature as Willem Danielszoon van Tetrode from Delft. The fortuna critica of these sculptors is perhaps best illustrated by the story of an English tourist who visited the royal palace Drottningholm near Stockholm in 1688. In his diary he wrote that on a visit to the garden he saw, among others, the Hercules fountain by Adriaen de Vries (Fig. 8). Even though he mentioned all sorts of details of the statue, the name of its maker is completely forgotten and even more, the fountain was considered a work from ancient Greece: The garden is not quite finished, in the middle fountain is a brass Statue 8 foot high of Hercules killing the Dragon, it was taken at Prague by Gustavus Adolphus thô it formerly came from Athens and is reckoned one of the best in Europe […].57

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NOTES

1 R. Mulcahy, The Decoration of the Royal Basilica of El Esco-

rial (Cambridge and New York, 1994), p. 182. 2 Adriaen de Vries (1556-1626), imperial sculptor, exh. cat. (Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, 1998-1999; Stockholm, Nationalmuseum, 1999; Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, 19992000) ed. by F. Scholten (Amsterdam, Zwolle, Stockholm and Los Angeles, 1998). 3 W. Brulez, Cultuur en getal, Aspecten van de relatie economiemaatschappij-cultuur in Europa tussen 1400 en 1800 (Amsterdam, 1986), pp. 40-41. 4 Brulez, 1986, Cultuur en getal (see note 3), p. 42 (table 8). 5 Brulez, 1986, Cultuur en getal (see note 3), pp. 42-43 (tables 9, 10). 6 This word is often used as an adjective (fiamengo/fiammin-

go) with the first name of the artist, something that can be misleading. Both Giambologna/Giovanni da Bologna and Johan Gregor van der Schardt were known as Giovanni fiamengo/fiammingo, see F. Scholten, ‘Johan Gregor van der Scharts zelfportret, circa 1573’, Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum 49 (2001), pp. 311-25, esp. pp. 318-19. In Cellini’s workshop there were employed two assistants with the name Guglielmo Fiammingo; whereas one could be identified with Willem van Tetrode, the other was probably an unknown goldsmith, see Willem van Tetrode, sculptor (c. 1525-1580) Guglielmo Fiammingo Scultore, exh. cat. (Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, and New York, The Frick Collection, 2003), ed. by F. Scholten (Amsterdam and Zwolle, 2003), pp. 13, 131-32. 7

Scholten 2003, Willem van Tetrode (see note 6), p. 17 (‘There is only one Rome, here you have to come to, here you have to exhaust yourself, here you have to study if you want to increase your knowledge’). 8 B. W. Meijer, ‘Van Spranger tot en met Rubens: naar een nieuwe gelijkwaardigheid’, in Fiamminghi a Roma 15081608, kunstenaars uit de Nederlanden en het prinsbisdom Luik te Rome tijdens de Renaissance, exh. cat. (Brussels, Paleis voor Schone Kunsten and Rome, Palazzo delle Esposizioni, 1995), pp. 32-47, esp. p. 33. 9

Meijer, exh. cat. Brussels, 1995 (see note 8), p. 174.

10

See my forthcoming article on the tomb of Pope Adrian VI in the Santa Maria dell’Anima in Rome. 11 F. Scholten, Sumptuous memories, Studies in seventeenthcentury Dutch tomb sculpture (Zwolle, 2003), pp. 54-55. 12 A. Huysmans et al., Cornelis Floris 1514-1575, beeldhouwer, architect, ontwerper (Brussels, 1996). 13

Scholten, 2003 (see note 6), pp. 9-11.

14

Scholten, 1998 (see note 2), p. 14.

15

Scholten, 2003 (see note 6), pp. 53-59.

16 J. Briels, De Zuidnederlandse immigratie 1572-1630 (Haar-

lem, 1978). 17 Meijer, exh. cat. Brussels, 1995 (see note 8), pp. 144-45, 280-81, 396-97. 18 J. Chipps Smith, German sculpture of the Later Renaissance, c. 1520-1580, Art in an age of uncertainty (Princeton, NJ, 1994).

19 M. Warnke, Hofkünstler, Zur Vorgeschichte des modernen Künstlers (Cologne, 1985). 20 Scholten, 2003 (see note 6), pp. 65-66 and fig. 79, p. 129-30, no. 41. 21 H. Honnes de Lichtenberg, Johan Gregor van der Schardt, Bildhauer bei Kaiser Maximilian II., am dänischen Hof und bei Tycho Brahe (Copenhagen, 1991); Scholten, 2001 (see note 6). 22 D. Diemer, Hubert Gerhard und Carlo di Cesare del Palagio, Bronzeplastiker der Spätrenaissance, 2 vols. (Berlin, 2004). 23

Scholten, 2003 (see note 6), pp. 17-20.

24 C. Avery, Giambologna: The Complete Sculpture (London,

1993), pp. 15-18. 25 Ruhm und Sinnlichkeit, Innsbrucker Bronzeguss 1500-1650 von Kaiser Maximilian I. bis Erzherzog Ferdinand Karl, exh. cat.(Innsbruck, Tiroler Landesmuseum Ferdinandeum, 1996) (Innsbruck, 1996), pp. 124-40. 26

Honnes de Lichtenberg, 1991 (see note 21), pp. 17-20.

27

Honnes de Lichtenberg, 1991 (see note 21), pp. 15-16, for the Latin transcription and a German translation. 28

Honnes de Lichtenberg, 1991 (see note 21), p. 18.

29

Honnes de Lichtenberg, 1991 (see note 21), p. 19.

30

Honnes de Lichtenberg, 1991 (see note 21), p. 19.

31

Scholten, 2001 (see note 6).

32

Scholten, 1998 (see note 2), pp. 22-23.

33

A. M. Bava, ‘Antichi e moderni. La collezione di sculture’, in Le collezioni di Carlo Emanuele I di Savoia, ed. by G. Romano (Turin, 1995), pp. 136-210, esp. pp. 146-49. 34

Scholten, 1998 (see note 2), pp. 17-19.

35 Scholten, 1998 (see note 2), p. 18 and p. 295, document

no. 10 (Turin, Archivio di Stato Torino, Lettere Ministri Austria, mazzo 5, fasc. 5, lettera 23), see also Bava, 1995, p. 148, note 51. 36 Scholten, 1998 (see note 2), p. 18 and p. 295, document no. 10 (Turin, Archivio di Stato Torino, Lettere Ministri Austria, mazzo 5, fasc. 5, lettera 23), see also Bava, 1995, p. 148, note 51. 37 Jahrbuch der Kunsthistorischen Sammlungen des Allerhöchsten Kaiserhauses, Wien, 15 (1894), p. CXLI, no. 12266. 38 L. Schönach, ‘Vertrauliche Mitteilungen politischer Agenten am k. Hoflager in Prag an Erzherzog Max, den Hochund Deutschmeister in Innsbruck’, in Mitteilungen des Vereins für Geschichte der Deutschen in Böhmen 44 (1906), pp. 379-80. Scholten, 1998 (see note 2), p. 23 and exh. cat. no. 14. 39

Avery, 1998 (see note 24), p. 15.

40

Scholten, 1998 (see note 2), p. 15.

41 C. W. Fock, ‘Der Goldschmied Jacques Bylivelt aus Delft

und sein Wirken in der Mediceischen Hofwerkstatt in Florenz’, Jahrbuch der Kunsthistorischen Sammlungen in Wien 70, N.F. 34 (1974), pp. 89-178, 159. Diemer, 2004, (see note 22), vol. 1, pp. 24-33, vol. 2, p. 19 (no. A1).

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42

Scholten, 2003 (see note 6), p. 11.

48

Vasari, 1881 (see note 47), VII, p. 589.

43

Scholten, 2003 (see note 6), p. 11.

49

Vasari, 1881 (see note 47), VII, p. 549-50.

Scholten, 2003 (see note 6), p. 16.

50

Scholten, 2003 (see note 6), pp. 20-27, 78-90.

51

Scholten, 2003 (see note 6), p. 10.

44 45

L. Nys, Les tableaux votifs tournaisiens en pierre 1350-1475 (Brussels, 2001). 46 G. Vasari, Le vite dei piú eccellenti pittori, scultori ed architettori, ed. by G. Milanesi, 9 vols (Florence, 1878-85), 7 (1881), p. 589. 47 G. P. Lomazzo, Scritti sulle arti, ed. by R.P. Ciardi, 2 vols (Florence, 1973), 1, p. 368: ‘Tra quali mi si para innanzi tra i primi Giovan Bologna dei Devai, scultore e statovaro principale [...] Doppo cui seguono Adriano Friso scultore e statovaro del Duca di Savoia [...]’.

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52

B. Gutfleisch & J. Menzhausen, ‘“How a Kunstkammer should be formed”, Gabriel Kaltemarckt’s advice to Christian I of Saxony on the formation of an art collection’, Journal of the History of Collections 1 (1989), pp. 3-32, esp. p. 18. 53

Diemer, 2004, (see note 22), II, p. 8.

54

Larsson, 1998 (see note 55), p. 90.

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Brussels Tapestries for Italian Customers: Cardinal Montalto’s Landscapes with Animals made by Jan II Raes and Catherine van den Eynde Nello Forti Grazzini Università degli Studi di Milano

For the first time some years ago, I had the opportunity to examine a very fine and beautiful tapestry, Landscape with Stag (437 x 340 cm; RABEL collection, San Marino and Montecarlo: Plate 11 and Fig. 1). Woven entirely with a silk weft, with a ‘BB’ (Brabante-Bruxelles) town mark on the lower selvage, and the weaver’s monogram on the right one, it was made in Brussels at the beginning of the seventeenth century. The tapestry’s importance for the history of Flemish Renaissance tapestries representing the ‘Landscape with animals’ became quickly evident while I was writing about another tapestry on the same subject.1 On that occasion, it was not possible to develop all the historical and artistic implications of the piece or to publish it. The piece has just been washed and restored and can be presented in optimum condition. (The tapestry was restored by Emanuela Farinelli in Bologna between 2001 and 2004.) A description of the tapestry, its relation to the set and series of which it was part, as well as a presentation of the Italian client for whom it was made, will show that it is a masterpiece produced in a renowned manufactory and copied from a cartoon made by a first-class painter (who has yet to be identified). The tapestry is also an important example of the history of the success of Flemish tapestries in Italy, and their circulation among the most extravagant and refined patrons and collectors of Rome in the opening years of the seventeenth century. The foreground of the tapestry is dominated by a powerful, standing stag. The back of the animal is in three-quarter view, with the posterior turned towards the viewer. Despite the realistic appearance of a quadruped, as if studied from life, the stag illustrated cannot

exist in nature. The animal depicted is unusually robust, with a beard and beige down between its horns, on the neck and behind the legs, and with a bovine like tail which terminates with a long tuft of horsehair; above all, it is not endowed with branched horns, like a stag’s, but with webbed horns like an elk’s. Flemish Renaissance paintings, etchings and tapestries often represent stags with elk horns, making it questionable which animals were

Fig. 1. Catherine van den Eynde, Landscape with Stag. Tapestry. Brussels, 1611-14. RABEL Collection, San Marino

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intended for depiction. The quadruped in our tapestry has a more imaginative appearance which suggests that the designer wanted to illustrate a unusual stag, possibly from an ancient literary source. The robust monops, for example, mentioned by Aelianus as a type of Macedonian stag with the musculature and dimension of a musk ox comes to mind.2 This ox would kill hunters which followed it by a ‘bombardment’ of foul smelling and poisonous excrement, which would explain the menacing pose of the stag in the tapestry, as if to threaten the viewer, seen as a hunter. Aelianus also describes the mysterious stag of India.3 The ancient author narrates that the animal, in reality a yak, was much hunted for the long hair of its tail with which women would make wigs. According to Aelianus, the animal used to hide its tail in a bush so as not to be recognised but, by doing this, it was instead easily captured and killed. An allusion to this animal is suggested by the strange hairy tail of the stag in the tapestry. The stag stands on the bank of a stream, covered with grass and plants rendered with excellent naturalism. Nearby, an oak tree full of acorns covers the upper part of the composition, screening the sky and blending with the leafy branches of an adjacent apple tree. Other animals can also be seen, such as a tortoise half-hidden by the trunk of the oak, a spotted feline – apparently a leopard – partially covered by a leg of the stag, and a goat which is drinking on the opposite bank where the river flows into a lake. This beautiful lake, in which the trees surrounding it are reflected, dominates the background. Through the skilful use of atmosphere, hillocks and forests gently fade into the horizon to merge with the light pink colour of the sky. The border, hemmed inside and out by ornate ribbons with a pattern of creamcoloured leaves on a deep mustard yellow background, presents spiral-shaped plant designs of artichokes and pomegranate trees on a red background. In the centre of each side, there is an arrangement of ornamental oak leaf motifs. In the upper corner medallions, one can see the head of the god Bacchus covered with bunches of grapes and grape vine leaves. In the lower corner medallions, a similar frame, the head of a ferocious lion with its mouth menacingly open can be seen. The sky-blue 240

selvage worked lengthwise through a continuous golden line (a detail which indicates the finest tapestries made in Brussels in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries) is original and shows the inscribed marks of the manufactory and of the city where the tapestry was made. This is a tapestry of an extraordinary fineness (with ten threads of warp per centimetre), rarely found in an antique wall tapestry. A high grade of definition has been achieved due to the abundant use of silk threads. The vegetation has been recreated by the weaver with a meticulous naturalism worthy of a highly detailed herbarium. The atmospheric shading in the distant panorama was also rendered with delicacy, not unlike the work of a skilled painter. The colours of the weft in the scene – green, white, cream, beige, dark brown, brown, sky-blue – are exactly those of the animals and natural elements depicted; evident also is the wide range of shades including cream, beige and yellow used for the plant volutes and the ornamental heads, which are highlighted in successful contrast to the added sharp tone of red on the borders. The restoration by Emanuela Farinelli has brought out the colours in exemplary fashion. Her work included the integration of the fallen weft, notably on the body of the stag, made of fragile dark brown threads, and the joining of numerous gaps. The tapestry is now in fine condition and the exceptional quality enhances fully the zoological and scenic features. Our investigation of the piece starts with the marks. The town mark provides evidence that this tapestry was woven in Brussels which was the centre of production of the most precious and finest tapestries in Europe from the end of fifteenth century to the seventeenth century.4 The monogram on the right hand selvage refers to one of the most renowned manufactories active in Brussels between the end of the Renaissance and the beginning of the Baroque age: it was founded and directed by Jacob I Geubels (information available from 1585 – deceased in 1605). After his death, the manufactory was inherited by his widow Catherine van den Eynde, who directed it until her death, between 1620 and 1629.5 The same mark was used by Jacob and Catherine. Regarding the date of the tapestry, we will establish later that the Landscape with Stag must

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have been woven between 1611 and 1614, under the direction of Catherine van den Eynde, a period in which the atelier was in full bloom, indeed, so much so, that it was mentioned in 1613 as one of the nine most important manufactories in Brussels. From 1605, when the widow Geubels had just taken over, the manufactory autonomously carried out sets for some of the most important clients of Flanders, for example, Albert and Isabel of Habsburg, the Archduke and Archduchess of Flanders. But in the following years, Catherine adopted a more collaborative working style, already employed by Jacob I Geubels, and produced sets of tapestries with other ateliers of Brussels in order to share the heavy expenses of production, expand the clientele, and to gain access to new designs. Together with Jan II Raes, Nicasius Aerts and her son Jacob II Geubels, she signed four tapestries of a Story of Troy, property of the Soprintendenza per i Beni Artistici e Storici of Turin,6 and was also able to establish a more important and durable collaboration with one of them, the most important weaver in Brussels at the time, Jan II Raes (Brussels, c. 1570-1637/43).7 The name of Raes is connected above all with the completion of the first versions of the Story of Decius Mus and of the Triumph of the Eucharist tapestries designed by Rubens, from 1616 onwards. That is to say, as a weaver, he was the protagonist from the beginning of the history of Baroque style in tapestry.8 As we shall see, even the set of which the Landscape with Stag was a part, came from the energy and skill of the collaboration of Jan II Raes and Catherine van den Eynde. In the first twenty years of the seventeenth century, the two associated manufactories completed both sets in the new Baroque style, and replicas of Renaissance cartoons dating from the 1500s, still fashionable for their monumental grandeur and naturalism, returned to vogue by the end of sixteenth century and the beginning of the seventeenth century. Rather than compile a pedantic list of the tapestries made by the two associated ateliers, I limit myself to exemplify just a few excellent ‘fruits’ of their collaboration through the works that survive in the great collection of the Spanish Patrimonio Nacional, where the marks of the two manufactories alternate on the components of two editions of the Story of Decius Mus (serr. 52, 53) by

Rubens, a set of the Acts of the Apostles (ser. 48) from Raphael, and a set of a Story of Alexander the Great (ser. 35) that give testimony to the collaboration previously started by Raes with Jacob I Geubels (and Andrés Blommaert).9 Woven, therefore, by the manufactory directed by Catherine van den Eynde, the Landscape with Stag is placed easily in a sequence of magnificent interwoven sets that depict large animals within natural landscapes, or battles between animals. Made in Flanders from the mid-sixteenth century to the first half of the seventeenth century, these themes have their origins in Brussels around 1550. This iconographical trend, precisely in the field of tapestry weaving, was based on the well known, traditional Flemish approach to art (since the second half of the fourteenth century) in which there is a convincing representation of the landscape and details of nature. However, the idea for the production of such grandiose sets in which animals were the protagonists, also came from the scientific interest in zoology which caught on in European culture towards the middle of the sixteenth century, as demonstrated in the pioneering publications of the Historia animalium by Conrad Gessner, in five volumes (Zurich, 1551-87), the Histoire de la nature des oyseaux by Pierre Belon (Paris, 1555) and the Aquatilium animalium historiae by Ippolito Salviani (Rome, 1554/57), all of which had zoological engravings. Interest in nature was also strengthened by the foundation of princely menageries and Wunderkammern.10 But at that time, the renewed interest in science could not undermine the earlier beliefs concerning the appearance and habits of animals, and the allegorical interpretations of the various species. On the contrary, this interest was rather strengthened and became decisive in the thematic choices for tapestries inspired by the ancient texts written by Pliny the Elder, Aelianus, and Solinus which were dedicated to the animals and their characteristics. From the texts of the late antiquity and the Middle Ages, the tapestries interpreted these writings in a religious vein, as a Christian metaphor. This began with the Latin translation of the Greek Physiologus of the second century, and the treatises of the Fathers of the Church and continued with the ‘chain’ of the medieval bestiaries, encyclopedias and summae of the late Middle Ages.

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Fig. 2. Pieter Coecke the Youger or Jean Tons II, Landscape with Animals. Design for a tapestry, dated 1549. The British Museum, London

A design showing a Landscape with Animals (The British Museum, London) marks the debut of the history of the Flemish zoological tapestries (Fig. 2). Its image with a rhinoceros (from Dürer) in a central position, an elephant, monkeys, goats, wild cats, and a dromedary within a setting of woods and lakes is, in fact, the sketch for a tapestry cartoon. It bears the date 1549 and an apocryphal signature of Pieter Coecke van Aelst, a renowned Flemish painter and cartoonist. George Marlier ascribed it to his son Pieter Coecke the Younger.11 According to other scholars, and identified on the basis of the testimony of Felibien and Sauval from the 1600s, the design and the tapestries which are strictly connected to it are attributed rather to the particular style of Jean Tons II, a Flemish specialist of landscape paintings. Born c. 1500, he was still active in 1569-70. Circa 1530, he collaborated with Bernard van Orley as creator of the backgrounds, scenery and the animals on the cartoons of the Maximilian’s Hunts tapestries in the Louvre.12 His skill would have been inherited by his son, Guillaume Tons, who is mentioned in the Schilderboeck by Karel van Mander, documented in 1577-79. The name of the author of the sketch in London, most certainly a Fleming, remains 242

therefore uncertain, but it is certain that he can be identified with the cartoonist of the two oldest and magnificent surviving sets of illustrated tapestries from Brussels, depicting large animals within a natural scenery, whose style is the same of the design, and which are both datable from c. 1550-60: they are the Landscapes with Animals woven for Sigmund II Augustus king of Poland (Kraków, Wawel Castle), and the set called the Unicorn in the Borromeo collection at Isola Bella (Arona). In the first set (Figs. 8 and 9), which is made up of forty-four pieces of various formats but originally larger (one of the lost pieces, reported to include a rhinoceros, an elephant and monkeys, was perhaps copied from the cartoon obtained from the sketch in London), the scenes illustrate great animals which rarely clash and which are perfectly juxtaposed in a tranquil position within an enchanting scenery of woods and reflecting water. The wooded scene was sometimes dense, at other times sparse, spaced by distant hills. The animals depicted include lions, leopards, bears, wolves, dragons, deer, birds, little quadrupeds and fishes.13 The second cycle of the Unicorn is made up of nine pieces of extraordinary material richness (Figs. 4, 12, 19, and 22). It was probably commis-

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Fig. 3. Cornelis de Ronde (?), Landscape with Ibises. Tapestry. Brussels, around 1560. RABEL Collection, San Marino

sioned by the Cardinal of Lorraine, Charles de Guise, but later entered the collection of Cardinal Mazarino in Paris in the middle of the seventeenth century, and was then transferred from Rome to Isola Bella in 1787. The animals shown are depicted within dramatic battles which the Latin inscriptions of the upper borders interpret as an allegory of the contrast between the Fall and the Redemption, sin and grace.14 These two groups of tapestries are well known and have been widely studied. Less known is a third fine set made up of three surviving zoological Brussels tapestries whose cartoons might have been painted by the same cartoonist employed for the Wawel and Isola Bella groups: they are a Landscape with Lion and Wild Boar in Besançon, Musée des BeauxArts;15 a Landscape with Lion Attacking a Stag, twice on the market;16 and an unpublished Landscape with Two Ibises in a private collection (Fig. 3).17 They all have the same borders

whose decorations and figures reveal their probable production in the manufactory of Cornelis de Ronde who died in 1569.18 In the late 1500s the ‘Landscapes with Animals’ became popular even in the manufactories of Enghien and Oudenaarde, from new cartoons. In Brussels the naturalistic cartoons of the previous decades were still being used, and were eventually integrated with scenes that reveal other ‘inventions’ of the same cartoonist who intervened in the series already mentioned. A tapestry from Brussels datable c. 1570 in the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco (Fig. 5), which shows a portion of the scene of the Ostriches (called also The Divine Providence) of the Borromeo Unicorn set (Fig. 4), makes a group with a Landscape with a Lynx Attacking a Wolf in Nancy, Musée Lorraine,19 whose scene cannot be seen among the zoological tapestries either in Kraków, or at Isola Bella, but reveals an identical style. The zoological cartoons of the middle or the third quarter of the sixteenth century were therefore, at least in part, preserved and still used by the weavers at the beginning of the seventeenth century. It has already been demonstrated that the Brussels weaver, François Tons, who emigrated from Flanders and opened a manufactory in Pastrana (Spain) in 1621/22, brought with him zoological cartoons of the previous century. Thus, he could make a set of Landscapes with Animals that included, at the same time, images already seen in Kraków and Isola Bella, and at least one other previously unknown scene in the same style. The set included the unedited depiction of a Landscape with Leopards Attacking a Horse (sold by Christie’s, New York, 30 April 1983, lot 138), a tapestry with Monkeys (on the antiques market of Milan in 1969) where two sections of the Landscape with Animals design in London are juxtaposed (Figs. 2 and 6), and a third showing an Eagle Devouring a Fish (once in the collection of Lord Iveagh) which replicates a section of the cartoon used for the Battle Between Unicorn and Lion tapestry (called also The Salvation brought by the Passion of Christ) in the Borromeo collection.20 Returning to the discussion of Landscape with Stag (Fig. 1), at the beginning of seventeenth century in Brussels, the manufactories, directed by Jan II Raes and Catherine van den Eynde, anticipated Tons in the production of a

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Fig. 4. Unknown Weaver, Landscape with Ostriches (or The Divine Providence). Tapestry. Brussels, 1550-60, Borromeo Collection, Isola Bella (Arona)

series of ‘Landscapes with Animals’ based on the preserved cartoons from the mid-1500s, which was frequently reproduced on their looms, and which was met with favour by a refined international clientele. With its ornate spiral shaped borders inspired by the frames used within the sets of Renaissance tapestries from Italian cartoons made in Brussels around 1530-40 (see, for example, Scipio’s Seeds and Triumph in Patrimonio Nacional [ser. 26], or the Story of Moses set in Châteaudun, both from cartoons or designs by Giulio Romano and his circle),21 our Stag appears well connected with other tapestries at the beginning of seventeenth century, executed by Jan II Raes and by the Geubels/van den Eynde atelier. A nearly identical border (but its background is brown, not red, and the heads of Bacchus and of the lions in the corners have a different shape) may be found in a Fall of Troy tapestry that came to auction in 1988 (Fig. 7).22 It is a replica of a scene included in the aforementioned Story of Troy owned by the Soprint244

endenza of Turin, which bear the marks of Raes, Catherine van den Eynde, Nicasius Aerts and Jacob II Geubels. Nearly identical is also the border (but on a sky-blue background, with the heads of Bacchus in the upper corners interchanged, and different lions’ heads in the lower corners) on a tapestry with Scipio Sending His Soldiers to the Battle (?), once in Stockholm in the Jahnsson collection.23 But let us consider now the composition of the Landscape with Stag. One immediately notices that, generally speaking, its subject and style go back incontestably to the most antique and illustrious ‘Landscapes with Animals’ woven in Brussels c. 1550-60, those in Kraków and at Isola Bella, and it seems highly probable that it was designed by the same cartoonist. Furthermore, in one of the Landscapes at Wawel Castle, Unicorn and Stag (Fig. 8), a very similar composition may be seen:24 a standing stag (with its muzzle leaning backwards, its body in profile but its posterior in view) is in the foreground on the bank of a little stream

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Fig. 6. François Tons, Landscape with Monkeys. Tapestry. Pastrana, around 1630. Whereabouts unknown Fig; 5. Unknown Weaver, Landscape with Ostriches. Tapestry. Brussels, around 1570.Fine Arts Museums, San Francisco

Fig. 7. Jan II Raes (?), Fall of Troy. Tapestry. Brussels, around 1610-20. Auction Christie’s, London, 8 December 1988, lot 226

near an oak with a lake in the background, and on the opposite bank a herbivore (a doe) shortened from the back, drinks water. But this is just the right side of a larger composition which, towards the left, shows the sequel of the landscape and other animals, notably a unicorn that plunges its horn in the water. One may also observe that the leopard, visible between the hoofs of the deer in our Landscape with Stag, has a ‘twin’ (though reversed) in the tapestry at Wawel showing the Giraffe and Lynx (Fig. 9).25 So it seems that the cartoonist of the Landscape with Stag built up the image on the basis of a composite scheme and reused figures that he had already adopted for the set at Wawel. Therefore, though our tapestry was certainly woven at the beginning of the seventeenth century, it was copied from a naturalistic Renaissance cartoon of the mid-sixteenth century. This is also confirmed by a singular fact: the same ‘muscular’ stag in an identical position, associated with the same feline behind it, and visible through the gaps between its legs, evidently copied from the model of our Stag but resolutely reduced in size, is visible in a Brussels tapestry showing a

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Fig. 8. Unidentified Weaver, Landscape with Unicorn and Stag. Tapestry. Brussels, 1550-60, Wawel Castle, Kraków

Landscape with Castle and Animals (Fig. 10), with the mark of Frans Geubels, in Detroit (Detroit Institute of Arts).26 This tapestry has been dated around 1560 and cannot be later than 1585 as that is the year in which Frans Geubels died. This is evidence that the cartoon of the Landscape with Stag existed already in Brussels in the third quarter of sixteenth century, if not around 1560. Let us consider now the connections that may be established with other tapestries of the beginning of seventeenth century. In fact, The Landscape with Stag was not an isolated piece, but a component of a larger set of ‘Landscapes with Animals’, formed by pieces of the same quality, equal in height, decorated with the same border designs and showing scenes similar in style and iconography. In addition to the Stag, the set was composed of the following four surviving tapestries. First, a Landscape with Rhinoceros (whereabouts unknown, 475 x 505 cm: Fig. 11) whose scene centres on a rhinoceros in front of a pond; between the trees there are also two wild cats, two ibises, a serpent and an owl. It is signed on the right selvage by the monogram of Catherine van den Eynde, but on the light band between the lower border and the scene is the signature and inscription of Jan II Raes, ‘IAN RAES ME FECIT’. The scene, in mid-sixteenth century style, is not identical but surely very similar to the scene traced on the aforementioned sketch of the Landscape with 246

Animals in London (Fig. 2). Roethlisberger, who published this tapestry, mentioned its appearance at auction in Paris or Brussels c. 1920-30.27 It probably entered an Italian private collection and was sold again in Conegliano (Treviso), in 1978.28 But Roethlisberger reported also that, in the previous auction sale, the Rhinoceros was accompanied by a tapestry with an identical border, cut in two parts, showing a Landscape with Leopard Biting a Lion. This piece is yet to be found but surely it was part of the same set, and very probably the scene was a replica of one of the Unicorn tapestries at Isola Bella, the one which shows, in fact, a Leopard Biting a Lion (called also Nature Corrupted: Fig. 12);29 hence, it was copied from a zoological cartoon of mid-sixteenth century. Two other magnificent tapestries from the same set, in excellent condition, are in Palazzo Savelli-Orsini in Rome (on the top of the ancient Teatro Marcello) and are the property of the Sovereign Order of Malta, who received them as a donation from Countess Valeria Rossi di Montelera about fifteen years ago.30 According to the actual owners, the two pieces had been in Rome for a long time (perhaps always), where they had been part of the Chigi, then Torlonia and later Sforza Cesarini collections. In the Landscape with a Leopard Above a Pond (467 x 587 cm), the monogram of Catherine van den Eynde is inscribed in the right selvage (Figs. 13 and14). The scene shows

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Fig. 9. Unknown Weaver, Landscape with Giraffe and Lynx. Tapestry. Brussels, 1550-60, Wawel Castle, Kraków

Fig. 10. Frans Geubels, Landscape with Castle and Animals. Tapestry. Brussels, around 1560, Detroit Institute of Arts

a leopard stretched out on a tree branch above the surface of a pond which reflects the feline’s features; in the forest behind, where a date palm is also included, other animals can be seen – a goat, two ibises, a parrot, two ducks, a kingfisher, a frog, a snail and a carp swimming in the water. No other woven version of this image is known, but undoubtedly the cartoon is in the Renaissance style and was painted in the mid-sixteenth century.31 The other tapestry, a Landscape with Ostriches (470 x 592 cm), carries the Brussels mark in the lower selvage, a second mark, of Jan II Raes, in the right selvage, and a complete signature by the same weaver, ‘IAN RAES ME FECIT’ between the scene and the lower border (Figs. 15 and 16). Two ostriches, one eating grapes hanging from a tree, the other standing on one leg and covering its eggs with sand, occupy the foreground scene, which is covered in dense forest foliage. A large rabbit (or hare) spies on them from behind a tree in which an eagle devours a bird. In the background, a variety of animals can be seen, including two stags in battle, an ostrich chasing a horse and a lion transporting its dead prey to its den, where a lioness and her cubs await. In this case, the copy of mid-sixteenth

century cartoons is absolutely certain, as the woven image is a replica (albeit a little bit larger, with a greater scene represented) of the Ostriches subject (called also the Divine Providence) included in the Unicorn set at Isola Bella (Fig. 4).32 Clearly, therefore, the Landscape with Stag was part of a set of Landscapes with Animals woven at the beginning of the seventeenth century from more ancient cartoons, a part of which had already been used for the Unicorn set in the Borromeo collection. Marks and signatures reveal that the tapestries were executed in collaboration by Jan II Raes and Catherine van den Eynde, although the presence of Jan’s, and only Jan’s entire signatures on some of the works, would mean that he had a more relevant role in the partnership. As we shall see, it was in fact Raes who was the owner of the cartoons of the set, and who negotiated with the customers. Other tapestries executed by the same weavers – Jan and Catherine – from the same group of cartoons, which are replicas of the tapestries just described or depict subjects of the same cycle completed with different borders, can be traced. This complexity of works

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Fig. 11. Jan II Raes and Catherine van den Eynde, Landscape with Rhinoceros. Tapestry. Brussels, 1611-17. Auction Franco Semenzato & C., S. Nicolò di Monticella, 22-24 September 1978, lot 1171

reveals that at the beginning of the seventeenth century various collectors were proud to possess a superb zoological set of tapestries copied from the beautiful cartoons of the previous century: the sets were composed of recurrent scenes but were personalised by the weavers with the introduction of different frames. It is noteworthy that the surviving sets or pieces are by no means comparable, from the point of view of the finesse of the weaving, to the set of which our Stag is part, and that the scenes always appear lower in such a way as to reproduce less ample portions of the original cartoons. Thus, the scene is deprived of the superb details of the lush foliage in the upper areas of the composition that we admire in the Stag and in the rest of its set. A second Landscape with Stag (350 x 284 cm) in the Palacio de Viana in Cordoba (Fig. 17) is copied from the same cartoon used for the tapestry reported on in this essay.33 The scene is lower, though slightly extended to the left. We find here not only the marks of Jan II Raes and of Catherine van den Eynde, but also a third, unknown ‘AE’ monogram of another weaver, together with the complete signature ‘IAN RAES F.[ECIT]’. The centre of the upper border is occupied by the Duke of Arenberg’s coat of arms. The border, decorated by a spiral band enriched with precious stones that rise up around the stem of a creeping plant, is the same used in the Acts of the Apostles set in the Patrimonio Nacional (ser. 48), signed by 248

Fig. 12. Unknown Weaver, Landscape with Leopard Biting a Lion (or Nature Corrupted). Tapestry. Brussels, 155060, Borromeo Collection, Isola Bella (Arona)

Raes and Catherine van den Eynde, and which was probably sold by Raes to the Archduke of Flanders in 1620-21.34 A Landscape with Lioness in a Pond (344 x 451 cm) in faded colours, with the van den Eynde mark, was auctioned in Zurich in 1996 and moved to Florence, where it was heavily restored (Fig. 18).35 It is a replica of the same scene (called also the Nature Originally Good) included in the Borromeo Unicorn (Fig. 19).36 In an expanded swampy scene, a lioness wades through shallow water, with other animals around her. The border simulates a carved frame with decorations of animal and human grotesque masks in the corners, and in the centre of each side. The same border completed three tapestries of the Illustrious Men that bear the Geubels/van den Eynde mark which in 1928 belonged to Count Thure-Gabriel Bielke in Sturefors Castle (Sweden).37 One of these pieces recently came on the market with its border cut. A photograph preserved in the archive of Federico Zeri in Mentana (now property of the University of Bologna: the photograph was shown to me by Zeri himself, when he, a very collaborative person, was still alive) reveals the existence of a woven Landscape with Leopard Biting a Lion (350 x 300 cm), apparently bearing no mark, which in 1964-65 was the property of G. Neerman in Florence (Fig. 20). The

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Fig. 13. Catherine van den Eynde, Landscape with a Leopard Above a Pond. Tapestry. Brussels, 1611-14, Palazzo Savelli-Orsini, Rome, Property of the Sovereign Order of Malta

scene, which presents a leopard biting the posterior of a lion which seeks refuge in low bushes, is the replica of a companion piece of our Stag (the one sold with the Rhinoceros), and of the left side of the tapestry with a Leopard Biting the Lion (or Nature Corrupted) in the Unicorn at Isola Bella (Fig. 12). The border, which is decorated with masks in the corners, and fruits and carved seashells in the middle of the lateral sides, mermaids on the upper friezes and, in the middle of the lower border, two dolphins flanking a seashell containing a lion’s head, recurs on two sets of Rubens’s Story of Decius Mus in the Patrimonio Nacional (serr. 52, 53), signed respectively by Jan II Raes and Catherine van den Eynde, or by Catherine alone.38 An identical border appears also on another woven ‘Landscape’ which was originally associated with the Neerman piece in the same set: it is the Landscape with Unicorn Fighting Against Leopards (340 x 462 cm), with the mark of Jan II Raes which, in 1995, as a property of De Wit and Blondeel, was exhibited in

Luxemburg (Fig. 21).39 The subject of this tapestry was evidently inspired by a fight of the same animals (called the Battle against the Evil) included in the Unicorn set at Isola Bella (Fig. 22),40 of which it is not a replica, but a less inventive paraphrase. Thus, the tapestry by Raes might have been copied from a cartoon painted anew around 1600 by a Fleming who, in the background full of distant, casually strolling animals, emulated the zoological landscapes of the paintings by Jan Bruegel the Elder. Therefore, there were at least four sets of Landscapes with Animals woven by Raes/van den Eynde at the beginning of the seventeenth century. They used as models a cycle of cartoons executed in the middle of sixteenth century, some of which had already been copied c. 1550-60 in the Borromeo Unicorn, and also a new cartoon inspired by Renaissance iconography. The scenes, named after the main animals of each scene, are listed in the order suitable for a comparison with a document which will be mentioned later: Leopard above the Pond

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Fig. 14. Catherine van den Eynde, Landscape with a Leopard Above a Pond. Tapestry. Detail. Palazzo Savelli-Orsini, Rome, Property of the Sovereign Order of Malta

(Figs. 13 and 14), Rhinoceros (Fig. 11), Lioness in the Pond (Fig. 18), Battle Between Unicorn and Leopards (Fig. 21), Ostriches (Figs. 15 and 16), Stag (Figs. 1 and 17), and Leopard Biting a Lion (Fig. 20). Among the identified sets, all of them largely incomplete, the one that preserves the greatest number of pieces, but also most precious for its standards of execution and monumental elements, is the one of which the Landscape with Stag is part (Figs. 1, 11 and 1315). The explanation for its particular richness resides in a document which is not unknown but which only now, in the light of the various works we have listed and commented on, gains its full meaning. Related to the Landscapes with Animals by Raes/van den Eynde are, in fact, a letter and a memorandum which were found and published by G. J. Hoogewerff eighty years ago.41 On 14 January 1617, Ascanio Gesualdi, archbishop of Bari and apostolic nuncio in Flanders wrote a letter from Brussels to a well-known collector, Cardinal Scipione Borghese in Rome, with regard to a cycle of twelve cartoons which were 250

the property of Jan II Raes. In 1611 Cardinal Montalto had ordered a set of tapestries from those cartoons and, when the letter was written, the work had been completed: we know in fact that it was exhibited for the first time in Rome on 19 July 1614.42 The set ‘made for Cardinal Montalto’, as Gesualdi wrote, had been woven entirely in silk and consisted of twelve pieces with landscapes and with great animals, as Your Lordship may see by the attached memory of each piece, making reference to the cartoons which are here. It considers also the frieze and everything else, and the height [of the cartoons] which is of seven aunes [seven Flemish aunes = 490 cm].43 Cardinal Borghese too, as Gesualdi added, could order a set of tapestries from the same cartoons, at the same price as Cardinal Montalto, of twenty-eight florins per one square aune [70 square cm]. ‘Some of the twelve pieces may also be cut or reduced in size according

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Fig. 15. Jan II Raes, Landscape with Ostriches. Tapestry. Brussels, 1611-14, Palazzo Savelli-Orsini, Rome, Property of the Sovereign Order of Malta

to the walls of the rooms where they will have to stay. So, if Your Lordship will like to have them, you will advise of the subjects you would like reduced or cut, and it will be made as the Cardinal had it made’.44 In fact, as Gesualdi reported, from the total average of 728 square aunes of the cartoons, Montalto obtained five hundred and seven square aunes of woven tapestries. But the nuncio recommended the potential buyer not to incur the same error made by Pietro of Toledo, who had bought a replica of the same set, but had it made 5.5 aunes high [385 cm]. The complete surface measured 370 square aunes with the result that the images were ruined by the disproportionate reduction of the beautiful foliage on the upper parts of the scenes. The enclosed memorandum sent by Gesualdi, together with the letter, listed the subjects of the twelve cartoons copied on the looms for Cardinal Montalto with their complete dimensions, without considering the trimming carried out on the tapestries. The list and measurements are reported here textually:

[1] The first the Elephant, 10 ane long, a. 10 [ = 700 cm] [2] The second the Leopard reflects itself a. 91⁄2 [ = 665 cm] [3] The third the Rhinoceros a. 91⁄2 [4] The fourth the Lion in the water a. 8 [ = 560 cm] [5] The fifth the Battle of the Leopard and the Unicorn a. 9 [ = 630 cm] [6] The sixth the Ostrich a. 10 [ = 710 cm] [7] The seventh where the Elephant goes to drink with the Unicorn a. 9 [8] The eighth the Battle of the Leopard against the Lion a. 7 [ = 490 cm] [9] The ninth where the Dragon eats the eggs a. 7 [10] The tenth the Battle of the Elephant against the Dragon a. 11 [= 770 cm] [11] The eleventh, of the Leopard and monkeys a. 8 [12] The twelfth where the Dragon flies upon the tree a. 6 [ = 420 cm] In total, with their friezes, width a. 104 [ = 72.8 m] In total a. 728 [ = 356 square metres]”45

The series of cartoons described in the memorandum is surely the one, owned by Jan II Raes, from which the sets of the Landscapes with animals by Raes / Van den Eynde were

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Fig. 16. Jan II Raes, Landscape with Ostriches. Tapestry. Detail, Palazzo Savelli-Orsini, Rome, Property of the Sovereign Order of Malta

copied: so the document offers a precious list of the available subjects, to be compared with the extant tapestries. Then, by the letter sent by Gesualdi, we also know that a very fine silk set of Animals, begun in 1611 and completed by 1614, with the scenes slightly reduced, was made for Cardinal Montalto. Another set already existed in 1617 whose scenes had been trimmed too much, the tapestries being ‘only’ 385 cm high. It is unknown if Scipione Borghese ordered for himself a set of the Animals, as Gesualdi suggested he should do. It may or may not be. Surely Borghese was a passionate collector of tapestries; ten years earlier, in a letter sent to Paris, he had written that his impatience made it impossible for him to wait the long time necessary to receive a new set of tapestries woven expressly for him.46 But later (1610-11), he ordered Raes to weave a new set of tapestries of Samson.47 He had either become a less anxious collector, or he could accept the reduced waiting times for the faster method of production adopted by the Flem252

ish weavers working on low-warp looms (the French used the high-warp method). Mercedes Viale Ferrero already observed that five of the cartoons listed in the memorandum by Gesualdi (nn. 4, 5, 6, 8, 11) are subjects of the more ancient Borromeo Unicorn, and supposed that Raes’s Rhinoceros (Fig. 11) published by Roethlisberger might be a surviving piece of Cardinal Montalto’s set.48 But of the various zoological tapestries by Raes and van den Eynde that we have examined in the preceding pages, Viale Ferrero knew only the Rhinoceros: her comparison of the Unicorn set with the cartoons owned by Raes was mainly based on the reported titles. Instead, it can now be stated that all the Landscapes with Animals by Raes/van den Eynde, in their various woven ‘editions’, correspond to scenes listed in Gesualdi’s memorandum (compare our list of the traced surviving subjects with memorandum’s nos. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 11), so they are all elements of the same series, whose cartoons were the property of Raes; and it can be stated too

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Fig. 17. Jan II Raes, Catherine van den Eynde and ‘AE’, Landscape with Stag (detail). Tapestry. Brussels, beginning of the seventeenth century, Palacio de Viana, Cordoba

that some of Raes’s cartoons had already been used for the Borromeo Unicorn (nos. 4, 6, 8), but that in one case a subject of the Unicorn had been invented anew (n. 5). No Raes/van den Eynde tapestry copied from cartoon n. 11 (Leopard and Monkeys) has been found, but I agree with Viale Ferrero that this was probably an image already represented in the Unicorn set.49 Apparently only the subject of the Stag seems to be excluded from Gesualdi’s memorandum. But the Stag tapestry, from which our discussion began, like its replica in Cordoba (Figs. 1 and 7), is a very narrow, vertical piece, and considering the size of the cartoons of the Landscapes reported by Gesualdi (whose letter says that Montalto, who commissioned a large and splendid set of the Landscapes, preferred to cut some areas of the cartoons), it undoubtedly shows only a section of a larger model. This was eventually listed in the memorandum under a title in which a stag is not mentioned. We have already observed that a stag in a sim-

ilar pose and scenery appears in another tapestry in Wawel Castle as co-protagonist of a larger image where it is balanced by a unicorn immersing its horn in the water (Fig. 8). This suggests now that an entire cartoon owned by Raes was similar to the Unicorn and Stag tapestry at Wawel. I think that our Stag represented the right section of Raes’s cartoon n. 7, 630 cm wide, ‘where the Elephant Goes to Drink with the Unicorn’. Thus, of the twelve cartoons listed in the memorandum, we know more or less eight scenes: nos. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 11. Four subjects of the list, not reported by tapestries woven by Raes/van den Eynde, or by those at Isola Bella or at Wawel Castle, are still to be recognised: nos. 1, 9, 10, 12. From this sublist I would exclude subject n. 10, called the Battle of the Elephant Against the Dragon. In fact, a beautiful Brussels tapestry with this subject and with a cut border, is preserved in Florence at the Museo Stibbert (Fig. 23).50 The style of this piece – its vivid animals, the elephant and the dragon, but also a fox in the foreground, and its naturalistic scenery of a forest with various trees, where one can see a second, farther battle between an elephant and a rhinoceros – is surely comparable to that of the other fine ‘Landscapes with Animals’. Without the border, it is difficult to establish the origin of the Stibbert piece, but a provenance from the manufactories of Raes or of Catherine van den Eynde is highly probable51. The most important point, already touched on by Viale Ferrero, remains to be discussed. Could the Landscape with Stag in the RABEL collection and the other tapestries of the same set – the Leopard Above the Pond and the Ostriches in Palazzo Savelli Orsini, the Rhinoceros and the Leopard Biting the Lion on the market (Figs. 1, 11, 13-16) – be remnants of the set ordered from Jan II Raes by Cardinal Montalto? As Gesualdi’s letter to Scipione Borghese documents, Montalto’s tapestries, despite their horizontal reductions, were high enough to include the beautiful tree foliage in the upper parts of the cartoons. Foliage is abundant in the Stag tapestry and in its companion pieces whose average height, around 470 cm, were slightly less than that of the cartoons, i.e., 490 cm. Gesualdi states then that the Montalto set was very fine and ‘completely woven in silk’. Moreover, Montalto paid 28 florins per aune

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Fig. 18. Catherine van den Eynde, Landscape with Lioness in a Pond. Tapestry. Brussels, beginning of the seventeenth century. Auction Sotheby’s, Zurich, 10 December 1996, lot 230

for his tapestries, which was a very high price for a series that did not contain gold weft threads. In fact, the Stag is a remarkably fine wall hanging woven with silk weft threads on silk warp threads, 10 per cm. Quality and price can be better evaluated if compared with the weaving technique and cost of the Samson set made by Raes for the Cathedral of Cremona in 1629-30:52 still in Cremona, 11 florins were paid per aune for these pieces but the warp threads are not made of silk, nor so finely woven (seven to nine threads per centimetre), and the weft threads are of silk and wool. Moreover, the elegant classical swirls in the border of the Stag and of its companion pieces would seem to be the most suitable decorative motive Raes might select to satisfy an Italian, and especially a Roman, client.53 It is also important to keep in mind the provenance 254

from antique Roman collections of the two Landscapes in Palazzo Savelli-Orsini, which substantiates the theory that the entire set was once in Rome where Cardinal Montalto would have received and housed his set. Putting together more circumstantial evidence does not provide the absolute certainty we would obtain by a comparison of the extant tapestries with a description of Montalto’s Animals in an inventory of the Cardinal’s goods. But such a document has not yet been found.54 While we wait for such a discovery and until we have evidence to the contrary, I think it plausible to suggest that the Stag and the other Landscapes with the same border were part of Montalto’s set, woven by Raes/van den Eynde in 1611-14. As a last point in this essay, I shall present Cardinal Montalto (Fig. 25) and try to explain

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Fig. 19. Unknown Weaver, Landscape with Lioness in a Pond (or Nature Originally Good). Tapestry. Brussels, 155060, Borromeo Collection, Isola Bella (Arona)

why he bought the Landscape with Animals. Alessandro Damasceni Peretti Montalto (15711623), nephew of Pope Sixtus V and Cardinal from 1585, was a member of one of the most powerful and wealthy families in Rome, and one of the most illustrious collectors of art in the golden age of Caravaggio and at the beginning of the Baroque in Rome. His position as Cardinal apart, Montalto was decorated in succession with the offices of deacon in Rome, governor of Fermo in 1586 and of Città della Pieve in 1589, legate in Bologna in 1587 and in 1592-1605, abbot commendatario of Farfa and of Santa Maria in Cellis in 1590-1620, and Bishop of Albano from 1620. But above all these, he held the most powerful office in the Curia as Vice Chancellor of the Church from 1589 until his death.55 His most avid interests were in the field of music, which gave him the

opportunity to become acquainted with two other passionate cultivators of the same art (wealthy collectors too, and well known as protectors of Caravaggio), Cardinal Francesco Maria del Monte and Marquis Vincenzo Giustiniani. The latter exalted Montalto in his Discorso sopra la Musica (1628), as an exemplary promoter of concerts, and aspiring and innovative singers in his Roman palace, and in turn, as a fair and modest musician and singer, ‘in his own right’.56 I have mentioned Montalto’s taste for music because it is well known that tapestries have always been considered good furnishings for music halls, as they absorb sound and prevent echoes. The Cardinal and his illustrious friends might have used their tapestries for this purpose. Cardinal Del Monte owned some Flemish sets and also bought Florentine pieces;57 the Giustiniani records reveal that

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Fig. 20. Jan II Raes, or Catherine van den Eynde, Landscape with Leopard Biting a Lion. Tapestry. Brussels, beginning of the seventeenth century. Once Florence, G. Neerman Collection

Marquis Vincenzo also had tapestries, though of a quality not comparable to those of Montalto.58 In 1606 in Rome, Montalto inherited a majestic estate from Sixtus V, that included Palazzo Termini and the facing park which extended into the Esquiline Hill and within which there was also a separate villa, called Villa Felice (Fig. 24). The Cardinal carried out great works in the park in which he opened 256

routes, planted trees, and introduced dozens of ancient statues and fountains. A great peschiera was circled by statues, and one of them, the dominant one, was Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s Neptune and Triton group now in London’s Victoria and Albert Museum.59 But he owned also another two, very famous, ‘delights’ in the Latium countryside: Villa Lante at Bagnaia and Villa Grazioli at Frascati, for which statues, frescoes, and fine furniture were ordered.60 He

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Fig. 21. Jan II Raes, Landscape with Unicorn Fighting Against Leopards. Tapestry. Brussels, beginning of the seventeenth century. Property of De Wit-Blondeel, Mechelen-Antwerp

was a generous patron of late-Mannerist and Classical artists but, above all, he favoured the pioneers of the Baroque, acquiring in this way the favourable posthumous esteem and mentions reserved for him by the principal sources of the Roman seventeenth century artistic scene (Passeri, Bellori and Baldinucci). The young Pieter Paul Rubens, who in 1601 was welcomed and introduced by Montalto into the papal capital, portrayed him in a sketch, now in the Kupferstichkabinett in Berlin (Fig. 25); a later portrait was sculpted by Bernini in 1621-22 and is now in Hamburg, Kunsthalle.61 Paul Bril, Cavalier d’Arpino, Antonio Tempesta and Guido Reni were some of the painters who worked for him.62 A famous and much studied set of oval paintings with Stories of Alexander the Great for Palazzo Termini was made by a number of artists, including Lanfranco, Domenichino, Albani and Antonio Carracci.63 However, Lanfranco was his most

esteemed artist: three paintings by him, whose provenance has been traced, were in Palazzo Termini (Annunciation, Hermitage, St Petersburg; Magdalen Transported by the Angels, Puskin Museum, Moscow; Judas and Tamar, Galleria Corsini, Rome). In his last years, Montalto convinced Lanfranco to execute the frescoes of the Cupola of Sant’Andrea della Valle in Rome (a masterpiece of Baroque painting), while Domenichino worked on the pendentives of the cupola and in the choir; in fact, it was Montalto who paid for the building by Maderno and the decoration of this renowned church.64 As a buyer of tapestries, apart from the isolated episode of the purchase of a tapestry in Rome in 1617,65 Montalto’s orders were with the main weaving centres of his age, Paris and Brussels, with which he was in contact through the help of expert and high-ranking advisers, and also Florence. Some years before the acqui-

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Fig. 22. Unknown Weaver, Landscape with Unicorn Fighting Against Leopards and Lions (or Battle Against the Evil). Tapestry. Brussels, 1550-60, Borromeo Collection, Isola Bella (Arona)

sition of the Landscapes with Animals, his name was linked to other orders of superb tapestries. In 1606-07, the apostolic nuncio in Paris, Maffeo Barberini (the future Pope Urban VIII) had a set of tapestries woven for him by Maurice Dubout from cartoons by Toussaint Dubreuil and Henri Lerambert: it was the first ‘enlarged edition’ of the Story of Artemisia, of which now only three pieces survive in Paris (Musée Jacquemart-André), Dijon (Musée des BeauxArts) and in a private collection.66 In the letters related to this commission and exchanged between Maffeo Barberini and Cardinal Montalto, the former tried to convince the latter that the French tapestries woven on high-warp looms were better than those made in Flanders on low-warp looms. But in Paris, in those years, he lamented that the offer of cartoons was limited. (And surely the models could not be considered examples of ‘modern’ style by such refined Roman collectors as Barberini or Montalto). When the Story of Artemisia tapestries arrived in Rome, Montalto and his secretary Battaglini did not like them, for their ‘gloomy’ subject.67 In the meantime, Montal258

to had bought a second-hand Brussels set of a Story of Alexander the Great in fourteen pieces, found for him in Paris by the financier Sébastien Zamet, and which our Cardinal probably judged more beautiful than the Artemisia group. This may in turn explain why, for his later acquisitions, Montalto preferred more harmonious, naturalistic and life-like subjects, and why he found them in Brussels where, as result of the secular practice of working for Italian customers, cartoonists and weavers were better acquainted with Italian taste. What Montalto demanded in his tapestries was the classical High-Renaissance style founded by Raphael and Michelangelo. In fact, at the beginning of 1610, as a letter sent by nuncio Guido Bentivoglio from Brussels to Cardinal Borghese in Rome reports, Jan II Raes had already finished a set of tapestries of a Story of Noah made for Montalto, ‘from a marvellous design, once made by a very skilled painter for a set of tapestries which was made for king Philip II’.68 They were copied from a lost but well known set of large and harmonious cartoons made by 1563 for the Spanish

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Fig. 23. Unknown Weaver, Battle of the Elephant Against the Dragon. Tapestry. Brussels, beginning of the seventeenth century (?), Museo Stibbert, Florence

king, which in turn reproduced the Noah scenes projected around 1550 by Michiel Coxcie, the ‘Raphael of Flanders’, as a portion of the cartoons for the Genesis tapestries made in Brussels for Sigmund II Augustus of Poland (now at the Wawel Castle in Kraków). Three of the ten Noah tapestries woven in 1563-65 by Willem de Pannemaker for Philip II survive (in the Patrimonio Nacional), as do other replicas that the same weaver copied from the same cartoons around 1568 for Margherita of Parma (at Wawel Castle and in the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam).69 Among the later woven replicas of the same cycle, four tapestries of the Story of Noah signed by Jan Raes II, which were on the art market in Germany in 1937, might be some of the surviving pieces of Montalto’s set, or just samples of a parallel ‘edition’ by the same weaver.70 Undoubtedly, the Cardinal liked these tapestries, as is demonstrated by the fact that immediately after he ordered Raes’ Landscapes with Animals, (another set copied from Flemish Renaissance cartoons); he also received from France a Flemish set of the Triumph of Scipio from cartoons by Giulio Romano which Marquis Vincenzo Giustiniani had reported to him.

In 1612 two pieces of this set were sent to Rome where Montalto could publicly display his new Florentine set of the Story of Phaeton.71 This rich set made up of six pieces, woven with wool, silk and gold weft threads, was made for him in Florence between 1609 and 1612 in the Medici manufactory directed by Guasparri Papini who, in the same years, wove another identical set (but without gold weft threads) for Cardinal Francesco Maria Del Monte. Both were copied from the cartoons that Alessandro Allori had painted a quarter of century earlier, in view of the ‘first edition’ of the set, made for Grand Duke Ferdinando de’ Medici between 1583 and 1585.72 A Florentine set of Phaeton, the property of the Spanish Patrimonio Nacional (ser. 55),73 comprised of six pieces and enriched by gold threads, according to Lucia Meoni, may have been the one made for Ferdinando de’ Medici who gave it as present to the Spanish ambassador Don Giovanni Gavizia in 1605. But it might also be the one made for Montalto, which probably left Rome for Spain immediately after the death of its first owner in 1623. Montalto’s Phaeton may in fact be identified with the ‘tapiceria de lana y seda de las fabulas de Jupiter y Faeton que tiene seis paños […] labrados en florencia’ listed in a 1626 inventory of the tapestries brought back to Spain by Don Ruiz Gomez de Silva de Mendoza y de la Cerda, Duke of Pastrana, who between 1623 and 1626 had been in Rome as the temporary ambassador for Spain at the papal court.74 The same 1626 inventory provides evidence that the Duke of Pastrana bought tapestries once owned by Montalto, since it also mentions a ‘tapiceria de lana y seda fina con matices ricos labrados en florencia de ystoria de pescadores que son quatro paños’.75 These tapestries are also identical with a group bought by the Cardinal. In fact, it is documented that Montalto, having evidently appreciated his first Florentine set, ordered from Papini, and received in 1612, two fine Heraldic Portières made of silk and gold weft threads with his coat of arms between two allegorical figures.76 And later he also ordered a group of four tapestries called Pescagione (Fishing), copied from four of the twelve cartoons of the Seasons, which were painted by Alessandro Allori. 77 The cartoons of Fishing, representing Summer, were made c. 1603. In view of the tapestries to be made for

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Fig. 24. Matteo Greuter, View of Palazzo Termini, Villa Felice and Cardinal Montalto’s Park on the Esquiline Hill. Etching. From Palazzi diversi dell’alma città di Roma, Roma, 1638

Montalto, the cartoons were refreshed and personalised by Michelangelo Cinganelli with borders of a new style. The tapestries were finished by Papini in May 1616, but it happened that Montalto was not fully satisfied with the first tapestry of the group received from Florence, so only after repeated solicitations (in which Cardinal Del Monte was involved) he accepted the remnant tapestries and paid for them in February 1617.78 However, his disappointment remained, which may explain why, at the end of 1617, a group of ‘tapezzarie fatte in Firenze’ owned by Montalto, evidently the Pescagione, were offered to the court of Mantua for sale but they did not acquire them.79 So, it was this same group of tapestries which, some years later, was bought in Rome by the Duke of Pastrana and then travelled to Spain. So we are sure that Montalto liked the tapestries and bought important sets of various kinds, but preferred those of good quality with great dimensions, and with historical and biblical content, copied from Italian or Flemish car260

toons of High Renaissance and in the maniera style. Apparently he appreciated the pieces that told great stories of humanistic and moral values, not those of anecdotal themes, like the Fishing group; so one may wonder if the Landscapes with Animals, whose figurative and technical quality was superb, could be fully appreciated by him for their subject. Surely, yes. Notwithstanding the rather secular, encyclopedic and decorative character of the Landscapes, by ordering such a set Montalto would have kept in mind that the subject had to be suitable to his status as a man of the church. To read, therefore, the tapestries as an allegory of religious significance is the key indicated much later in time by Mercedes Viale Ferrero with her interpretation of the metaphors hidden in the Borromeo Unicorn, and reference to a very intricate web of quotations from sacred, patristic, didactic, ancient, Medieval and Renaissance texts.80 The same texts and passages mentioned by modern art historians could have assisted the learned Montalto, when he was vis-à-vis his zoological tapestries. The

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texts could help him to discover the hidden meaning of the images and to discern, among the woven animals, those representing the forces of good, as is the case of the elephants as metaphors of the Church, and those representing evil, as are the demonic dragons or the irritable rhinoceros. To distinguish then, in different illustrated contexts, the allegorical role of the beasts connected to ambivalent meanings of salvation or sin, as in the case of the lions or the unicorns, was important to decipher the meaning of the image; so, the leopard was a metaphor of Christ, when attracting the monkeys with its sweet aroma, but also of the sinner, if diverted by a reflection in the water. And it goes without saying that Montalto knew that the scene with the ‘lazy’ ostrich who covered its eggs with the sand and was at the point of abandoning them and letting the sun’s heat give life to the chicks, was a traditional metaphor for the act of Divine Providence. It is not necessary here to explain all the allegorical meanings discernable in the entire set of the Landscapes with Animals owned by Montalto, as some of them are self-evident. I would like to suggest that the image of the stag in the tapestry being studied here may have a symbolic interpretation. The deer, in fact, is explained in various bestiaries as a substitute of Christ, for its supposed practice of driving out and killing evil snakes, or as a symbol of the faithful soul. It is not unreasonable to assume that the learned Cardinal, contemplating his Stag tapestry with the animal on the bank of a stream (while the Christological leopard behind his legs is menacing a demonic goat further back), would have been reminded of the famous opening verses of Psalm 42 (41): ‘As the deer yearns at the water, so too does my soul yearns for you, O Lord’. Such a biblical reference would have morally justified his lay and temporal pleasure to possess and exhibit such a work. Unquestionably, Montalto liked the artistic representations of the great, wild and exotic animals. Along the main axes that crossed his marvellous park on Esquiline Hill (as it can be reconstructed today, only by documents and engraved representations: Fig. 24), he displayed numerous sculptures of leopards, tigers and rhinoceroses. These statues too have been explained by Benocci, who reconstructed the programs followed by Montalto in the organ-

Fig. 25. Pieter Paul Rubens, Portrait of Cardinal Alessandro Montalto. Drawing, 1601. Kupferstichkabinett, Berlin

isation of his park, as vehicles of moral and religious messages hidden behind their appearance of naturalistic marvels.81 It is not known where the Cardinal hung his Landscapes, but it is assumed that, since they were made with specific measurements according to those of the walls to be covered with them (as Gesuati’s letter states), they were probably displayed, with much honour, in the main residence of Montalto, that is, in Palazzo Termini where the bulk of his most important acquisitions were held, and eventually in a great hall where the Cardinal organised musical events. After his death, Palazzo Termini and the entire Esquiline complex was passed on and inherited by his brother, Prince Michele Peretti (1623-31), and in turn, to his son, the abbot and Cardinal Francesco (1631-55), and there on to Francesco’s nephew, Paolo Savelli (1655-

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85), after whose death the division of the Montalto estate began. It is probable that the Landscapes passed on to other owners within the Roman aristocracy, which led then to the division of the set itself and its disappearance. This was not only the destiny of these tapestries. Only a few people today remember that the main railway station of Rome, Stazione Termini, took its name from the palace in which Montalto lived, which was razed to the ground, together with Villa Felice and the park on the Esquiline Hill, to make space for the railway port of the Eternal City. So the tracks and the trains (and the humans too, obviously) condemned to death one of the marvels of Rome.

borders, are given. The description of the Landscapes with Animals, which is included, confirms that the tapestries published in the foregoing pages as ‘probable’ elements of Cardinal Alessandro’s set surely come from that group. They are mentioned as: “Tapestries, eleven in number, made in capicciola silk, depicting woods. Different animals, for example, elephants, lions, panthers, tigers, unicorn, dragons, with yellow friezes all around, and inside leaves and pomegranates,with a large rose at the centre [of each border], in the upper corners heads of Bacchus and in the lower ones heads of lions. They are 7 aunes high, 76 aunes wide, and they measure in total 532 [square] aunes, I mean 532, used”. [Arazzi numero 11 di seta in capicciola fatti con Boscaglie, Animali diversi cioè elefanti, lioni, pantere, tigri, alicorno, draghi con fregi gialli intorno a’ fogliami e granati con rose grandi in mezzo, a’ cantoni di sopra teste di Bacco et a quelle di sotto teste di leoni, sono alti ale 7 larghe ale in giro n° 76 e fanno fra tutte ale 532 dico ale 532 usate].

Post-scriptum Only after the present article was written and it was much too late to use it, if only in a detached final note, I read the excellent book Les tapisseries des Barberini et la decoration d’intérieur dans la Rome baroque (Turnhout, 2005) by Pascal-François Bertrand, where Cardinal Alessandro Montalto and his tapestries are mentioned more times, here and there, in the text (pp. 34-35,76, 86, 88, 89, 104-05). Regarding these tapestries, the book’s most notable contribution is among the ‘Annexes’ where one may find (pp. 230-31) the transcript of part of the inventory of the goods of Cardinal Francesco Montalto, heir of Cardinal Alessandro, at the time of his death in 1655 (Roma, Archivio di Stato, Archivio Notarile Urbano, sez. V, prot. 4, fs. 69, fols. [893-1092] 955-57, notary Simonelli, 30 May-30 July 1655, ms; only its section concerning the statues was published in Documenti inediti per servire alla storia dei Musei d’Italia, IV, 1880). This list includes the tapestries bought by Cardinal Alessandro which were not sold by him or by his relatives after his death in 1623, and those bought by his brother, Prince Michele Peretti, and by his nephew, Cardinal Francesco. There are hundreds of pieces, forming twenty-five sets whose provenances and first owners are only rarely mentioned, but of which titles, dimensions and brief descriptions, especially of the

262

From the twelve cartoons owned by Jan Raes II, Montalto had evidently selected only eleven scenes to be copied in his tapestries. The inventory does not include the Phaeton and Fishing sets made for Montalto in Florence, which is a confirmation of the fact that they were soon sold, probably to the Duke of Pastrana, between 1623 and 1626. On the contrary, it still includes, from his estate, the Triumph of Scipio in twelve pieces, 7 1/3 aunes high, woven with wool and silk weft threads; the Story of Noah in eleven pieces, seven aunes high, made of wool and silk, with Virtues on the borders (as Bertrand specifies, it became property of Pope Alexander VII in 1657)82; the Story of Alexander the Great in fourteen pieces, 5 1/4 aunes high, with captions on the borders; the two Florentine Heraldic Portières made with gold, silver and silk weft threads, each of them measuring 11 x 8 2/3 palms and showing the coat of arms of the Cardinal under a canopy, among the seated personifications of Temperance, Beneficence, and Liberality.

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NOTES

1 N. Forti Grazzini, Gli arazzi della Fondazione Giorgio Cini (Venice, 2003), p. 82, a commentary on a Landscape with Dragon and Lions tapestry in Venice, Fondazione Cini at Monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore. The present essay is a revised and enlarged version of a long entry on the Landscape with Stag that was privately printed by RABEL (2004), but which had a limited diffusion. 2

Aelianus, De natura animalium, VII, p. 3.

3

Aelianus, De natura animalium, XVI, p. 11.

4

R.-A. d’Hulst, Arazzi fiamminghi dal XIV al XVIII secolo (Bologna, 1961); G. Delmarcel, Flemish Tapestry (New York and London, 1999). 5 E. Duverger, ‘Enkele archivalische gegevens over Catherine van den Eynde en over haar zoon Jacques II Geubels, tapissiers te Brussels’, Gentse bijdragen tot de kunstgeschiedenis, 26 (1981-84), pp. 161-93; Delmarcel, 1999, p. 365; see also N. de Poorter, ‘Over de weduwe Geubels en de datering van Jordaens’ tapijtenreeks “Detaferelen uit het landsleven”’, Gentse bijdragen tot de kunstgeschiedenis, 25 (1979-80), pp. 209-24. 6 M. Viale Ferrero, ‘Quatre tapisseries inédites de l’histoire de Troie’, Artes Textiles, 10 (1981), pp. 183-92; E. Ragusa, ‘Arazzi a Torino: la collezione della Galleria Sabauda’, Bollettino d’arte, 73 (November- December 1988), pp. 46-50. 7 For information on this weaver and on his ‘alliance’ with the atelier Geubels/van den Eynde, see G. Delmarcel, L’arazzeria antica a Bruxelles e la manifattura di Jan Raes, in Arazzi per la cattedrale di Cremona: Storia di Sansone. Storie della vita di Cristo, exh. cat. (Cremona, Santa Maria della Pietà, 1987) ed. by L. Dolcini (Milan,1987), pp. 47-53. 8 N. de Poorter, The Eucharist Series (Corpus Rubenianum Ludwig Burchard, 2), 2 vols (London and Philadelphia, 1978); Rubenstextiel/Rubens’ Textiles, exh. cat. (Antwerp, Hessenhuis, 1997); on the Decius Mus cartoons by Rubens now in Vienna, Liechtenstein Museum, see: S. Tauss, Dulce et decorum? Der Decius-Mus-Zyklus von Peter Paul Rubens (Osnabrück, 2000). 9 P. Junquera de Vega and C. Diaz Gallegos, Catalogo de tapices del Patrimonio Nacional, vol. II, Siglo XVI (Madrid, 1986), 62-74 (Acts), pp. 89-103 (Decius Mus); P. Junquera de Vega and C. Herrero Carretero, Catalogo de tapices del Patrimonio Nacional, vol. I, Siglo XVI (Madrid, 1986), pp. 248-62 (Alexander). 10 F. Mezzalira, The Discovery of Animals. Beasts and Bestiaries from Prehistory to the Renaissance (Turin, 2001), pp. 5166. On the menagerie created by duke Philip the Good in the Ducal Palace of Brussels, still in existence in the XVI Century under Charles V and Philip II, see P. Saintenoy, Les Arts et les Artistes à la cour de Bruxelles, 2 vols (Brussels, 1932), I, pp. 72-76. 11 G. Marlier, La Renaissance flamande. Pierre Coecke d’Alost (Brussels, 1966), pp. 111-12, fig. 293. 12 A. Balis, K. De Jonge, G. Delmarcel, G. Lefébure, Les Chasses de Maximilien (Paris, 1993), pp. 72-74. 13 M. Hennel-Bernasikowa, ‘Verdures aux animaux’, in J. Szablowski, ed., Les tapisseries flamandes au Château du Wawel à Cracovie (Antwerp, 1972), pp.191-286; Ead. 1998, pp. 86-

103. The tapestries bear the marks of various weavers, among whom are Jan van Tieghem and Catherine van Huldenberghe. 14 M. Roethlisberger, ‘La tenture de la Licorne dans la collection Borromée, Oud Holland, 82 (1967), pp. 85-115; M. Viale Ferrero, ‘Quelques nouvelles données sur les tapisseries de l’Isola Bella’, in Actes du Colloque International: ‘L’art brabançon au milieu du XVIe siècle dt les tapisseries du château de Wawel à Cracovie 14-15 décembre 1972’, Bulletin des Musées royaux d’Art et d’Histoire, 45 (1973) 1974, pp. 77142; P. Michel, Mazarin, Prince des collectionneurs. Les collections et l’ameublement du Cardinal Mazarin (1602-1661), histoire et analyse (Paris, 1999), p. 457; M. Natale, Le Isole Borromee e la Rocca di Angera. Guida storico-artistica (Cinisello Balsamo, 2000), pp. 61-70. 15, Het aards Paradijs. Dierenvoorstellingen in de Nederlanden van de 16de en 17de eeuw, exh. cat. (Antwerp, Zoo, 1982), ed. by G. Delmarcel (Antwerp, 1982), pp. 66, 69, n. 4. 16 Auctions of the Cahen collection, Paris, 7 June 1934, and of the Petit collection, Paris, 9 December 1952, n. 147; reproduced by Roethlisberger, 1967, p. 114, fig. 41; mentioned by G. Delmarcel, in Het aards … 1982, p. 69. 17 RABEL collection, San Marino, in 2003; woven in wool and silk, 345 x 220 cm. The two birds in the foreground of these tapestries look like a stork in the foreground of Raphael’s Miraculous Draught of Fishes, one piece of the Acts of the Apostles set (S. Fermor, The Raphael Tapestry Cartoons, London, 1996, figs. 7, 18), or a heron on a Landscape with Animals tapestry at Wawel (Roethlisberger, 1967, fig. 27), but are probably to be intended as Egyptian ibises, mentioned by Physiologus, XIV, as waders who cannot swim and walk along the shores of the sea, rivers and lakes, eating dead fishes. Thus, these are metaphors of the sinner who is not baptised and lives without the grace of God. The tapestry shows also a lobster in the water in front of an oyster on the shore with a small black stone between them: it is a topic of late antique and Medieval moralised bestiaries that the crab kills the oyster by throwing a stone in its valves when they are open, preventing them from closing: St Ambrose, Exameron, V, pp. 21-22; Isydorus of Sevilla, Etymologiae, XII, vi, 51; Brunetto Latini, Trésor, I, v, 134; Cecco d’Ascoli, L’Acerba, XXVIII. This battle was often represented on the Flemish tapestries of the sixteenth century, where the crab changed into a lobster, notably on the borders, where small zoological scenes were sometimes depicted in association with mottos or proverbs: G. De Tervarent, Les animaux simboliques dans les bordures des tapisseries bruxelloises au XVIe siècle (Brussels, 1968), pp. 22-23, fig. 20; E. Six, T. Malty, Les Routes de la Tapisserie en Val de Loire (Paris, 1996), pp. 102-03. 18 The borders show, among fruit, leaves and scrollwork, the chariots of Minerva and Mars in the lower corners, groups of a satyr and a maiden on the middle sides, standing nymphs on the upper corners, and Latin scrolls on the upper side (except on the Landscape with two Ibises, which is too narrow). Nearly identical borders (a nymph instead of Mars in the lower right borders) decorate two pieces of a set of the Kings of Israel which bears the marks of Cornelis de Ronde: G. Delmarcel, C. Dumortier, ‘Cornelis de Ronde, wandtapijtwever te Brussel (+ 1569)’, Revue belge d’archéologie et d’histoire de l’art, 55 (1986), pp. 61-63, figs 13-14.

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19 See the two tapestries in A. G. Bennett, Five Centuries of Tapestry from the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco (San Francisco, 1992), pp. 130-33, n. 33 and fig. 62; the Borromeo Ostriches tapestry is reproduced by Roethlisberger, 1967, fig. 2. 20 J.-P. Asselberghs, G. Delmarcel and M. Garcia Calvo,‘Un tapissier bruxellois actif en Espagne: François Tons’, Bulletin des Musées royaux d’art et d’histoire, 56 (1985), pp. 107-09, figs. 7, 8, 10. For the Borromeo Battle between Unicorn and Lion, see Viale Ferrero, 1974, fig. 4. 21 Junquera de Vega, Herrero Carretero, 1986, pp. 176-84 (Scipio); C. M. Brown and G. Delmarcel, Tapestries for the Courts of Federico II, Ercole and Ferrante Gonzaga 1522-63 (Seattle and London, 1996), pp. 194-205 (Moses). 22

Christie’s, London, 8 December 1988, lot 226.

23

J. Böttiger, Tapisseries à figures des XVIe et XVIIe siècles appartenant à des collections privées de la Suède. Inventaire déscriptif (Stockholm, 1928), pp. 44-46, n. 35, fig. 34. 24

Hennel-Bernasikowa, 1998, pp. 94-96, n. XXV.

25

Hennel-Bernasikowa, 1998, pp. 88-89, n. XXII.

26

E. Duverger, ‘Tapijtwerk uit het atelier van Frans Geubels’, in De bloeitijd van de vlaamse tapijtkunst. International Colloquium (23-25 May 1961), (Brussel, 1969), pp. 175-78, fig. 20. 27

Roethlisberger, 1967, fig. 14.

28

Judicial sale organised by Franco Semenzato & C., S. Nicolò di Monticella, Conegliano, 22-24 September 1978, lot 1171. 29

Roethlisberger, 1967, fig. 8.

30

General views of the tapestries on the walls of the living room of the palace, where they still hang, were published in ‘Fastes romains’, L’Oeil, ns. 201-202 (September-October 1971), figs 1, 4; and in F. Benzi, C. Vincenti Montanaro, Palazzi di Roma (Venice, 1997), p. 74. I thank Fra’ John Edward Critien of the Sovereign Order of Malta who organised my visit to Palazzo Savelli-Orsini and the examination of the tapestries conserved there i.e., the two Landscapes, but also some other important Baroque and Rococo, Flemish and French pieces. 31 A zoological medallion in the lower border of the Lioness tapestry in the Borromeo Unicorn showing a lioness looking at its reflection in the water of a pond in the same posture as our leopard with the associated motto Decipior umbra (Viale Ferrero, 1974, fig. 10), explains the subject and the hidden moral message of our tapestry. Aelianus and other ancient and medieval zoologists write that various kinds of animals, (monkeys, tigers, lions), may be deceived and killed by hunters (or their cubs captured) by placing mirrors on the ground in which their image is reflected. In the Middle Ages this notion was taken as an allegory of the illusions produced by the senses, distorting the sinner from Christ, the Truth (see the sources and figurative references in Viale Ferrero, 1974, pp. 129-30, supported by A. Henkel, A. Schoene, Emblemata. Handbuch zur sinnbild-Kunst des XVI und XVII Jahrhunderts (Stuttgart, 1967), p. 403, and Duverger, Tapijtwerk…cit., pp. 116-17). 32 Roethlisberger, 1967, fig. 2; Viale Ferrero, 1974, pp. 97-

100. 33 F. Lara Arrebola, Artes textiles en el Palacio de la casa de Viana en Córdoba (Cordoba, 1982), pp. 68-73, n. 7. 34

Junquera de Vega, Diaz Gallegos, 1986, pp. 62-74.

35 Auction Sotheby’s, Zurich, 10 December 1996, lot 230.

264

36

Roethlisberger, 1967, fig. 6.

37

Böttiger, 1928, pp. 47-50, nrs. 36-38, figs. 35-37.

38

Junquera de Vega, Diaz Gallegos, 1986, pp. 89-103.

39 Flemish Tapestries. Five Centuries of Tradition, exh. cat. (Vianden, Vianden Castle, 1995), ed. by G. Delmarcel and A. Volckaert (Mechelen, 1995), pp. 48-49, n. 13. 40

Roethlisberger, 1967, fig. 1.

41

G. J. Hoogewerff, ‘Prelaten en Brusselsche tapijtwevers III’, Medeedelingen van het Nederlandsch Historisch Instituut te Rome, 3 (1925), pp. 145-48, docs. III, V. 42 It is documented that on 19 July 1614, for the feast of St. Lawrence, Cardinal Montalto exhibited in the church of San Lorenzo in Damaso, Rome, “a set of two rooms of new tapestries, never showed before, of landscapes of woods with animals portrayed from nature” (“un paramento di due stanze di razzi nuovi, non già messi in mostra, di verdure boscareccia con Animali ritrati dal naturale”): Rome, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, lat. 1082, 410v (mentioned by Waz´bi´nski, 1994, II, pp. 362 and 632). 43 Hoogewerff, 1925, pp. 145-46: ‘[…] che fu lavorata di tutta seta per il Cardinal Montalto, che consistono in dodici pezzi a paesi, e con animali grandi, come ne vedrà V. S. Ill.ma la nota qui inclusa d’ogni pezzo, come sono qua li patroni. Tiene memoria del fregio et d’ogni altra cosa, et dell’altezza di sette ane’. 44 Hoogewerff, 1925, pp. 145-46: ‘[…] Di questi dodici pezzi se ne possono anche dividere o diminuire alcuni et accomodarli secondo le mura delle stanze, dove avranno da stare. Però se V. S. Ill.ma li vorrà, potrà avvisare qual pezzo vorrà, che si diminuisca o divida, che si farà fare come fece il Signor Cardinale’. 45 Hoogewerff, 1925, pp. 147-48: ‘La prima dell’Elefante larga ane 10 a. 10 / La seconda dove il Liopardo si specchia a. 91⁄2 / La terza del Rinoceronte a. 91⁄2 / La quarta del Lione nell’acqua a. 8 / La quinta, La battaglia del Liopardo col Lioncorno a. 9 / La sesta, Lo Struzzo a. 10 / La settima, dove l’Elefante va a bere col Lioncorno a. 9 / L’ottava, il combattere del Liopardo con il Lione a. 7 / La nona, dove il Dragone mangia le ove a. 7 / La decima, la battaglia dell’Elefante con il Dracone a. 11 / L’undecima, del Liopardo e scimie a. 8 / La duodecima, dove il Dragone vola sopra l’arbore a. 6 / In tutto con li loro fregi fanno di larghezza a. 104 / In tutto a. 728’. 46 F. Boyer, Deux amateurs romains de tapisseries françaises, le Cardinal de Montalte et le Cardinal Borghèse 1606-1609 (Paris, 1931) p. 15. 47 Hoogewerff, 1921; Id., ‘Prelaten en Brabantsche tapijwevers II’, Medeedelingen van het Nederlandsch historisch Instituut te Rome, 3 (1923), pp. 209-22. 48

Viale Ferrero, 1974, pp. 111-12.

49

A leopard lies on the ground among some monkeys in the background of the Landscape with Snakes and Leopard (or The Damnation of the Impious) in the Borromeo Unicorn: Viale Ferrero, 1974, pp. 89-91, fig. 8. 50 G. Cantelli, ed., Il Museo Stibbert a Firenze (Firenze, 1974), I, p. 164, n. 1882, II, fig. 435. 51 Another series of Landscapes with animals which appeared in Brussels at the beginning of the seventeenth century and has been sometimes ascribed to Jan II Raes, includes a different Battle of the elephant against the dragon: see this subject in a tapestry published when it was in Turin, Nasi collection (, Arazzi e tappeti antichi, exh. cat. [Turin, Museo Civico d’Arte Antica e Palazzo Madama, 1952], ed. by M. Viale and V. Viale [Turin, 1952], p. 57, n. 48, fig. 49), and in another one, in the Castle of Serrant, Loire (Six and Malty, Les Routes…cit., pp. 14-19), both copied from a same cartoon. The former is part of a set also that includes an Ostrich tapestry (once in Milan,

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Canelli collection), and the Eagle and doe (once in Antwerp, Blondeel collection: J. Boccara, Ames de laine et de soie, SaintJust-en-Chaussée, 1988, p. 252); the latter is in Serrant together with five Landscapes of the same set. All these tapestries – none of them bear marks – are decorated with borders, nearly identical in the two groups, whose design was used again, with different colours, in a set of Trellis and Gardens: one of the Trellis, in Le Mans, church of Notre Dame de la Couture, carries Jan II Raes’s mark (see, Chefs- d’oeuvre de la tapisserie flamande, exh. cat. [Culan, Château de Culan, 1971], ed. by J.-P. Asselberghs, [Bourges, 1971] p. 24); another one, unpublished and conserved in an Italian private collection, is signed by a monogram probably used by the weaver Nicasius Aerts (this same mark is possibly woven in a third Trellis tapestry, sold at the William Doyle Galleries, New York, 18 May 1994, lot 584). So, the Trellis were the fruit of a collaboration between two manufactories and it cannot be said who, Raes or Aerts, produced the connected Landscapes with animals; anyway, they were not the series of which Cardinal Montalto obtained an ‘edition’. 52 See F. Voltini, ‘Arazzi per la Cattedrale; elementi di storia e di iconografia’, in Arazzi …, 1987, pp. 62-66. 53 In fact, the same border (and colour) was copied in a set of Tobias made by Bernardino van Asselt and Pietro Fèvere in Florence for Grand Duke Ferdinando II de’ Medici (164748): L. Meoni, L’arazzeria medicea, in M. Gregori, ed., Storia delle arti in Toscana. Il Seicento (Florence, 2001), fig. 6. 54 But on this point, see the Post-scriptum at the end of the essay. 55 L. Cardella, Memorie storiche de’ cardinali della Santa Romana Chiesa (Rome, 1783),V, pp. 224-28; G. Moroni, Dizionario di erudizione storico-ecclesiastica, 103 vols (Venice, 1840-1861), 52 (1851), pp. 90-91. 56 J. W. Hill, Roman Monody, Cantata and Opera from the Circles around Cardinal Montalto (Oxford, 1997). 57 Waz´bi´ nsky, 1994, II, p. 631; Meoni, 1998, ad indicem: Del Monte. 58

See the list of the tapestries owned by Vincenzo Giustiniani in his post-mortem inventory of 1638: S. Danesi Squarzina, La collezione Giustiniani. Inventari I (Turin, 2003), pp. 478-79. 59 R. Wittkower, ‘Bernini Studies – 1: The Group of Neptune and Triton’, The Burlington Magazine 94 (1952), pp. 6876; Id., Gian Lorenzo Bernini. The Sculptor of the Roman Baroque (Oxford, 1955-1981) (Italian edition: Bernini. Lo scultore del Barocco romano (Milan, 1990), p. 234, n. 9); J. Pope-Hennessy, Catalogue of Italian Sculpture in the Victoria and Albert Museum, 3 vols (London, 1964), 2, pp. 596-600; S. Schütze, ‘Nettuno’, in Bernini scultore. La nascita del Barocco in casa Borghese, exh. cat. (Rome, Galleria Borghese, 1998), ed. by A. Coliva and S. Schütze (Rome, 1998), pp. 170-79; T. A. Marder, Bernini’s ‘Neptune and Triton Fountain’ for the Villa Montalto, in O. Bonfait, A. Coliva, eds., Bernini dai Borghese ai Barberini. La cultura a Roma intorno agli anni Venti (Rome, 2004), pp. 11827. Also Bernini’s David in Rome, Galleria Borghese, was ordered by Montalto, but was completed after his death in 1623 for Cardinal Borghese. 60

P. Cavazzini, ‘New Documents for Cardinal Alessandro Montalto’s Frescoes at Bagnaia’, The Burlington Magazine, 135 (May 1993), pp. 316-27; C. Benocci, ‘Il giardino della Villa Peretti Montalto e gli interventi nelle altre ville familiari del cardinale Alessandro Peretti Montalto (Parte Prima: 16061614)’, L’Urbe – Rivista Romana, 55 (November-December 1995), pp. 261-281; Ead. 1996, pp. 117-31. 61 M. Jaffe, Rubens and Italy (Oxford, 1977), p. 75, fig. 288;

I. Lavin, ‘Bernini’s bust of Cardinal Montalto’, The Burlington Magazine, 127 (January 1985), pp. 34-38.

62 S. Pierguidi, ‘Precisazioni documentarie sulla committenza Montalto: brevi note a Guido Reni, Pasquale Ottino e Antiveduto della Grammatica’, Bollettino d’Arte, 86 (JanuaryMay 2001), pp. 93-97. 63 E. Schleier, ‘Domenichino, Lanfranco, Albani and Cardinal Montalto’s Alexander Cycle’, The Art Bulletin 50 (1968) pp. 188-93, and ‘Le ‘Storie di Alessandro Magno’ del Cardinale Montalto’, Arte Illustrata 50 (1972), pp. 310-25, and ‘Ancora su Antonio Carracci e il ciclo di Alessandro Magno per il Cardinal Montalto’, Paragone, n. 381 (1981), pp. 10-25; Id. 2001, pp. 128-39, ns. 16-20. 64 A. Costamagna, La cupola di Sant’Andrea della Valle, in Schleier, 2001, pp. 71-76. 65

Benocci, 1996, p. 129, note 9.

66 Boyer, 1931; J. Coural, Chefs-d’oeuvre de la tapisserie parisi-

enne 1597-1662, exh. cat. (Paris, 1967), pp. 16, 28; I. Denis, ‘L’Histoire d’Artemise, commanditaires at ateliers: quelques précisions apportées par l’étude des bordures’, Bulletin de la Société de l’histoire de l’art français (1991), pp. 21-36; C. J. Adelson, European Tapestry in the Minneapolis Institute of Arts (Minneapolis, 1994), pp. 175, 183. 67

Boyer, 1931.

68

Hoogewerff, 1921, p. 144: Guido Bentivoglio to Cardinal Borghese, 9 January 1610: ‘[…] un disegno bellissimo, che fu già fatto da un valentissimo pittore per una tappezzeria, che si lavorò da istanza del Re Filippo Secondo […]’; see also A. Baschet, ‘Négociations d’oeuvres de tapisserie de Fiandre et de France par le nonce Guido Bentivoglio pour le cardinal Borghèse (1610-1621)’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts 11 (1861), pp. 409-10. 69 Gli arazzi dei Farnese e dei Borbone. Le collezioni dei secoli XVI-XVIII, exh. cat. (Milan, Palazzo Ducale, 1998), ed. by G. Bertini and N. Forti Grazzini (Colorno, 1998), pp. 11621; E. Hartkamp-Jonxis, H. Smit, European Tapestries in the Rijksmuseum (Amsterdam, 2004), pp. 100-03, n. 30. 70 Auction of the collection of Altkunst Margraf, Berlin, 30 September-2 October 1937, lot 380 a-d: Embarkation, Deluge, Disembarkment, Drunkenness of Noah: M. Crick-Kuntziger, ‘Tapisseries de la Genèse d’après Michel Coxcie’, Bulletin de la Société royale d’archéologie de Bruxelles, n. 1(January-April 1938), p. 12. One of the tapestries was published by H. Göbel, Wandteppiche. Die Niederlande (Leipzig, 1923), II, fig. 316. 71 J. A. F. Orbaan, Documenti sul Barocco in Roma, 2 vols (Rome, 1920), pp. 203-04. 72 Meoni, 1998, pp. 111, 342-44, 517, 518. Three preparatory designs by Allori for the cartoons are in the Uffizi in Florence (Villa Medici. Il sogno di un cardinale. Collezioni e artisti di Ferdinando de’ Medici, exh. cat. [Rome, Académie de France, 1999-2000], ed. by M. Hochmann, [Rome, 1999], pp. 23437, nn. 52-54); a fourth one is in the Nationalmuseum in Stockholm, n. 161. 73

Junquera de Vega, Diaz Gallegos, 1986, pp. 110-16.

74

Asselberghs, Delmarcel and Garcia Calvo, 1985, pp. 99, 119 (doc. 8). I think that it was a mistake by the writer of the inventory to mention the set as made just of wool and silk weft threads, without gold: the only Phaeton set made without gold was in fact the one ordered by Cardinal Del Monte, which in 1628 came back to Florence to become part of the Medicean Garderobe: see Meoni, 1998, pp. 242, 244. 75

Asselberghs, Delmarcel and Garcia Calvo, 1985, p. 119.

76

Meoni, 1998, pp. 112, 518.

77

On the set of the Seasons, its cartoons, its various editions, see Meoni, 1998, pp. 324-41; the four Fishing scenes

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were woven for the first time by Papini for Ferdinando de’ Medici in 1603-06. 78 Meoni, pp. 108, 520. The only one Fishing tapestry identified till now, in a private collection, is published, together with its preparatory design by Allori (Uffizi, n. 721 F), in N. Forti Grazzini, Flemish Weavers in Italy in the Sixteenth Century, in G. Delmarcel, ed., Flemish Tapestry Weavers Abroad, Emigration and the Founding of Manufactories in Europe. Proceedings of the International Conference held at Mechelen, 2-3 October 2000 (Leuven, 2002), pp. 156-59, figs. 11-12. It was probably not

266

one of Montalto’s Fishing tapestries, for its border is in the style of Allori, not of Cinganelli. 79

Brown and Delmarcel, 1996, p. 132.

80

Viale Ferrero, 1974.

81

Benocci, 1996, p. 122.

82

See L. Ozzola, ‘L’Arte alla corte di Alessandro VII’, Archivio della Reale Società Romana di Storia Patria, 31 (1908), p. 85.

BRUSSELS TAPESTRIES FOR ITALIAN CUSTOMERS

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PLATES

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Pl. 1 Hugo van der Goes, Portinari altarpiece, oil on panel, 253 x 304 cm (central panel), 253 x 141 cm (wings) @ Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence/Alinari/The Bridgeman Art Library

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Pl. 2 Antonello da Messina, Portrait of a Man, Fondazione Mandralisca, Cefalù, detail © M.C.Galassi

Pl. 3 Antonello da Messina, Portrait of a Man, bpk/Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, detail

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Pl. 4 Antonello da Messina, Portrait of a Man, Fondazione Mandralisca, Cefalù, detail © M.C.Galassi

Pl. 5 Antonello da Messina, Portrait of a Man, bpk/Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, detail

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Pl. 6 Limbourg Brothers. Feast of Jean de Berry. From Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry. January page. Musée Condé, Chantilly, Ms. 65/1284, fol. 1v. Photo RMN/© R.G.Ojéda

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Pl. 7 Eros Trimphant, 1500-1520, anonymous French tapestry. Wool and silk, 285 x 90 cm. Founders Society Purchase, Ralph Harman Booth Bequest Fund. Photo © 1984 The Detroit Institute of Arts 281

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Pl. 8 Ambrogio Bergognone, Christ Carrying the Cross and the Carthusians, tempera and oil on canvas (transferred from wood), 166 x 118 cm. Pinacoteca Malaspina, Pavia © Musei Civici di Pavia. Photo: Fiorenzo Cantalupi

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Pl. 9 Christ Carrying the Cross and the Carthusians, detail © Musei Civici di Pavia. Photo: Fiorenzo Cantalupi

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Pl. 10 Joseph Recognised by His Brothers, tapestry from the Story of Joseph series. Designed by Bronzino and others, woven by Nicolas Karcher, Florence, 1550-53. Wool and silk with silver-gilt threads, 556 x 450 cm. Depositi Arazzi, Palazzo Pitti, Florence. Photo © Scala/Art Resource, NY

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Pl. 11 The Miraculous Draught of Fishes, first tapestry in the Acts of the Apostles series. Designed by Raphael in 1514-16 and woven by Pieter van Aelst in Brussels, 1516-19. Wool and silk with silver-gilt threads, 492 x 512 cm. Pinacoteca, Vatican Museums, Rome. Photo © Scala/Art Resource, NY

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Pl. 12 Raphael, Madonna and Child with Book, oil on panel, 55.2 x 40 cm, Norton Simon Art Foundation, Pasadena © Norton Simon Art Foundation

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Pl. 13 Hans Memling, Madonna and Child, (centre panel of the Triptych of Benedetto Portinari), oil on panel, 41.5 x 31.5 cm, bpk/Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin. Photo: Jörg P. Anders

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Pl. 14 Raphael, Madonna of the Meadow, oil on panel, 113 x 88 cm, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna © Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

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Pl. 15 Hans Memling, Saint Veronica (right wing of the ‘Bembo Diptych’), oil on panel, 30.3 x 22.8 cm, National Gallery of Art, Samuel H. Kress Collection, Washington, D.C. © 2006 Board of Trustees, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C.

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Pl. 16 Pieter Coecke van Aelst, The Triumph of Lust, tapestry c. 1532-33. Wool, silk and gilt metallic thread, 459 x 832 cm, Palacio Real del Madrid. Photo © Patrimonio Nacional

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Pl. 17 Pieter Coecke van Aelst, The Triumph of Lust, detail. Wool, silk and gilt metallic thread, Palacio Real del Madrid. Photo © Patrimonio Nacional

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Pl. 18 Catherine van den Eynde, Landscape with Stag. Tapestry. Wool and silk, 437 x 340 cm, Brussels, 1611-14. RABEL Collection, San Marino

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