Italian Painting in the Age of Unification 2020057311, 2020057312, 9780367637422, 9781003120506, 9780367637460

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Italian Painting in the Age of Unification

Italian Painting in the Age of Unification reconstructs the artistic motivations and messaging of three artists—Tommaso Minardi, Francesco Hayez, and Gioacchino Toma—from three distinct regions in Italy prior to, during, and directly following political unification in 1861. Each artist, working in Rome, Milan, and Naples, respectively, adopted the visual narratives particular to his region, using style to communicate aspects of his political, religious, or social context. By focusing on these three figures, this study will introduce readers outside of Italy to their diversity of practice, and provide a means for understanding their place within the larger field of international nineteenth-century art, albeit a place largely distinct from the better-known French tradition. The book will be of interest to scholars working in art history, nationalism, Italian history, or Italian studies. Laura L. Watts is Associate Professor of Art History at Daemen College, Amherst, New York.

Cover image: Francesco Hayez, The Sicilian Vespers, 1846, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna © Alinari Archives, Florence.

Routledge Research in Art History

Routledge Research in Art History is our home for the latest scholarship in the field of art history. The series publishes research monographs and edited collections, covering areas including art history, theory, and visual culture. These high-level books focus on art and artists from around the world and from a multitude of time periods. By making these studies available to the worldwide academic community, the series aims to promote quality art history research. Iconology, Neoplatonism, and the Arts in the Renaissance Edited by Berthold Hub and Sergius Kodera History and Art History Looking Past Disciplines Edited by Nicholas Chare and Mitchell B. Frank Mobility and Identity in US Genre Painting Painting at the Threshold Lacey Baradel The Imperial Patronage of Labor Genre Paintings in Eighteenth-Century China Roslyn Lee Hammers Public Statues Across Time and Cultures Edited by Christopher P. Dickenson Mapping Impressionist Painting in Transnational Contexts Edited by Emily C. Burns and Alice M. Rudy Price Modern Art in Cold War Beirut Drawing Alliances Sarah Rogers Italian Painting in the Age of Unification Laura L. Watts For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge.com/Routledge-Research-in-Art-History/book-series/RRAH

Italian Painting in the Age of Unification

Laura L. Watts

First published 2021 by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 Laura L. Watts The right of Laura L. Watts to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Watts, Laura L., author. Title: Italian painting in the age of unification / Laura L. Watts. Description: New York : Routledge, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020057311 (print) | LCCN 2020057312 (ebook) | ISBN 9780367637422 (hardback) | ISBN 9781003120506 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Painting, Italian--19th century. | Regionalism in art. | Minardi, Tommaso, 1787–1871--Criticism and interpretation. | Hayez, Francesco, 1791–1882--Criticism and interpretation. | Toma, Gioacchino, 1836–1891--Criticism and interpretation. Classification: LCC ND617 .W38 2021 (print) | LCC ND617 (ebook) | DDC 759.509/034--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057311 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057312 ISBN: 978-0-367-63742-2 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-63746-0 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-12050-6 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Taylor & Francis Books

To Therese Dolan, for her profound impact on my life and career.

Contents

List of Figures Acknowledgements 1

Ottocento Painting and the Gap in Nineteenth-Century Art Historical Discourse

ix xiii

1

2

Three Portraits / Three Cities

16

3

Tommaso Minardi and the Roman Destiny

34

4

Francesco Hayez and the Rise of History Painting during the Risorgimento

76

5

Gioacchino Toma, Neapolitan Realism, and the Aftermath of Unification

132

6

The Regional/National Model

170

Bibliography Index

177 185

Figures

1.1

Gaspare Landi, Portrait of Tommaso Minardi, 1801, o/c, Rome, Accademia di San Luca 1.2 Francesco Hayez, Self-Portrait, 1862, o/c, Venice, Gallerie dell’Accademia 1.3 Gioacchino Toma, Self-Portrait, 1857, o/c, Naples, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte 1.4 Vincenzo Gemito, Portrait Bust of Baron Oscar De Menil, 1887, Philadelphia Museum of Art 2.1 Italian politician Giuseppe Mazzini (1805–1872), photographed in London, c. 1860 2.2 Giuseppe Bossi, Self-Portrait with Cattaneo, Taverna and Porta, 1809, o/c, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera 2.3 Remigio Legat, Giuseppe Garibaldi with Garibaldini Red Shirts at Battaglia di Calatafimi, Trapani, Sicily, 1860, o/c, Milan, Museo del Risorgimento 3.1 Tommaso Minardi, Self-Portrait in a Garret, c. 1813, o/c, Florence, Vasari Corridor, Galleria d’Arte Moderna di Palazzo Pitti 3.2 Tommaso Minardi, Socrates and Alcibiades with the Portrait of Zauli, 1807, ink on paper, Faenza, Pinacoteca d’Arte Antica e Moderna 3.3 Vincenzo Camuccini, Death of Julius Caesar, 1793–1818, o/c, Naples, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte 3.4 Felice Giani, Diana, 1804, graphite, pen, brush and watercolor on paper, Washington, Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum 3.5 Friedrich Overbeck, Easter Morning, 1818, o/c, Kunstpalast Düsseldorf 3.6 Tommaso Minardi, Supper at Emmaus, 1807–1810, o/c, Pinacoteca Communale di Faenza, per gentile concessione dell’ Amministrazione Communale 3.7 Tommaso Minardi, St. Paul Refers Onesimus to Philemon, 1814, black pencil and brown wash on brown paper, Rome, Accademia di San Luca 3.8 Tommaso Minardi, Scene with Artists and Corpse, 1821, charcoal and wash on paper, Spencer Museum of Art, University of Kansas 3.9 Tommaso Minardi, Appartition of the Virgin to St. Stanislaus Kostka, 1825, o/c, Rome, San Andrea Quirinale 3.10 Tommaso Minardi, Adoration of the Shepherds, 1837, pen, brown ink wash and graphite on paper, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art 3.11 Tommaso Minardi, Madonna of the Rosary, 1840, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna

2 3 4 5 19 24

30 36 40 41 43 46

48 49 53 59 61 62

x

List of Figures

3.12 Tommaso Minardi, Mission of the Apostles, 1864, fresco, Rome, Palazzo del Quirinale 3.13 Friedrich Overbeck, The Triumph of Religion, 1831, o/c, Frankfurt, Städelsches Kunstinstut und Städtische Galerie 4.1 Francesco Hayez, Self-Portrait with Friends Migliara, Palagi, Grossi, Molteni, 1827, o/c, Milan, Museo Poldi Pezzoli 4.2 Francesco Hayez, Self-Portrait with Family, c. 1807, o/c, Treviso, Museo Civico 4.3 Francesco Hayez, Laocoön, 1812, o/c, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera 4.4 Francesco Hayez, Ulysses at the Court of Alcinous, 1815, o/c, Naples, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte 4.5 Francesco Hayez, Return of the Vatican Treasures, 1817, fresco, Vatican Museums, Galleria dei Chiaramonti 4.6 Francesco Hayez, Pietro Rossi, Prisoner of the Scaligeri, 1820, o/c, Milan, Private Collection 4.7 Francesco Hayez, The Apostles Giacomo and Filippo (Double Portrait of Giacomo and Filippo Ciani), 1825–1827, o/c, Private Collection 4.8 Francesco Hayez, Meditation, 1851, o/c, Verona, Galleria Civica d’Arte Moderna e Contemporaneo 4.9 Francesco Hayez, Portrait of the Count Arese, 1828, o/c, Private Collection 4.10 Francesco Hayez, Pietro the Hermit Preaching to the Lombards of the First Crusade, 1827–1829, o/c, Milan, Private Collection 4.11 Francesco Hayez, The Refugees of Parga, 1826–1831, o/c, Brescia, Musei Civici d’Arte e Storia 4.12 Francesco Hayez, The Sicilian Vespers, 1846, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna 4.13 Francesco Hayez, Thirst of the First Crusaders under Jerusalem, 1832–1850, Turin, Musei Reali, Palazzo Reale 4.14 Francesco Hayez, The Kiss, 1859, o/c, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera 4.15 Francesco Hayez, The Last Appeal of Jacopo Foscari, 1852–1854, o/c, Florence, Galleria d’Arte Moderna di Palazzo Pitti 4.16 Francesco Hayez, Last Moments of Doge Marin’ Faliero, 1867, o/c, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera 5.1 Gioacchino Toma, The Foundling Wheel of Santa Maria dell’Annunziata, 1877, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna 5.2 Gioacchino Toma, Roma o Morte!, 1863, o/c, Lecce, Castello di Carlo V 5.3 Anton Smink Pitloo, Cape Posillipo, c. 1820, o/c, Private Collection 5.4 Filippo Palizzi, The Forest at Fontainebleau, 1874, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna 5.5 Giuseppe Abbati, Cloister at Santa Croce, 1861, o/c, Florence, Galleria d’Arte Moderna di Palazzo Pitti 5.6 Gioacchino Toma, Children of the People, 1862, o/c, Bari, Pinacoteca Provinciale 5.7 Domenico Morelli, Episode from the Sicilian Vespers, 1859–1860, o/c, Private Collection 5.8 Bernardo Celentano, The Council of Ten, 1861, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna

65 67 78 83 86 87 89 91 95 100 101 103 105 110 112 115 120 122 134 135 137 138 142 143 145 146

List of Figures 5.9 5.10 5.11 5.12 5.13 5.14 5.15 5.16 5.17 5.18

Gioacchino Toma, A Rigorous Examination of the Sacred Office, 1865, Naples, Museo Civico di Castel Nuovo Silvestro Lega, The Singing of the Stornello, 1867, o/c, Florence, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna di Palazzo Pitti Adriano Cecioni, Aunt Erminia, 1867–1870, o/c, Arezzo, Museo Mediovale e Moderno Vincenzo Gemito, Neapolitan Fisherboy, 1877, bronze, Florence, Museo Nazionale di Bargello Antonio Mancini, The Study, c. 1875, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Gioacchino Toma, Luisa Sanfelice Imprisoned, 1874–1875, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Gioacchino Toma, School of the Blind Lacemakers, 1872, o/c, Private Collection Gioacchino Toma, Mass at Home, 1877, o/c, Naples, Museo Civico di del Castel Nuovo Gioacchino Toma, The Rain of Ashes from Vesuvius, 1880, o/c, Florence, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Gioacchino Toma, The Ropemakers of Torre di Greco, 1882, o/c, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte

xi 147 149 150 152 153 154 157 158 164 166

Acknowledgements

Writing a book in the age of COVID, while fraught with unforeseen obstacles, has shown me the true spirit of scholarly collaboration and generosity. Much of this book was written well before the world became complicated or impossible to navigate. Its late stages, however, were completed with the aid of many people that reached out to support my work online since I could not seek assistance in person. I am forever grateful to all those who did all they could, before and after the world shut down, to bring this book to its completion. My commitment to addressing the lesser-known story of Ottocento painting to an English audience would not have been possible without the Italian scholars and their willingness to share with me their expertise and insight. Although many of have contributed both directly and indirectly to this study, I would like to particularly thank Fernando Mazzocca, Luisa Martorelli, and Bruno Mantura for the time they spent with me many years ago to help forge my love for this era. Their scholarship has always been my guide, and I am indebted to their model and for their patience. From America, I would thank Roberta J. M. Olson for her time and advice during an early phase of the project. I must also acknowledge the important contributions of Irma and Sheldon Gilgore, no longer with us, for opening their museum for my study. Their passion for the Ottocento was the crucial first step in expanding its recognition all’estero. The project benefitted from the guidance and encouragement of Isabella Vitti, Katie Armstrong, and Sophie Blocksidge from Routledge. Without the ability to travel to Italy to secure reproduction rights, I am grateful to Francesca Cappellini from the Archivi Alinari; Stephen Behan from AKG-images; Marina Morra from the Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte; Ying Zhu from the Spencer Museum of Art at the University of Kansas; Karina Wratschko from the Library and Archives at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Francesco Moschini, Segretario Generale of the Accademia Nazionale di San Luca; Cristina Pirazzoli from the Pinacoteca Comunale di Faenza; Maria Cantelmo, Ufficio Cultura comune Lecce; and Carmel Cipriani. Several research institutions have provided invaluable support in granting access to their catalogues and archives. The number of individuals at these institutions are numerous, and in many cases, I fear, I did not receive their names. So, I hope these guides forgive me by allowing for more generalized acknowledgments of gratitude. In particular, I’d like to thank the Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense in Milan, with particular recognition of the administers of the Hayez Archives, the Biblioteca Hertziana-Max Planck Institute for Art History in Rome, the Biblioteca at the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna, the John P. Robarts Research Library, and the Library at the Sterling and Francine Clark Institute, particularly Penny Baker and Susan Roeper. In addition, I would like to thank

xiv

Acknowledgements

the generosity of Daemen College for granting me both a sabbatical and funding to pursue research for this book. The completion of this project was in no small part due to the professional models and mentors who nurtured my commitment to the Ottocento. Gerald Silk was among the first to introduce me to the Ottocento years ago, and has been a continued source of guidance ever since. Therese Dolan has been a consummate mentor, and one of the dearest friends I can imagine. Cher Knight reminds me every day of the scholar I want to be through her model of professionalism and compassion. This book was also due in great part to the support of family and friends. Mark Sommer has encouraged me in many ways and continues to do so. Sandra Watts has travelled with me to see many of the works found in this book; both she and Janet Watts have provided significant financial and moral support. My children, Johanna and Nathan Sommer, have been always patient, always inspiring, and always enthusiastic champions. Finally, Bruce has been there in more ways than I can count, including as a valuable reader, technical guide, and my North Star.

1

Ottocento Painting and the Gap in Nineteenth-Century Art Historical Discourse

An Inchoate Narrative Think of this book as a portrait of three artists. The first artist is Tommaso Minardi (1787–1871), a scholar and painter from Faenza, outside Bologna. His devotion to Catholic pictorial traditions led him on a journey through Rome, to Perugia, then back to Rome where he revived the piety and grace of the early Renaissance, while transmitting the heights of Italy’s artistic traditions to the younger generations at the Accademia di San Luca (Figure 1.1). Next to him is Francesco Hayez (1791–1882), borne from the mists of Venice, who found himself as a young man in the midst of the cosmopolitan artistic environment in Rome (Figure 1.2). Here he learned from historical models and contemporary translators to forge the modern school of painting, which he championed from his post at the Brera Academy in his adopted home in Milan. The last artist of the group is Gioacchino Toma (1836–1891), an orphan from Naples who took his modest and unorthodox beginnings and forged a voice for the southern Italian people left behind after unification (Figure 1.2). Whereas his artistic formation was built from erratic periods of study, interspersed with revolutionary politics, his work centered on careful observation of the human condition in very real circumstances. Similarly, think of this book as a portrait of three regions, or more accurately, three artistic capitals: Rome, Milan, and Naples. Each of these cities championed their own artistic inclinations, each were motivated by particular circumstances, and each city left its own legacy. It is also an investigation of the three institutions that colored the contours of these civic identities, and how the ambits not only differed from each other, but from the other regional institutions in Venice, Turin, Bologna, and Florence. Alternately, refrain from thinking of this book as a comparative study of Neoclassicism, Romanticism, or Realism; instead, think of it as an investigation of Purismo, Romanticismo Storico, and verismo. In other words, this book does not attempt to rectify nineteenthcentury art in Italy—Ottocento art—to the French or English paradigms. It is not about the Italian artistic identity, at least not in the sense of a comprehensive, all-inclusive characterization. My outsider status precludes such a reading. Rather, approach this book as a study of artistic differences both before and after the unification of Italy, one that complicates and at times contradicts the conventional wisdom associated with this artistic period and the broader art historical narrative. Think of it as an expression of local, regional interests and how they relate to a larger more unified national narrative, independently and distinctly. Whereas at times an artist’s style, influence, or theme may overlap and suggest continuity

2

Ottocento Painting in Historical Discourse

Figure 1.1 Gaspare Landi, Portrait of Tommaso Minardi, 1801, o/c, Rome, Accademia di San Luca Source: © Accademia di San Luca, Rome.

with a French artist, or with an artist from another city or region within Italy, this study cautions against seeking too cohesive a story. Not comprehensive nor granular, this study hopes to clarify through complexity, to reveal the character of painting at three distinct points to suggest the range, relevance, and impact of Ottocento painting. The genesis for this book stems from a chance encounter with Italian nineteenthcentury art in the early 1990s. Early in my graduate studies, I began research on a nineteenthcentury bust in the collection of the Philadelphia Museum of Art by the Neapolitan artist Vincenzo Gemito representing the Baron Oscar De Mesnil (1885) (Figure 1.4). Shortly after identifying the subject and context, I began to recognize distinct boundaries between the acknowledged artistic transcendence of the Renaissance and Baroque periods in Italy, and the forgotten and dismissed manner—outside of Italy—that accorded a more recent, modern history. What accounted for the vast gap between the easy familiarity held by a broad audience with artists from the fourteenth through the seventeenth centuries, and the relative obscurity of artists from the nineteenth century, the era of nationalism? Why

Ottocento Painting in Historical Discourse

3

Figure 1.2 Francesco Hayez, Self-Portrait, 1862, o/c, Venice, Gallerie dell’Accademia Source: © akg-images / Cameraphoto.

is it that—as one esteemed Renaissance art historian, a professor and mentor of mine, commented over dinner one night—“No one knows the artists Laura studies?” Why, indeed. From early on in my research, beginning with Gemito and then later and with more focus on the Venetian/Milanese artist Francesco Hayez, I kept struggling to find out why Ottocento artists, with their particular and profound aesthetic and social concerns, had not made their way into the present day and conventional art historical narrative, at least not in any significant way. As this book will most certainly illustrate, Italian scholars have conducted significant and exhaustive research on nineteenth-century art and its myriad of relevant influences, but outside of Italy it is known only in a scholarly context. Works by giants in the field—Sandra Pinto, Fernando Mazzocca, Carlo Sisi—have extensively investigated artists dismissed by the early twentieth century as a result of the growing dominance of the modernist aesthetic, yet these scholars’ works do not easily translate back into an already recognized and indomitable nineteenth-century canon, one that is progressively formalist and francocentric. Literal translations, although they rarely appear, would be easy enough to do. Such translations,

4

Ottocento Painting in Historical Discourse

Figure 1.3 Gioacchino Toma, Self-Portrait, 1857, o/c, Naples, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte Source: Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali e per il Turismo, Museo e Real Bosco di Capodimonte.

though, would have to operate independently of a knowledge base and outside a common understanding of the nineteenth century as a Hegelian march from Neoclassicism to latecentury Symbolism and beyond. In Italy, it is not so easy to construct a progressive dialectic, at least not a geographically inclusive one. With no central fine arts academy, but 16 primary ones and over 30 secondary ones, a dominant artistic practice does not exist.1 It is not only that Italy did not have one artistic center, it was polycentric, both politically and culturally. The nineteenth-century political realities of the patchwork peninsula carved up into territories, all with recognizable identities, do not encourage a strategic confrontation with the established narratives of France, England, or America from the same period. Rather, stylistic outlooks at times conflict; an Italian art historical narrative is diverse, inconsistent, and elusive. Italy’s continued artistic richness from the nineteenth century, therefore, is too unwieldy to a broader art audience, and a comparative methodology with France results in Italians being cast as less inspired followers.2

Ottocento Painting in Historical Discourse

5

Figure 1.4 Vincenzo Gemito, Portrait Bust of Baron Oscar De Menil, 1887, Philadelphia Museum of Art Note: Purchased with the George W. Elkins Fund, the Henry P. McIlhenny Fund in memory of Frances P. McIlhenny, and the John D. McIlhenny Fund, 1990, E1990–91–1.

My contention is not that existing scholarship has marginalized the era, or ignored critical issues from this period; Mazzocca and his colleagues profoundly prove otherwise. Rather, the breadth of regionalist production has hindered the study of art from this period on a broader, international stage. Scholars use a relevant and perhaps parallel conception of regionalism in twentieth-century American art to describe works by Grant Wood and Thomas Hart Benton, artists working outside the mainstream artistic establishments. Their otherness illustrates the tendency in America, as in France, to discuss art in terms of its most visible and authoritative artists. Benton is a Regionalist because he shuns the abstraction promoted by the Modernists on both coasts. He is a Regionalist because he is not identified with New York, although even then he spent 1926 to 1935 teaching at the Art Students League. His very conscious and vitriolic break with Modernist ideals and contemporary artistic institutions made him a Regionalist, an outsider, a provincial. In America, regionalism means anti-Modernist.

6

Ottocento Painting in Historical Discourse

In Italy, since there is no central academy or institution to define the insider, the very active and diffused artistic scene spreads throughout the peninsula. No artist is considered a regionalist artist, because all artists are regionalist artists. For scholars, the approach can only be far less collectivist than when applied elsewhere; the only solution is to maintain the regionalist approaches, the resulting variables, and shifting narratives to champion the diversity in intentions as a signal of the vast cultural wealth of the Risorgimento era. In other words, once the quest of a national artistic paradigm is abandoned, or at least qualified, the scholar of Italy is free to examine the regional and political biases of individuals, and of individual regions, for what they reveal individually. In a sense, then, the primary mission of this book is an unusual one. Rather than establish connections with the major artistic movements of the nineteenth century, my aim is to reveal the multiplicity and inconsistencies of the Italian Ottocento experience to complicate, not clarify. Rather than avoid fragmentation, I aim to confront it, and to reveal the difficulty in representing and defining an Italian style, school, or artistic center without which a cohesive narrative remains inchoate. Under the current circumstances, a pejorative or subjugated conception of the role of Ottocento art persists in the minds of a broader public outside of Italy. By rejecting the comparative approach, how Italy measures up to Northern Europe, I aim in this study to amend the typical reading of Ottocento painting by those all’estero.

Sulle Spalle dei Giganti For non-Italian readers, the Ottocento pictorial narrative is obscure; for Italian readers, it is well-established and accessible. The problem here, though, is not merely one of language, but also critical foundational works on which to build a more thorough understanding of the obstacles and challenges to scholars working to define this period. What follows is an assessment of several twentieth-century and contemporary authors who have worked to explicate and clarify the era, particularly after the myopia of Modernism began to diminish at the end of the last century. No author has been more catholic in his research of the peninsula than Fernando Mazzocca, who has spent his career publishing prolifically to establish the reputation of the era for an Italian language audience. His 2002 publication, L’Ideale classico, presents excerpts from over two decades of research. His stated aim was largely to re-evaluate the artists and their motivations from throughout the century, to rescue artistic accomplishments “from a mode of criticism, which as they were conditioned by the myths of modernity and the avant-garde, made the keys to reading disappear.”3 I rely heavily on the broad scope of insights introduced by Mazzocca since 1978, especially in the area of Neoclassical and Romantic counterparts, throughout the peninsula. His work has been limited largely to the art historical context, but has incorporated literary influences, art writing (Scritti d’arte del primo Ottocento),4 and the cultural context of Milan (Hayez nella Milano di Manzoni e Verdi). When non-Italian studies do appear, too often they take a different approach than Mazzocca’s. Every attempt is made to find corresponding examples and equivalents to already recognizable movements and aims. Authors seek a way in for the audience. When compared to France and its increasing focus on form over content, the Italian pictorial counterparts read as less accomplished, innovative, and bold. Francesco Netti recognized this in 1938 when he wrote the following, “Bad things occur when … one wants to establish in painting a scale of preeminence of one genre over another.”5 Netti was

Ottocento Painting in Historical Discourse

7

referring to academic prejudice, but the same holds true with prejudices formed by foreign academies, that is, French academies. When Norma Broude described Italian Impressionism as related to the Tuscan Macchiaioli, her focus was on how they preceded France, or in how their work shows less of an experimental desire.6 It is only with the 1993 publication by Albert Boime, a significant and valuable exception to the dearth of English Ottocento scholarship, that the work of the Macchiaioli was investigated against the backdrop of social struggle under the foreign dominated culture of Tuscany. Boime’s groundbreaking approach, an outgrowth of the work of Mazzocca and his contemporaries, does not venture far beyond the Macchiaioli, and does not account for the lacuna up until this point. But this is precisely its strength. By not being a summative exercise, he lays the groundwork for future authors to move away from the traditional categories and grand inclusive endeavors. In so doing, he emphasized the role art played in a social or political context, not simply its stylistic development. His study exposes how the Macchiaioli “reveal in their work a rich succession of layers of … social topography, portraying the ways Italians in a particular time and place tried to shape and occupy a national space” (Boime 1). His work appeared at a time when the Macchiaioli was receiving a good deal of attention for their relationship to Impressionism, as in Broude’s 1990 World Impressionism, a comprehensive and comparative study. Whereas Broude illustrated that the earlier practice by the Tuscan artists placed them not as provincial offshoots of the French movement, but as earlier and probable influences on all plein air, or all’aperta, experimentation, Boime sidestepped the “which-came-first” and “who-did-it-better” explanations to show the vibrant and committed group of individuals who saw their world and commented insightfully and effectively through their painting. In addition, the scholarship on the Macchiaioli, as with other major artistic experiments from this era, indicates the disparate, regionalist focus prominent in Italy until the present day. The majority of work done on Ottocento art approaches it from the local or provincial identity. Since the approach to painting in Rome during the same period is largely irrelevant to that in Florence or Milan, the only way to effectively investigate this period is to focus on the context of these Tuscan artists specifically, and those artists from outside Tuscany who arrived there drawn by the Macchiaioli aesthetic and practice, like Vincenzo Cabianca and others. Boime does this brilliantly. The alternative to Boime is comprehensiveness. When this occurs, the study tends to lack cohesion or insight, especially when produced from outside the Italian context. By way of example, in 1994 the Italian Art Society in New York and Roberta J. M. Olson presented the exhibit Ottocento: Romanticism and Revolution in 19th-Century Italian Painting, accompanied by an informative catalogue. As it is one of a few English studies on this Italian artistic era, the study is shackled by its singularity. It acted as a primer of sorts, an abbecedario, for many, including this author. Without additional studies, like Boime’s for instance, the depth of artistic accomplishment loses out to the breadth highlighted in the New York exhibit. Fortunately, Olson and her collaborators do not succumb to the comparative methodology that justifies Ottocento art through a French stylistic narrative. Indeed, most of the essays are translations from Italian authors like Mazzocca. The lack of an alternative structure or narrative, though, makes her endeavor a bit cumbersome and skirts an arbitrary organization geared only towards the work exhibited. Boime (and Mazzocca) showed me what I wanted to do. Over several years I visited the careers of artists through regional connections, political influences, literary, and musical contexts, whatever brought them to life. From Hayez’s studio in the bustling Brera Academy in Milan to the streets of Naples and the seaside studio of Vincenzo

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Gemito, I attempted to understand the living context, not just the stylistic one. This understanding is implicit in Italian scholarship, but is not always translated as well as Boime did outside of Italy. Most certainly, it does not appear often. Through this process, I began to understand the biggest indicator of an artist’s work was not their time, their politics, or even the school from which they came; it was their provincialism, even when their work was completed in the name of the new nation. Regionalism, campanilismo, and paesanismo were all concepts that were consistently crucial to the understanding of the art, not only in relation to the artist’s context, but to how he presented his work in a contemporary world. This is done to an extent far greater than anything we do for Van Gogh’s “Dutchness” or Blake’s “Britishness.” Since the Italian unification movement, or the Risorgimento, effectively began during the Napoleonic era, and continued through the official recognition of the state, before succumbing to an era of transition and adaptation later in the century the discussion of Italian nineteenth-century art, Ottocento art, must always begin with the regional identity, not italianità. To an Italian, even those who identify themselves as Italians before Romans, Milanese, or Sardinians, this must be a non-issue. But in an art historical sense, where new narratives are formed in relation to pre-existing ones, and the dominant (read French) style is seen as paradigmatic, the diversity and breadth of the Italian experience is easily overlooked and even lost. The publishing industry confirms this in the prodigious output of all Italian regions, independently. Again, Mazzocca states this better than anyone. [Ottocento artists], in the end, are clear to confirm the multiplicity of a culture still rich with ideas and impulses, and with specific distinctions among the differing, recomposed contexts, … those from Venice that attempted to exit from the dramatic conflict with its own glorious past, [or] those from Milan who even among many contradictions provided the basis for a modern system of the arts.7 To paraphrase Mazzocca, rather than suggest the possibility of just one story, I plan to revel in the culture’s richness of “ideas and impulses.” Rather than see the Ottocento narrative as inchoate or obscure, I choose to accept the conflicts, the “multiplicity.” Only then is the art of this era restored its power and light. This is the difficulty the Italian scholar understands, as evidenced by the most substantive and comprehensive publication La Pittura in Italia: L’Ottocento, edited by Enrico Castelnuovo.8 These two volumes form an exhaustive survey of Ottocento painting. Essays included in the two volumes take on complexity and regional distinction openly. Methodologies are varied, and include studies treating region and chronology (Mazzocca, “La Pittura dell’Ottocento in Lombarda” or Caterina Bon Valsassina, “La pittura a Roma nella seconda metà dell’Ottocento”); the context of medium and patronage, both state and private (Rosanna Maggio Serra, “I sistemi dell’arte nell’Ottocento”); and thematic responses to shifting contexts (Orietta Rossi Pinelli, “Dopo l’unità: nuovi spazi e nuovi temi nella pittura murale”). Castelnuovo curated definitive essays on genres and regions using a magnifying lens, with very little attempt to create a cohesive and thereby misleading narrative. Instead, in this epic venture he reveals a complex system of regional institutions and patronage. To a scholar first approaching the Ottocento through Castelnuovo, the era is daunting. Stefano Susinno devoted his career to the same type of magnifying lens, but aimed it more precisely on the Roman milieu. He focused, though, on unmined, or “ancillary” evidence to explain the stylistic solutions beyond the interests of the patria, regional

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themes, or dominant international artistic trends. Instead, he integrated studies on public and private patronage, academic exhibits and studio practices, and personal and administrative interactions. His 1994 study, “Artisti a Roma in età di restaurazione, dimore, studi e altro,” addresses how the immediacy of the individual artist’s environment affected studio production.9 By homing in on circumstances rather than results, Susinno more succinctly and effectively characterized the practice in Rome, as he did in essays like “La scuola, il mercato, il cantiere: occasioni di far pittura nella Roma del primo Ottocento,” or “Artisti a Roma in età di Restaurazione. Dimore, studi e altro.” In the former, Susinno established the particular nature of the Roman academic environment, and the desire of its administrators to preserve Rome’s role as an artistic capital. Expanding the context beyond artistic considerations was also the project of Sandra Pinto when she published “La Promozione delle arti negli Stati italiani dall’età delle riforme all’Unità” (“The Promotion of the Arts in the Italian States from the Age of Reform to the Age of Unity”) in 1982. The work is groundbreaking for its focus on the structures underpinning artistic production, region by region, within the royal and pontifical courts. The examination of patronage by region rather than by individual circumstance shifted the focus from the artist to their ambit, and provides a powerful tool for those studying regional practices. It is important to note, though, that Pinto cannot rely on a centralized source to discuss developing trends. No such source existed. Instead, as others, she proceeds regionally to comparing examples in a lateral rather than linear manner. Her chronology addresses each territory before restarting and resuming in another court or sphere. Castelnuovo, like Pinto and Susinno, demonstrates the Italian artistic narrative will never be a unified narrative, but must be examined through the individual regions and factors, what Annegret Höhler described in 2005 as the autochthonous lens. Höhler was referring to the Italic pensinsula in relation to Northern Europe, but scholars apply the same independence when addressing distinct regions within. A multitude of publications approach Ottocento art in this way, far too many to catalogue here. Take for example the 2004 exhibition and publication in Treviso called Ottocento Veneto. Il trionfo del colore. The exhibition is from a regionalist viewpoint, exhibiting the lure of Venetian imagery and the chromatic preoccupations of artists descended from Titian, but it exists as an independent investigation within a larger field. In Italy as elsewhere, scholarship on art is mostly centered around and sustained by exhibitions. This creates a condition where the study is tied to a specific and assumedly relevant location within the museum. As the institutions staging the exhibitions possess their own regional identity, history, and often “favorite son,” stylistic autonomy prevails, and the primacy of city or region wins out over national identity. The retrospective of Francesco Hayez (Hayez) appeared in Milan in 2015, a massive exhibition was staged in Naples at the Museo di Capodimonte in 1997 on all facets of Neapolitan figurative arts (Civiltà dell’Ottocento. Le arti figurative), and a retrospective on the Venetian Giacomo Favretto appeared in 2010 at the Museo Correr in Venice (Giacomo Favretto: Venezia fascino e seduzione).10 Although there are exceptions, the entrenched regional or local identities of Italy’s major artistic centers makes reconstructing a cohesive narrative nearly impossible. In other words, culturally and politically, Italy has maintained a regionalist identity first and foremost. Herein lies the inchoate narrative. Exhibitions from Turin focus on provincial contributions by Piedmontese artists, which differ from those contemporaries in Rome or Venice, not to mention Bergamo, Brescia, Perugia, and so on. With no possibility of a centralized approach through an academy, individual national figure—a Canova or a

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Bernini—or even an institution, the plethora of artistic narratives causes the relative obscurity of nineteenth-century Italian art outside of the peninsula due to the difficulty in reconciling distinct efforts. As this was largely not the case in France or England, where the centralized academy drove artistic trends, scholars outside of Italy have neglected the more complicated task of presenting Ottocento art in non-Italian contexts. Lastly, in terms of the barriers for a national narrative beyond regionalism, the traditional focus on discipline also plays a significant role in perpetuating the obscurity of the peninsula’s nineteenth-century artistic achievements. Whereas the historian—economic, social or otherwise—has been prodigiously producing studies on Italian regionalist interests, social strife, and biographies for an English-speaking audience, there is little attempt to link these studies to visual paradigms or patterns, that is, the art historical discourse. The lack of cross-fertilization between disciplines was particularly apparent in April 2008 at a symposium hosted by Columbia University’s Casa Italiana and the Department of Modern Italian studies. The symposium, “The Risorgimento Revisited,” was a meeting place for esteemed scholars of modern Italy, including Paul Ginsborg, Alberto Banti, Lucy Riall, and Gilles Picout. Artistic examples abounded during the presentations, but as props without the artistic, institutional, stylistic, or biographical insight that takes the pictorial text beyond a detached illustration. This practice, mining images to support a thesis outside the discipline and merely as illustration, opens up the image to misinterpretation.11 Nevertheless, scholars laid the foundation for a complex understanding of social praxis. Primarily represented by historians and linguists, the results of the proceedings were published in 2012, edited by Riall and Silvana Patriarca. Authors here suggest a more unified Risorgimento narrative, representing the push for unity not as a diverging group of strategies, but as a cohesive spirit.12 This reading of the Risorgimento is far more collective, and recognizes a nationalist spirit over the regional bias. One significant exception is the essay by Adrian Lyttelton where he aims his focus on the literary and pictorial narratives that attempted to construct a national consciousness.13 While the identification of themes, and how they represent various artists’ and authors’ political ideals, is essential to forging an informed approach outside of Italy, his essay mostly lacks a discussion of the artistic milieu and practice. It does, however, effectively address the Risorgimento ideologies and how they were promoted or challenged by later historians and authors for their own purposes. Although many authors in the last few decades have published studies that admirably met the particular challenges of addressing Ottocento painting, in 2005 Annegret Höhler addressed the twentieth-century historiography explicitly. Appearing in the compendium of revisionary studies on Ottocento painting organized by the Max-Planck Institut-Bibliotheca Hertziana in Rome, her essay, “Le ‘storie dell’arte’ e la pittura italiana dell’Ottocento mutamenti e dibattiti” (“‘Art Histories’ and Italian Painting of the Ottocento: changes and debates”) recognizes the defensiveness of the Italians to a francocentric and therefore negative reading of the Italian contributions to this period, and traces how their reactions resulted in a particular critical objective.14 Her concept of coexisting strategies, the comparative as opposed to the autochthonous, helps support my thesis of the significance of diverging regionalist narratives in place of a comparative strategy for the art of Italy, or European art more generally. Höhler’s work is refreshing in its challenge to the dominant francocentric narratives, and their adverse effects on Ottocento painting. Exposing this tendency to dismiss all that is not French may be the first step to leaving it behind. A working knowledge of the French stylistic movements, not to mention the constant availability of viewing

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opportunities and English publications to a broad art public outside of France, proves how essential the relationship of French art to Italian art in the nineteenth century is to recognizing the disparity in reception. Höhler effectively illuminated the flawed comparative methodology and how it designated the Italians as lesser, and the French as superior in the arts. Beginning with Théophile Gautier (1811–1872) and the 1855 World Exposition in Paris, she chronicled the critical dismissal of Italian painting, a point of view Gautier repeated in 1867 at the second international exposition. In his two volume review of the 1855 exhibition, he saw little to admire in the Italian examples. In relation to Hayez, he wrote, “…in northern Italy, a reputation that seems difficult to explain.”15 Gautier, the author who is incorrectly credited with coining the phrase “art for art’s sake” in 1835, focused on the primacy of French approaches over all those contrasting approaches, and thereby conveys his sympathies with an increasing formalism, and his lack of interest in any historical or political context. It was not only the French who employed a derogatory tone towards the Italians. Höhler recognized those Italian critics who maintained the flaws of Ottocento painters in the face of the French, and saw them only as imitators. Roberto Longhi (1890–1970), a champion of modernism, fell into this camp.16 In 1949, Longhi, known primarily as a scholar of Piero della Francesco and Caravaggio, penned the forward to John Rewald’s History of Impressionism, which he saw as the metric to judge all art from the late nineteenth century. As a result, he recognized Italian artists as deficient, and called for an honest, critical approach to Italian contemporary art and its inferiority to the French. His approach assumed artists working at different points and in different geographical locations were both cognizant and competitive with the French. Of course Ottocento painters were aware of their northern counterparts to some extent, but too much concentration on comparative methodologies dramatically miscasts the artistic era and its initiatives. Artists exhibited in Parisian exhibitions, including Giovanni Boldini and Medardo Rosso, spent significant periods in France, again mostly during the latter part of the century. Nevertheless, their sporadic interaction with the North seems to me a meager justification for assuming artists working in Naples or Turin or Venice were attempting to mirror their French counterparts. No evidence exists to suggest this was their aim or driving force. More importantly, to assume the Italians employed the same motivations or aesthetic criteria as those artists working under very different circumstances smacks of revisionism. As Höhler aptly recognized, when scholars use only one lens for assessment, all else falls short. Until the bulwark of Modernism was broached by other methodologies and interpretive tools during the second half of the twentieth century, Italian artists, from the Ottocento and after, were destined to be seen at best as latecomers, and at worst as stale or stunted. When this interpretative approach is applied retroactively, in other words reading early-century painting as the foreshadowing of formalism, the critical reading is utterly anachronistic. Italian artists were not seeking autonomous form, not in 1815 and not in 1867. Their cultural and social exigencies did not allow for this. Their circumstances pressed for a more engaged pictorial practice than Modernism allowed. Only in 1960 did Corrado Maltese (1921–2001) discount comparative practices to stress the necessity of examining a variety of historical factors when describing the Ottocento. His book, Storia dell’arte in Italia 1785–1943, appeared at a time when Modernist formalism was just starting to lose its critical dominance, and authors began to accept extraartistic considerations. In regard to the Ottocento, Maltese began by acknowledging five distortions in the evaluation of Italian art from 1815 to 1855, art that corresponds with the advent of Romanticism on one end, and the rise of verismo and the Macchiaioli on

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the other.17 First, previous scholars have regarded realist movements in Italy as limited, denying “cultural implications, philosophical and scientific, political, social or moral.”18 Next, by recognizing a formalizing tendency of the Macchiaioli, scholars prioritized the works of Tuscan or Florentine artists over artists from other regions. In addition, by overstating artistic motivations exclusively as regionalist interests, scholars have inaccurately characterized competitive impulses as responsible for stylistic developments. Then conversely, the oversimplification of a national discourse led to opposing Ottocento art, represented exclusively through Tuscan art, to other well-known artistic discourses of other nations, specifically one from France. Finally, scholars like Longhi, looking to France, misappropriated Impressionism and Courbet’s realism as the measure to which evaluate the Macchiaioli. As Maltese states: … the ‘revolution of the macchia’ had and wanted to have a nationalist character, but is on par with a political revolution in its best aspects, desiring to have a national character and at the same time a democratic one; it aimed, therefore, from the beginning, to effectively transcend divisions and ‘regional schools’ and even those limitations deemed too ‘national,’ without denying the natural and individual particularity of moments, of atmospheres, places, and interpretations.19 Maltese’s assessment of pre-1960 scholarship, in its recognition of critical distortions and oversimplifications, states at a relatively early date what I am suggesting here. The study of the Ottocento is multifaceted and cannot be easily categorized or characterized. Based on his recognition of a multitude of distortions, no wonder we struggle with understanding Italian art of this era.

The Regional/National Proposal Maltese—and Mazzocca and Susinno and Pinto and Boime—have laid a strong foundation to step up to the challenges of Ottocento painting. This book aims to do just that, to recognize the complexity and contradictions as indications of art that is rich and insightful. It aims to see painters like Minardi, Hayez, and Toma not in terms of David, Delacroix, and Millet, but as citizens of their own context, representatives of their own time. When they have contact with the French (or the English, or the German), I will acknowledge it. That will not be how they are characterized, though. Instead, I will focus on the continual shift in focus between the regional and the national, between the local identity and the nationalist aspirations of these three artists. Each artist had a stylistic and ideological strategy that traced back to regional concerns; but, in all cases, their stylistic and iconographic strategies served a nationalist program. Dual focused, then, the following chapters look to the artists and their contexts, but also to a collective, nationalistic goal. By doing so, my aim is to introduce a set of considerations for the reader and viewer unacquainted with Ottocento painting. As the historical developments of the nineteenth century are integral to understanding the regional responses of Italian artists, as well as their commitment to Risorgimento or unification ideals, Chapter 2 describes each artist’s context by presenting the regional involvement in the Risorgimento before, during, and after the artists presented in the subsequent chapters. Acknowledging the spirit of nationalism, this introduction characterizes political ideologies generally, while indicating regionalist definitions thereof. In addition, this chapter indicates how regionalism does not always indicate exclusivity of ideas or

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artists within a region, and Italian painters negotiated continually, perhaps instinctively, between the regional and the national. Critical essays were transmitted across regions, as when the Milanese author Pietro Selvatico became a strong influence on the Roman pictorial philosophy. In some cases, artists found the region that best suited their style, as Hayez did when he moved from his home in Venice to the more commensurate artistic climate in Milan. In other words, rather than define the regional identity of the artist, this chapter, and subsequently the broader goal, aims to identify the regional characteristics while allowing for intellectual fluidity and without defining regional identity. The remaining chapters will isolate rather than integrate, focusing on Minardi, Hayez, and Toma in that order. The choice of these three artists is somewhat chronological, while also being representative of regional ideologies. In Chapter 3, which focuses on Minardi and his activity early in the century, the description of Rome reveals the context of a strong French presence, maintained not only by the Roman Republic founded in 1798 by Napoleon’s general Louis-Alexandere Berthier, but with the subsequent (Napoleonic) Kingdom of Italy in 1805. Artistically, the Enlightenment fires, fanned by artists working at the Academie Française, were strongly felt in their celebration of Neoclassical style; but they were also resisted, such as by Minardi when he returned his focus to Rome’s long history as a center for religious painting. Rome, for Minardi, had a role in the new nation as the center of the Christian world. Milan was far less resistant to the Enlightenment sentiments from France. Chapter 4 examines the republican ideals first fostered by the Cisalpine Republic, and the particular spirit of revolution and desire for independence that resulted from an emerging liberal aristocracy who rose to power when Milan became its capital. This was the spirit and the community that Hayez sought out. With its open demonstration for freedom from foreign tyranny, Milan was not only an encouraging environment for a young artist interested in creating politically relevant and progressive history painting, it was a lucrative environment as well. Hayez benefitted from the exhibitions centered at the Brera Academy, and the avid collectors who shared his liberal ideals during the middle of the century. In concert with other cultural heroes like Alessandro Manzoni and Giuseppe Verdi, Hayez inspired the Milanese patriot at the moments directly before and at the moments of unification, thereby urging an even wider viewing audience to imagine an Italy free from the foreigner and united in cause. In Chapter 5, the focus shifts south, far removed from the mid-century ardor in Milan and Venice. Following the horrific events following the fall of the 1799 Republicaninspired Parthenopean Republic, Naples resisted reform longer than other territories, and retained for over half of the century its loyalty to the Spanish Bourbon monarch that ruled over the southern half of the peninsula. Gioacchino Toma represents a socio-realist approach linked specifically to the circumstances of Naples during the second half of the century. His work immediately following his participation in Risorgimento actions with Garibaldi’s forces is overtly patriotic, and echoes the Tuscan and Milanese examples of Risorgimento themes, particularly with genre painting. Shortly after unification, however, his tone changes dramatically. When liberal reforms and industrial growth did not extend south of Rome, Toma shifted his focus to the depiction of social struggle, poverty, and the need for educational reform. In its reconstruction of painting from the era of unification, then, this book identifies three approaches for three individuals working at three institutions in three separate regions. In Italy, where regional identities were established much earlier than a national one, a regional character cannot be overlooked. Yet, neither can the nationalist. The same questions—one regional and one national—can be universally applied to independent regions. Doing so

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avoids oversimplification, and allows for the development of a critical foundation for those starting without previous knowledge of the Risorgimento. Identifying useful keys are crucial for the expansion of the nineteenth-century narrative and a wider acceptance of Ottocento painting. It would be a gross disservice to the artist, though, to address them merely as regional representatives, as symbols of place. With that in mind and in an effort to shift the focus from the general, my goal is also, in a small way, to bring these artists to life as individuals working in a remarkable time. The beginning of each chapter will open with a fictionalized “frame” based on the autobiographies of each artist. These short passages grow out of the desire to recruit admirers for them as individuals, acting in the same way social activists do when they frame a subject to solicit collective conviction among audiences. As Goodwin, Jasper, and Polletta maintain in their 2001 study Passionate Politics. Emotions in Social Movements, the personal and subjective also play a necessary role in political, public comment.20 I use the framing device here not as a scholarly practice, but to augment the more researched and traditional methodology that follows. The “frames” allow for the artist to emerge within a field of well-identified and recognizable artistic personalities of the same era, a Manet or a Courbet. Hopefully, these semi-autobiographical accounts will make them come to life as the compelling and captivating individuals they each were.

Notes 1 On the effects of the regional academies, see Boime 90. The primary academies founded in the early nineteenth century or before, sometimes much before, include Accademia di Brera (Milan), Accademia di Belle Arti Giacomo Carrara (Bergamo), Accademia Nazionale di Belle Arti di Bologna/Accademia Pontificia di Belle Arti, Accademia di Belle Arti di Carrara, Accademia di Belle Arti di Firenze, Accademia di Ligustica di Belle Arti (Genoa), Reale d’Istituto di Belle Arti (Naples), Accademia di Belle Arti di Palermo, Accademia di San Luca (Rome), Regio Istituto di Belle Arti (Siena), Accademia dei Pittori, Scultori, Architetti (Turin), Accademia di Belle Arti (Venice), and the Accademia Cignaroli (Verona). 2 See Höhler 89–97. 3 Mazzocca (2002) 83–8. Italics are mine. 4 For examples of Mazzocca’s different scholarly parameters, including artistic and social contexts, see Mazzocca 1998 (Scritti) and 2011. 5 Netti (Quadro Storico) 20: “…il male comincia quando… si uole stablire in pittur auna scala di preminenza di un genere su un altro.” 6 On the English-language scholarship surrounding the Macchiaioli, see Broude 170–209; contemporary Italian studies include those by Cecchi, Dini, and Durbé. 7 Mazzocca (2002) 83. 8 Castelnuovo edited the two volumes dedicated to the Ottocento. The entire series comprises 14 volumes published between 1986 and 1993. 9 Susinno 171–84 and 143ff. 10 See the accompanying catalogue edited by Serafini. 11 A recent example is Silvana Patriarca’s use of Hayez’s Melancholia to represent the perception of Italians as ozioso and unable to affect unification through a committed political action. See Patriarca 380–408. 12 Recent studies on the Risorgimento include not only Patriarca’s and Riall’s anthology, but Riall’s monograph, and Ascoli’s and von Henneberg’s multidisciplinary compilation. 13 Lyttelton 27–75. 14 Höhler 89–97. 15 Gautier 224: “dans le haute Italie d’une reputation qui nous semble difficile à expliquer.” 16 For Longhi’s writings on the Ottocento, and his privileging of the French, see the 1984 publication Scritti sull’Otto e Novecento, 1925–1966. 17 Maltese 168ff.

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18 Ibid. “… implicazioni culturali, filsofiche o scientifiche, politiche, sociali e morali.” 19 Maltese 169: … la “rivoluzione della macchia” non ebbe né volle avere carattere nazionalistico, ma, al pari della rivoluzione politica nei suoi aspetti migliori, ebbe e volle avere carattere nazionale e al tempo stesso democratico; perciò ebbe di mira fin dall’inizio ed effettivamente costituì il superamento delle divisioni e delle “scuola regionali” e persino di quelle troppo limitatamente “nazionali,” senza tuttavia negare la natural individual particolarità dei momenti, de climi, di luoghi, delle interpretazioni. 20 Goodwin, Jasper, and Polletta 10: “Emotions are part of the ‘stuff’ connecting human beings to each other and the world around them, like an unseen lens that colors all our thoughts, actions, perceptions, and judgments.”

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Minardi, Hayez, and Toma, in their goals and practice, each exhibited stylistic currents distinct to their regional context. To be clear, many, many artists demonstrated regional stylistic interests, and therefore would have communicated through their individual approaches the complexity of the artistic narrative during the Ottocento, the overarching aim of this study. Yet, in addition to these three artists representing a defined stylistic approach indicative of a particular region, and in two cases to a particular regional institution, each also illustrated through their iconography and professional practices an alliance to a political outlook. Since a social and political context is relevant, and even crucial, to the development of each of these artists’ practice, the progression of events throughout the century towards the realization of the Risorgimento reveals much. Artists responded in their own ways to the changing world around them. Their solutions were discrete, and indicate individual strategies to reveal a nationalist spirit through pictorial solutions. As Mazzocca wrote in 2008, the existing regional artistic centers of Rome and Milan became the most prominent schools on the peninsula due to their very conscious encouragement of the Christian-classical and modern European artistic models, respectively.1 Naples, due to its separation from both of these approaches, was more focused on a veristic tradition growing out of the earlier and burgeoning market for vedutisti, or landscape painting. In each case, the distinguishing characteristic of the regional center was determined by political, religious, and economic factors. These factors may not be exclusive to one region, but the dominant political strategies of the local center, at the risk of oversimplifying, emerge as recognizable and distinct. Milan struggled for sovereignty against the Austrians, fueled by the post-Napoleonic rise of a bourgeoisie; Rome remained the capital of the Catholic world under the absolute authority of the pope; and Naples, after centuries as a Bourbon monarchy, saw its economic stability and political relevance evaporate after the unification of the peninsula and the deposition of Ferdinand II. The three regions treated here, although not arbitrarily chosen, are certainly not alone in visualizing political ideologies, stylistic characteristics, or social contexts; far from it. Florence, for example, participated in the unification process very differently than Rome or Milan. Its long and glorious history under the Medici ended with the death of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Gian Gastone, in 1737. The region, through the accession of the Duke of Lorraine, succumbed to Austrian control under his wife, Maria Theresa, the Habsburg ruler of Austria and its territories. Florence fostered its own sentiments of rebellion during the volatile years of 1830 and 1848, when it sought the restoration of its Renaissance dominance as the center of Italian culture. From 1865 until 1870, when papal Rome fell to the Italian state under King Vittorio Emmanuele II, Florence was the capital

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of the Kingdom. It was the site of the 1861 Esposizione Nazionale, where organizers highlighted Italy’s—and most prominently Tuscany’s—technological innovations and industries. Culturally, economically, and politically, Florence was a dominant and distinctive center. As a result, its artistic progress was likewise distinctive. Yet, there is another reason that Tuscany is the region most investigated in relation to the nationalist question, since artists and authors have long navigated the regionalist role in constructing cultural nationalism. Tuscan administrators, figures like Bettino Ricasoli, resisted the Piedmontization of the peninsula by fostering initiatives to demonstrate a more inclusive nationalist gesture. Even before Florence acted as an administrative capital until Rome’s capitulation to the Savoy house in 1870, the Tuscan negotiation of a nationalist and a regionalist philosophy began much earlier, arguably with Dante in the thirteenth century and his use of the Tuscan vernacular, rather than Latin. Dante became a rallying point used by both nationalist and regionalist voices in the Ottocento. In 1840, Alessandro Manzoni chose the Tuscan dialect for the second version of his I Promessi Sposi, a novel credited with promoting a lingua materna. Regardless, Florence and Florentine artists such as Giovonni Fattori or Pietro Benvenuti, do not appear in this study for a simple reason. Of all the treatments of Ottocento painting appearing outside of Italy, from scholarly publications to gallery exhibitions, the Florentine Macchiaioli comprises not only the majority, but nearly the totality. If not yet part of the mainstream artistic discourse, the Macchiaioli movement is certainly recognizable internationally by authors and scholars of the nineteenth century. By choosing artists from Rome, Milan, and Naples for this study, therefore, I aim to extend the boundaries of the developing discourse beyond the Tuscan regional expression. Needless to say, in addition to Minardi, Hayez, and Toma, many artists lived and worked in the three regions discussed here, and often diverged ideologically. To suggest otherwise would be outrageously reductive. Seen as a whole, artists of a particular region display preoccupations that illuminate thematic responses to historical factors. So as not to distort through gross generalization in the way Maltese cautioned against, this book characterizes an individual artist rather than a region. The artist represents the region only partially, then. It is also important to note, each artist appears here, although chosen to represent a particular region, as immigrants to the cities they represent. As did many artists of this era, they settled in the city where their talents and beliefs coincided with regional biases: spiritualism, progressive liberalism, and populism, respectively. The remainder of this chapter is a historical review meant to substantiate the characterizations of the region to be discussed in later chapters. With a history and geography so impossibly complex, it is crucial to consider a few prominent influences that undeniably affect and shape the artists of the time.

The Cross: Roma o Morte! In 1862 and 1867, after unification, Garibaldi mobilized volunteers from the fledgling state with the call “Roma o Morte!” With this call, he mounted a military campaign to take over Rome and the Papal States from Pope Pius IX and establish it as the capital of the Kingdom of Italy. It would take until 1870 for their appeal to be answered, but not as the capital of a revived Republic. All sides saw Rome as the natural, even predestined capital, the locus sacer of the Catholic world and the seat of the power for much of the peninsula’s history. Few saw the associations with the Church, the Republic, and the Empire as a detriment; Rome was the logical center geographically and spiritually for a new nation.2 It was the widely accepted destiny of the Risorgimento.

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Most scholars trace the beginning of the Risorgimento era to a point at the very beginning of the century in 1805, when Napoleon Bonaparte unified the peninsula under his stepson Eugène de Beauharnais, thus founding the Kingdom of Italy.3 After the Restoration and the Congress of Vienna, the peninsula reverted to its pre-Napoleonic borders strategically organized by the French and Austrians to keep the balance of power in check on the continent. An exception was Venice, which had been a republic long before Napoleon arrived, but under the Restoration was now controlled by Austria and the Habsburgs. Piedmont retained its autonomy under the House of Savoy, and the papal territories were restored to the pope. The seed of republicanism had been planted, though; the genie was not going back into the bottle. Buoyed by the republican rhetoric sweeping Europe and America, radicals, moderates, and conservatives alike openly discussed options for freedom from foreign domination under some form of a unified state. Rome, under the control of the papacy, was the center not of a region or government, however, but the whole of the Catholic world. As an autonomous region under papal authority, Rome held a very different position than Milan and Naples, resulting in a very different relationship to the idea of unity. The pope’s commitment was not towards nationalist efforts, but to Catholics throughout Europe, including the French Bourbons and Austrian Habsburgs. His temporal, secular authority was consolidated in the Papal States, but its spiritual and political influence extended well beyond the peninsula. Described as a “supernational sovereign” by Dennis Mack Smith, the pope had much to lose from unification.4 unification meant the loss of secular power; consequently and throughout the century, the pope struggled to maintain his lands and power. Rome’s historical identification as a spiritual and therefore European capital continued into the nineteenth century and survived the Napoleonic era largely intact. In addition to drawing members of the clergy from all over the globe, Rome maintained its role as the European epicenter of cultural and artistic study. The result was a far more cosmopolitan setting than elsewhere on the peninsula. Scholars of culture and history arrived to learn from ancient and medieval examples, and to establish themselves at European academies throughout the city. Politically, the papacy was in frequent conflict, first with revolutionary ideals, and then with Napoleonic dominance. A series of reactionary popes sought to retain control in the territories, but often succumbed to invading or populist forces. The century opened with Pope Pius VII, a Chiaramonti pope, who was elected pontiff after Pius VI died in France as a prisoner of Napoleon. At first cautiously tolerant of the French emperor, when French forces invaded the Papal States in 1809, Pius VII excommunicated Napoleon, and like his predecessor, consequently was captured and taken to France. In 1814, after Napoleon’s fall, the pope returned to Rome and maintained a harsh and conservative administration until his death in 1823. Pius VII was followed by Leo XII and then Gregory XVI, who continued to repress the whispers of nationalism. Some voices were too powerful and too compelling to silence, however. Two of the most difficult to ignore during the first half of the century were those of the liberal Giuseppe Mazzini (1805–1872) and the more conservative Vincenzo Gioberti (1801–1852). Although both sought unity and sovereignty, they supported dramatically different models to affect progress. Gioberti advocated for an alternative to radical insurrection and violence by avoiding a complete break with the current system. In his widely read Del primato morale e civile degli Italiani (On the moral and civil primacy of Italians), published in Brussels while in exile in 1843, he advocated for Italian unification with the pope installed as president. His approach was described as Neo-Guelph, in reference to

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the medieval group maintaining the political powers of the papacy. To Gioberti, “[T]he Papacy is supremely ours and our nation’s because it was created here and has been rooted here for eighteen centuries; it is concrete, living, real—not an abstraction or a chimera, but an institution, and oracle and a person.”5 Gioberti’s influence was short-lived, primarily because his concept of a confederation of Italian powers unified under the pope did not go far enough in reforming current educational, economic, and social institutions for the benefit of the general population. Pius IX, who took the throne in 1846, saw a national role as an abdication of his European role and was not interested in limitations of any sort. On one side stood the papacy, which maintained its legitimacy as the spiritual authority of Europe, and therefore required the political autonomy established in the middle ages; and on the other were the republican or democratic thinkers, who saw Italy either as a federation or a republic, destined to regain its past glories, standing alone and not beholden to foreign powers or those that may support them. The more progressive solution was represented by the Genovese Mazzini (1805– 1872), a former carbonaro who participated in the 1820–1821 uprisings against the Austrians (Figure 2.1). His exile in 1834 to Switzerland, Paris, then London, did not halt his advocacy for revolution and liberation, and his dedication resulted not only in papal opposition, but that of the moderate liberals like Gioberti who sought reform without the risk of revolution. Mazzini was far more populist—his motto was “Dio e il Popolo”—and he eschewed any form of federalism that may result in

Figure 2.1 Italian politician Giuseppe Mazzini (1805–1872), photographed in London, c. 1860 Source: © Archivio GBB / Archivi Alinari.

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perpetuating noble and aristocratic control over the peninsula. This included the papacy. His influence spread throughout Europe to ex-patriot communities largely through journals he founded, including Giovine Italia (1832–1834), Apostolato popolare (1840–1843), and Pensiero e Azione (1858–1860).6 In 1831, after the failed uprisings in the Papal States and Duchy of Modena, Mazzini founded Giovine Italia (Young Italy), a group designed to prepare youth to accept the Italian cultural destiny and participate in the liberation of the peninsula followed by the foundation of a democratic state with Rome as its capital.7 He accompanied the group’s foundation with a treatise, originally published as “Manifesto della Giovine Italia,” published from exile in Marseilles. In it he stated, “Love of country, abhorrence of Austria and a burning desire to throw off her yoke are now universally diffused passions.”8 Over the next decade, Mazzini continued to organize several failed insurrections from abroad, supported through his fundraising efforts among sympathizers and ex-patriots in London. The push for reform became nearly impossible to ignore in the early 1840s. It coincided with increasing anti-clerical sentiment on the peninsula, including anti-Jesuit demonstrations that resulted in the order’s expulsion from many areas, including the Kingdom of Sardinia. Revolutionaries decried Catholic corruption in pamphlets, treatises, and cartoons. Gioberti himself condemned the Jesuits as leading to the downfall of the Catholic church. Manuel Borutta, writing in “Anti-Catholicism and the Culture War in Risorgimento Italy,” identified the breakdown of Catholic influence during this era particularly as anti-clerical, but clearly not anti-religious. He writes, Risorgimento anticlericalism operated within a much longer tradition. Yet it also combined a set of relatively new secular values and liberal-democratic principles that were shared by all forces of the Risorgimento: the belief in the nation and in universal progress, ideals of individual autonomy, a bourgeois work ethic and generative heterosexuality as the natural way of life.9 Borutta continued by describing the importance of place, and specifically Rome, in this struggle. While Rome under Leo XVI and then after 1846 under Pius IX considered itself the spiritual center of Catholic Europe, nationalist movements demanded a centralized government with national borders. The “Roman Question” was singular to this conflict, as it connected the struggle for the place and secular authority of the church with the territorial aspects of building a national state.10 In other words, Mazzini and other nationalists put the papacy in a defensive position. Mazzini published the first edition of his Duties of Man in 1841, two years before Gioberti’s Primato. Although not overtly anti-clerical, he very clearly demonstrated his opposition to the church and its absolute control over the lives of its citizens, yet does not deny the value of spiritualism. Workingmen! We live in an epoch similar to that of Christ. We live in the midst of a society as corrupt as that of the Roman Empire. We feel in our inmost soul the need of reviving and transforming it; of uniting all its various members in a single faith, under a single law, and for a single purpose: the free and progressive development of all the faculties with which God has endowed his creatures … God gave you life. God therefore gave you the Law. God is the only lawgiver to the human race. His law is the only law you are bound to obey.11

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Even here, Mazzini does not contradict the role of Rome as Europe’s spiritual center. Indeed, he sees Rome as the necessary center of an Italian Republic, a Third Rome, succeeding the Roman Empire and the Rome of the Popes, “…the accepted center of a new Unity, elevating the law from earth to heaven.”12 The new Rome, though, was to be the Rome of the people.13 In 1846 and in the midst of the conflicts between the Church and the Risorgimento, Gregory XVI died and was replaced by Pius IX (1792–1878). Upon his election, Pius IX appeared to be a reformist pope, an antidote to the repressive and traditionalist views of his predecessor.14 This soon changed, however, in response to the reignited revolutionary spirit that swept across Europe, including significant rebellions in Venice and Milan. On the peninsula, the uprisings of 1848 constituted the First War of Italian Independence. After the Austrians reclaimed control over Milan and Venice, and forced the Savoy king Carlo Alberto to retreat into Piedmont, Rome continued to make a stand. Initially, reform took the form of papal concessions overseen by the papal appointed Minister of the Interior, Pellegrino Rossi. His efforts to establish a constitutional assembly (costitutente) went against papal desires, but were implemented regardless. Even so, on the Assembly’s opening day on November 15th, 1849, Rossi was attacked as he entered the Palazzo Cancelleria, stabbed in the neck, and thus died. Clearly, popular demonstrations could not be quelled, and without any ambassador to the people, Pius IX left Rome in disguise, bound for Gaeta and Bourboncontrolled Neapolitan territory. Mazzini arrived in Rome in March 1849, and was immediately elected triumvir along with Aurelio Saffi and Carlo Armellini.15 For the brief, six-month period of the Republic of Rome, Mazzini sought to resurrect the great myth of Rome, in a sense legitimizing his concept of a democratic republic with its historical foundation in the ancient world. Even under extreme financial instability and the press of foreign influences to reinstate the pope, Rome under Mazzini enacted religious, educational, and land reforms. The Republic could not withstand the press of papal allies, and the French ultimately drove Mazzini and his military forces, which included Giuseppe Garibaldi, from Rome in early July 1849. After the Roman Republic of 1846, the pope saw Italian nationalism as the Church’s greatest danger. To Pius IX, the Italian spirit in its varied expressions of nationalism— from moderate liberals, republicans, or more conservative advocates for a constitutional monarchy—was dangerous and anti-clerical. Even early in his reign he demonstrated his concerns with “progress” in his encyclical “Qui Pluribus.” It is with no less deceit, venerable brothers, that other enemies of divine revelation, with reckless and sacrilegious effrontery, want to import the doctrine of human progress into the Catholic religion. They extol it with highest praise, as if religion itself were not of God but the work of men, or a philosophical discovery which can be perfected by human means.16 Even Gioberti, on his journeys to Rome from Piedmont, could not convince the pontiff to accept reform and act as head of an Italian government. Doing so would challenge papal absolutism, not to mention recast his current allies in Catholic countries as adversaries. When the House of Savoy began to consolidate power by annexing Lombardy, Tuscany, and the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies to form the Kingdom of Italy in 1859, the Second Italian War of Independence, Pius IX called on the French king Louis Napoleon, who would later become Napoleon III, to send forces to protect Rome. Roman soldiers

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occupied Rome for the next decade for the sole purpose of keeping the Italian forces out and papal authority in place. So, although Italy was realized with Rome as its natural capital, Vittorio Emanuele II and his administration could not enter the city. In 1870, Napoleon III recalled French forces to fight in the Franco-Prussian war. Rome was left vulnerable and the city finally fell to the Italians. Pius IX held himself prisoner inside the Vatican, refusing to acknowledge the new state. Only in 1929 under Mussolini did the Vatican recognize the new state as legitimate, but only after it was established as a sovereignty under the Lateran Treaty. The papal struggle against the forces of modernity and revolution forms the background of Rome during the Ottocento. Rome embodied traditionalism, culturally and politically. It educated Europeans on the past, preserving the finest cultural achievements from every historical era. Classical purity and medieval spiritualism abounded in the città eterne, establishing its identity through the authority of its past. To maintain a Catholic inspiration, in art or literature, was to recognize the dominance of Rome, its power and its legitimacy. Nationalist statements from Rome, therefore, were often Catholic statements. Support of the pope translated to unwavering support of a cultural dominance, and cosmopolitanism stood at odds with a defined nationalist character.

The Heart: Milan, Liberal Sentiment, and the Patriotic Pledge Milan spent the century in more direct contact with Austrian forces, and enjoyed far less autonomy than papal Rome. Whereas the citizens of Rome felt the repressive effects of papal control through harsh censorship and inadequate social institutions, the cause was not the outsider, the foreigner. Moreover, the death of each pope brought a new administration, and the hope for reform. Milan, on the other hand, a commercial, cultural, and intellectual center in the nineteenth century, struggled against Habsburg control in a far more immediate way. The liberal and progressive ideals left over from the French Revolution remained strong in Milan, and provided the basis for resistance, mostly from a strong educated social class of Enlightenment thinkers. Whereas Rome was the center of Catholicism and the ancient world, Milan had a much different relationship with the past. It was not the “heart of Italy,” as described by Gioberti, but it was the heart of the Risorgimento, and it beat with the pulse of modernity, nationalism, and unity. In part, Napoleon was responsible for Milan’s primary status in the Risorgimento. According to Mack Smith, “…the Napoleonic armies brought with them the germs of liberalism fostered by the French Revolution of 1789, and introduced a minor industrial revolution sufficient at least to provide some of the war equipment required by this foreign emperor.”17 After crossing the Alps, Napoleon established the Cisalpine Republic in 1797 with Milan as its capital. In his proclamation in 1797, which later became the preamble to the Cisalpine Republic’s Constitution, Napoleon stated: For a great number of years, there existed no republic in Italy. The sacred fire of liberty was extinguished, and the finest part of Europe was under the yoke of strangers. It belongs to the Cisalpine Republic to show to the world by its wisdom, its energy, and the good organization of its armies, that modern Italy is not degenerated, and is still worthy of liberty.18 The administration, although ultimately beholden to the French, was made up of Italian officials who benefited from relative autonomy from foreign control. The Republic only

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lasted until 1802, when Napoleon declared himself President. Still, the Milanese and Piedmontese factored prominently in his administration. Even in 1805, when Napoleon united most of the peninsula into the Kingdom of Italy under Beauharnais, he elevated many middle-class intellectuals to his administration, creating a new class of dukes, counts, and barons.19 Ludovico Arborio Gattinara di Breme (1780–1820), for example, was elected to the Consiglio di Stato and took a position as Minister of the Interior. Born into a Torinese noble family, di Breme transferred to Milan in 1806. While there, he wrote frequently for the influential cultural journal Il Conciliatore.20 Recognizing the precedents of northern Romantic poets, most distinctly Lord Byron, he advocated for the liberation of Italian culture as a first step in the unification of the peninsula under Enlightenment ideals. The brief period between 1805 and 1815, then, was a welcome respite from the occupation and oppression of the Austrians. Napoleon gave them the taste for self-administration, and the Napoleonic class became the earliest architects of the nation. In 1815, the Congress of Vienna returned most of the peninsula to Austrian control, with the exception of the Papal States, Naples, and Piedmont. In Milan, the damage, so to speak, had been done. The city continued to foster and champion the Romantic and liberal spirit. Periodically and until unification, Milan would be the center of demonstrations aimed at driving out the Austrians and instituting a constitutional government. In 1820 and 1821, the popular guerrilla group known as the Carbonari (“charcoal burners”) formed in the south and challenegd Austrian and Piedmont forces with their insurrections. In Milan, however, other secret societies formed. Based on freemasonry, these organizations were in part populated from the same aristocratic class that had served as Napoleon’s senators and ministers. The Milanese nobleman Count Federico Confalonieri organized the opposition between 1818 and 1820 to push back against the Austrian government. He was arrested in 1820 and sentenced to death, but his sentence was commuted first to life imprisonment and then exile to the United States, the fate of many during this period. Confalonieri’s status as a nobleman indicated two things that are distinct about Milan. First and somewhat unusually, insurrections were not strictly actions by the working classes. The frustration and desperation exhibited by the noble and aristocratic class was driven particularly by anti-Austrian sentiment and a desire for the realization of Enlightenment ideals. Rather than seek absolute liberation for the citizens of Lombardy, though, these intellectuals sought the return of their Napoleonic positions and a certain level of autonomy. In 1820, Confalonieri’s aim was to drive out the Austrians and merge Lombardy with Piedmont, not create a democratic republic. Secondly, the inspiration driving the intellectual class of Milan fostered the rise of Romanticism in Italy. Though not identical to Romanticism in France, Germany, or England, it shared certain ideals, namely liberation, individualism, and nationalism. Authors like di Breme championed the Romantic expression of the north as a model for a modern and European form of Italian expression. Romanticism, therefore, established Milan as a cultural center, providing intellectual support for artistic innovation throughout the peninsula. In his The History of Italian Literature (Storia della Letteratura Italiana) of 1870–1871, Francesco De Sanctis credits the Romantic fervor in Milan to its proximity to French and German influences. According to him, Romanticism allowed for rechanneling the frustrations of political servitude and military defeat into prose. “The liberals, unable any longer to quarrel with governments, were glad to quarrel with Aristotle, the classics, and mythology; if in

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nothing else, at least in literature they could be revolutionaries.”21 More recently, Sandrina Bandera explained how with the an era so tightly controlled by the Austrian government, which “forbade any interference not only in politics, but even in municipal affairs,” the artist’s studio was the last available outlet for intellectual or progressive inquiry.22 It therefore became a meeting place between cultural figures and the moderate liberal aristocracy. Other intellectuals sponsored salons to preserve and support the liberal discussions from earlier in the century. Carlo Porta (1775–1821), known for writing in the Milanese vernacular and shunning the classical unities in literature, advocated early on for the diffusion of progressive and Romantic ideals. From 1816 until his death he presided over the Cameretta Portiana, a weekly and then bi-weekly literary salon that met at his house on the Via Montenapoleone.23 Members included the poets Ermes Visconti (1784–1841), Tommaso Grossi (1791–1853), and Giovanni Berchet (1783–1851) (Figure 2.2). The significance of Berchet, specifically, to the development of Romanticism—and ultimately nationalism—in Milan largely stemmed from the 1816 publication of his defense of Romanticism Lettera semiseria di Grisostomo al suo figliuolo.24 In this fictitious letter, Berchet used two poems by the Neoclassical poet Gottfried August Bürger to outline the importance of adopting a poetry based on the customs, politics, and morals of the

Figure 2.2 Giuseppe Bossi, Self-Portrait with Cattaneo, Taverna and Porta, 1809, o/c, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera Source: © Florence, Archivi Alinari.

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contemporary and popular world. His definition of Romanticism, which formed the guiding principle of the era, was inherently nationalist, Catholic rather than pagan, and justified by a shared cultural experience.25 In addition to his Lettera semiseria, which many authors consider a manifesto of Italian Romantic literature, Berchet was instrumental, along with Silvio Pellico, in founding the biweekly journal Il Conciliatore (1818–1819). Acting as a “conciliator” of diverse disciplines, the journal became a literary warehouse for Risorgimento ideals. In the opening “Programma” in 1818, organizers stated their aim to “speak of verse prose, foreign works, national works, dramas, declamations of the fine arts, the ancient and modern, poetic liberty and poetic precepts, in short, everything that stimulates the world’s attentions.”26 Its efficacy at disseminating the progressive ideals of liberty and nationalism resulted in its closure by Austrian censors shortly after its debut in 1819. After his arrest in 1820 for recruiting and organizing against the Austrians, Berchet went into exile. In this environment, one that was decidedly anti-classical and anti-traditionalist, Milanese authors challenged not only the political hegemony of Austria, but the cultural hegemony of Rome. Whereas many of the authors writing on Rome’s predestined role as the capital of the new state, like Gioberti, were from Piedmont, Milanese authors, composers, and artists succumbed to the conflagration of Romantic thought, immersed in a cultural revolution tangential and in service to a political one. They played an increasingly important role because it was through the devices of allusion, nostalgia, and sensory encounters that nationalist ideals could reach the public without detection by Austrian censors. Cultural heroes, therefore, were national, political heroes. They provided the message, the vision, and, as Simonetta Chiappini envisioned, “a score to the events of the Risorgimento,” available across social classes.27 In Milan, Alessandro Manzoni (1785–1873) and Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901) provided Italian models with which to identify. Manzoni, born into an intellectually accomplished family, was a devout Catholic; he found a way to merge his religious ideals with the Romantic age. Between 1812 and 1820, he published his Inni Sacri in the Milanese dialect. De Sanctis described the popular nature of these psalms in his Storia di Letteratura. The ideal basis of these Inni is fundamentally democratic. It is the idea of the century baptized and consecrated under the name of the ‘the Christian idea,’ the quality of men who are all brothers in Christ, the rebuke of the oppressors and the glorification of the oppressed. It is the trinity, “liberty, equality, fraternity,” evangelized; it is Christianity given back its idealism and penetrated by the modern spirit.28 Manzoni followed his Inni with a series of novels, including his most famous and influential work, I Promessi Sposi (The Betrothed) of 1822. Again, De Sanctis characterized the greatness of this novel, and similar ones by Manzoni’s contemporaries, by its Romantic and local initiatives. “It was local and Italian romanticism, that played on the softest chords of man and patriot, with a sense of measure, with the ideal linked with history, with history vibrating with patriotism…”29 In the epic story of two lovers, Renzo and Lucia, Manzoni addressed both the failures and heroics of the Catholic church, and constructed a veiled allusion to Austrian oppression. In his definitive 1842 version, he “rinsed the book in the Arno” and effectively standardized the Tuscan dialect as the model for the Italian language.30 As Mazzini wrote in 1841, “[Manzoni] believed that he needed to be modern without being foreign; to be Italian without being from another century; to move closer to a language spoken by the people; searching for simplicity, naturalism and truth.”31

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Likewise, lirical opera had the ability to affect politics more clearly than any other art form in Europe during the nineteenth century.32 With the construction of La Scala in 1778, Milan became one of the capitals of modern opera. As a meeting place for Milanese society, the theater created the perfect opportunity for librettists and composers to use the emotional power of their medium to excite the passions of the public. As Chiappini illustrated in her article “From People to Masses,” Verdi’s prominent use of the chorus shifted the focus from the individual to the collective, giving voice to the popolo and calling them to action. Nabucco and I Lombardi alla prima crociata, both composed by Verdi, premiered mid-century, in 1842 and 1843 respectively. The libretto for Nabucco was written by Temistocle Solera (1815–1878), who fought later in the century against the Austrians, and was imprisoned for doing so. The opera tells the story of the persecution and exile of the Jewish people by the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar II, alluding to the Italian people and their subjugation to the Austrians while deftly circumventing the censors.33 The opera was wildly successful and largely responsible for establishing Verdi’s career, mostly due to the popularity of its bestknown song, the chorus “Va Pensiero.” Throughout the century, “Va Pensiero” conveyed the sentiments of nationalism and acted to many as an anthem to freedom. The following year Verdi debuted his Lombardi alla prima crociata, with a libretto based on a poem by the Romantic poet and participant in the Cameretta Portiana, Grossi. Set in the eleventh century, Grossi’s story is a patriotic call to action, and hearkens back to Mazzini’s 1831 Manifesto della Giovine Italia where he stated the need for an Italian crusade to rise up and sustain “a desperate and determined war that knows no truce but ends in victory or grave.”34 It was that spirit, the crusading spirit of Mazzini and Grossi, of Verdi and Solera, that fueled in 1848 Milan’s biggest insurrection, known as the Cinque Giornate. Part of the “Springtime of Revolution,” the rebellion began on March 18th after several months of populist tensions directed towards the Austrians. An uprising in Vienna challenged the administration of the Austrian Chancellor Klemens von Metternich, during which the Milanese opportunistically took to the streets and drove the foreigners out of Milan towards Mantua and Verona. Now free, the citizens set up a provisional government on March 22nd under Gabrio Casati and Carlo Cattaneo, the latter known for his writings on republican ideals. Cattaneo and Mazzini, who arrived in Milan on April 7th, represent two of the factions present in Milan during this time, and illustrate the lack of consensus that ultimately allowed for the return of the Austrians. Mazzini was warmly welcomed in Milan by those well-versed in his writings, despite his exile in London. The Milan he found following the Cinque Giornate rebellion was primed and eager for the realization of an Italian republic.35 Most of Milan, especially those from the patrician class now running the provisional government and not at all in favor of violence and war, sought the protection of Carlo Alberto of Piedmont. Mazzini sought an agreement with the Savoy monarch to allow the institution of a constituent assemble (costituente), and the unification of Italy in exchange for its administration by the Piedmontese monarchy. Cattaneo, who Smith called one of the “most interesting thinkers of the Risorgimento,” was less willing to negotiate with the Savoy monarch, and indeed was far more suspicious of his political maneuverings. He pushed, instead, for a separate Milanese republic. Mazzini prioritized unity, but Cattaneo maintained the necessity of retaining regional autonomy and advocated for a federation of states.36 After the Austrians regrouped in May under the Marshall Radetzky, the Piedmont Carlo Alberto, who never had any intention of supporting anything but the annexation of

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Milan, pulled out of Milan, returned to Turin, and left the Milanese once again under Austrian control. A brief reengagement with Austria occurred in 1849, and the democratic strongholds of Venice, Rome, and Genoa all fell by August of that year. As elsewhere in Europe, the ancien régime weathered the storm and survived for another decade. After the rebellions of 1848, Mazzini’s democratic solution enjoyed less support, and the two other great leaders of the Risorgimento, Giuseppe Garibaldi (1807–1882) and the Count Camillo Benso di Cavour (1810–1861), consolidated popular and Piedmontese support, respectively. The latter, Cavour, served as prime minister of Piedmont under King Vittorio Emanuele II, who rose to the throne in 1849 after his father Carlo Alberto’s abdication. Cavour’s skills at diplomacy, not to mention his foresight in enacting educational and economic reforms, secured the support of the French Napoleon III for the Italian cause, and when Radetzsky invaded Piedmont in 1859, the Second War of Italian Independence began.37 The French emperor feared a Prussian response in alliance with Austria; when Vittorio Emanuele II accepted the terms of the Treaty of Villafranca negotiated between France and Austria; Lombardy, but not the Veneto, was annexed to Piedmont (Venice would have to wait until 1866 to be Italian). Provisional governments in Modena, Parma, the Papal States, and Tuscany, which had been established after popular uprisings earlier in the year, voted on March 17th, 1860 in a series of plebiscites to unite under the constitutional monarchy of the Piedmont king Vittorio Emanuele II as the Kingdom of Italy. Garibaldi, discussed below for his impact on Naples, provided the last piece of the 1860 puzzle. After recruiting a “thousand” volunteers (I Mille) from northern territories—Lombards represented almost half of the volunteers—he sailed to Sicily, landing at Marsala in 1860. His famous march from Sicily to Naples wrested the Kingdom of the Naples away from the Bourbons and added them to the territories annexed by Cavour. Lombardy, as of 1859, was now part of Italy. Early century struggles to define the peninsula for how Italy inspired art, literature, and music were replaced in Milan by a struggle to retain Lombard identity as a European center rather than a regional one. Enlightenment ideals, if not achieved, were at least not suppressed under the constitutional monarchy, and the elite, intellectual community continued to support the arts. In addition, the geography and industrialization of the region allowed for continual and significant commercial development. Culturally, the dramatic historicism seen in literature, opera, and painting from earlier in the century continued, but without the function of pressing the need for political allusion or a call to arms.

The Crown: Post-Borbonic Naples and the “Southern Question”38 In 1851, the Neapolitan historian, and Bourbon legitimist, Luigi Blanch responded to the call for Italian unification with the following: [T]he patriotism of the Italian is like that of the ancient Greeks and is love of a single town, not of a country; it is the feeling of a tribe, not of a nation. Only by foreign conquest have they ever been united. Leave them to themselves and they split into fragments.39 Of all the Italian regional centers, fragmentation was perhaps felt most keenly in Naples, which started the century with violence and corruption before entering a period of relative stability, starting in 1815 during the Bourbon reign of Ferdinand IV. The Enlightenment

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ideals championed in the north conflicted with the absolutism and traditionalism of the crown, embodied by Ferdinand I of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, and saw much less support among the citizenry. Whereas the north retained its Napoleonic class, nurtured in republican ideals after the Restoration and the reinstatement of the Austrian administration, the south returned to the old order, which was fervently supported by clerical orders. Northern progress, tolerated by the Austrians, was not championed under Spanish Bourbon rule in the south; the Papal States created a buffer between the two, and a geographical obstacle to unification. After the mid-century, the disparity between the north and south grew more pronounced. Once a jewel in the Bourbon crown, Naples suffered a decline in economic and political power after the expulsion of the monarchy. Its rich past gave way to poverty rates higher than the rest of Europe, and the continued corruption of the camorra, which rose in power in the 1820s. Nicola Spinosa described it as a city of contrasts, “lacerations and endless contradictions, between light and shadow, deeds and misdeeds, misery and nobility…”40 To the Neapolitans, unification felt far less like progress, and much more like defeat. The century opened with the aftermath of the Parthenopean Republic and its horrifically violent popular reaction. The political divide between the educated, aristocratic classes and the peasant classes was stark; as in Milan, the former was motivated by the Enlightenment towards republican forms. The latter, however, was staunchly loyalist, urged on by the clergy, and populated by a large urban and impoverished population known as the lazzaroni. In 1798, the Kingdom of Naples, under Ferdinand IV, who was also Ferdinand III of Sicily, fled to Palermo after the French countered his attempt to reinstate the pope with his Austrian-led, Neapolitan army. The absence of government caused a period of brutal and bloody civil war between the lazzaroni, who were wildly executing anyone they felt might hold French ties or Jacobin ideals, and the republicans.41 Seeing their opportunity for reform, the republicans hastily organized a provisional government, the Parthenopean Republic, which stood only as long as the French were present in Naples for its defense. By June 1799, the Republic had fallen to clerical Sanfedisti forces organized by Cardinal Fabrizio Ruffo, Ferdinand IV returned, and 100 participants in the revolution were executed. Ferdinand held power only until Bonaparte’s southern invasion in 1805. Again the monarch fled, and this time the French emperor’s brother Joseph Bonaparte assumed control of Naples as an independent kingdom from the northern Regno d’Italia. In 1808, Napoleon made his brother the monarch of Spain, and replaced him with his brother-inlaw Joachim Murat in Naples. The Austrians, jolted by the extent of the earlier violence in the region, recognized the pressing need to stifle popular insurrections; in 1815 they aided Ferdinand in the Neapolitan War to defeat Murat’s stand for Italian autonomy. Ferdinand IV was returned to the throne again, but this time, and as a result of the Congress of Vienna, he assumed the mantle of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies as Ferdinand I. During this period, the south saw some progress; Naples was the first city in Italy to build a railway or a steamship.42 As the largest city on the peninsula, though, it struggled with extreme poverty. Industry was present, and the ports were essential for trade to Northern Europe and elsewhere, but much of the commercial investment came from abroad, mostly English or Swiss manufacturers. The lower classes, therefore, were great in number and without prospects. It is perhaps of no surprise the Carbonari, the largest and most persistent secret society during this era, saw its genesis in the south about this time. Whereas the lazzaroni were fiercely religious and loyalist, the Carbonari were anticlerical and nationalist. In 1820, after events in Spain forced the Spanish monarch

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Ferdinand VII to reinstate the Constitution from 1812, members of the Carbonari followed the Spanish rebels’ example and organized a series of actions in Naples to force Ferdinand I to adopt the Spanish constitution in Naples. When similar conspiratorial, Carbonari forces arose against Piedmont to demand the same from the Savoy monarch Carlo Felice, the Austrians interceded on their behalf and defeated insurgents there and in Naples. Pope Pius VII followed up by excommunicating all Carbonari members. That didn’t squelch the desire for reform, however, as demonstrated by the Neapolitan Luigi Settembrini’s publication in 1847 of Protest of the People of the Two Sicilies (Protesta del Popolo delle Due Sicilie). Settembrini opened the text by describing the Bourbon corruption plaguing the south, and the particular character of this region’s struggle. The other Italians also suffer, but our evils go through every measure. Tuscany has a human prince, a mild and reasonable government: in Piedmont civil orders are firm, the prince eager to operate, men speak, write, and have the dignity of men: in Lombardy-Veneto it is the great evil of German domination, suspects of political sin are also severely punished, but civil, criminal and administrative justice is kept very sane: in the Roman State after sixteen years of obscene tyranny, finally we can breathe, and the magnanimous Pontiff is blessed and promotes peace throughout Italy. But for twenty-seven years since the Two Sicilies have been crushed by a government that is inexpressibly stupid and cruel … from a government that does not want to see, does not want to hear, and has finally exhausted us.43 Settembrini saw only one salvation, popular uprising, which he warned was tantamount to “the wrath of God and must not be provoked; … we are tired, and tired patience becomes fury.”44 Even with Settembrini’s unequivocal challenge to the crown, the swell of support did not build among the lower classes, and with the relative absence of the bourgeoisie and administrative class, political progress lagged. The unrest in the north during 1848 did not manifest as strongly or with as much determination in Naples, mostly due to the strength of the loyalist lazzaroni and the weakness of the Bourbon monarchy; it took little pressure to force Ferdinand II to capitulate to requests for reform. In January of that year, after Sicilian rebels marched on Naples demanding a constitution, Ferdinand yielded with one based on the 1830 French constitution. In March, however, the king was deposed and a regency was set up in its place. The new constitution and provisional government was extended only to those who were literate, approximately 10% of the population.45 The largest point of contention was ownership of land. Peasant classes invaded reclaimed estates, causing the liberal and elite government to stifle the rebellion. Ferdinand II saw his opportunity, and incited the lazzaroni to rise up in defense of the king and in opposition to the Constitution. By June 1848, earlier than Milan or Rome or elsewhere in Europe, the rebellion was suppressed. What followed in Naples, the Bourbon Dynasty’s last stand, became the origin story for the new nation. Giuseppe Garibaldi and his I Mille entered the city in 1860 after fighting their way across Sicily, this time to foment popular support (Figure 2.3). When his forces entered Naples on September 7th, the ultimate objective was far from clear.46 Garibaldi sought the larger goal of unification of the peninsula with its capital in Rome; Cavour, recognizing the danger of the popular demonstrations to Piedmont, aimed to prevent Garibaldi from getting anywhere near Rome, where French forces guarded the pope. With French support, Piedmontese troops entered the Papal States, pushed back papal forces, and

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Figure 2.3 Remigio Legat, Giuseppe Garibaldi with Garibaldini Red Shirts at Battaglia di Calatafimi, Trapani, Sicily, 1860, o/c, Milan, Museo del Risorgimento Source: © Archivio GBB / Archivi Alinari.

came to Garibaldi’s aid against the Bourbons, thereby stopping him short of Rome. A plebiscite was held on October 21st in Naples and Sicily, resulting in the annexation of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies to Piedmont. The peninsula was now unified save for Venice and Rome. The Kingdom of Italy was a reality on March 17th, 1861. From this point on, however, Naples, and the south generally, entered a period of rapid economic and political decline. The north dismissed the south as unruly, barbaric and corrupt.47 Nelson Moe, in his The View from Vesuvius (2006), exposes the immense cultural divide between Piedmont, Lombardy and the Veneto in the north, and everything south of Naples. Vittorio Emanuele’s administration was largely from Piedmont—the first southern Prime Minister was Francesco Crispi, elected in 1887 as the 17th prime minister—as was the officer core of the military. Those northerners stationed in the south described a “corrupt, vile land, lacking the stalwart virtue of the north.”48 The north saw Neapolitans as savages, “…so far from the ideas of progress and civilization,” incapable of living under a constitutional government.49 Its politicians dismissed the social unrest and protest due to heavy taxation, and military conscription simply as brigandage. Even after unification, then, Italy remained regionalist; and, due to Piedmont’s application of their constitution and legal codes on the rest of the peninsula, it would remain so. To the south, centralization meant Piedmontization, regardless of the fact that half of the Italian population lived in the former Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. The statuto accepted by King Carlo Alberta in Turin in 1848, which remained Italian law until 1946, consolidated as much power as possible under the northern monarch.50 Vittorio Emanuele II did not reinvent himself as the first monarch of Italy, but continued his reign as the Piedmont king, the second Vittorio Emanuele of Piedmont.51 Whereas northerners like

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Carlo Cattaneo or Massimo d’Azeglio may have resisted what they saw as cultural imperialism, the southerners were far less organized or equipped to respond. The “Southern Question” is the term scholars have frequently used to describe the north’s designation of the south as the “other,” “Africa,” or the “Terra Vergine.”52 Among the Enlightenment ideals the south resisted most vociferously was anti-clericalism. The church was far more an ally to the peasant than the northern soldier, but clerical reforms enacted in Piedmont in 1855 were enforced in the south, including the abolition of the religious orders. Not only did the Neapolitans consider the northern officials to be foreigners, they saw them as dangerous ones. Smith recounts a shocking event when the Piedmontese General Enrico Cialdini, after entering the territory of Naples in 1860, had any peasant found carrying arms shot. As guns were a part of life in the rural and territorial south prior to unification, Cialdini’s action looked like an act of war against the people.53 The south was not annexed, it was occupied. To overcome such a significant disparity in institutional and economic structures would have required a lengthy period of informed planning, something which of course did not occur.54 Cavour’s sudden death in 1861 further complicated matters. The Bourbon monarchy had provided some industry protections for the south during its reign, but this evaporated with unification and the free-trade policies of the north. At first the lack of railways and roads provided some check on the northern industrialization of the south, but when transportation and communication improved, new competition strangled southern industry. With little protection of their economic interests, the fraternal society known as the camorra, which dates back to the eighteenth century, pushed within Naples against the northern presence, and provided economic, albeit illicit, protections. Where the Italian government was the enemy to the people and the clergy, the camorra was indigenous and familiar. The period following unification, therefore, was harder on the Neapolitans than on the Milanese or Romans. Rather than accommodate new codes or practices, the south was asked to change who they were. In an era so politically disorganized by the most generous accounts, many in Naples were disenchanted, disenfranchised, and dismissed. The history of Milan, Rome, and Naples during the Risorgimento, then, distinctly embodies three sources of power with vastly different successes: the cross, the heart, and the crown. The pope, Enlightenment-inspired passion, and the Bourbon Monarchy significantly colored the municipal and regional responses to the rapidly changing circumstances of the peninsula. Whereas citizens of one region might hold sympathies with another, or work against the predominant currents within their own region, the political ambit informed its citizens and colored its expressions. The following chapters investigate the character of each region in order to introduce the contradictions and complexities of a regionalist discourse. Ignoring the complexities extinguishes the richness of artistic, literary, and musical motivations and the adeptness of these artists in devising strategies. This is where the scholar new to the Ottocento can locate its pull, in its mis en scène. The century must be staged quite differently in Italy than in northern Europe. And even more importantly, scholars of the Ottocento cannot rely exclusively on France to determine its character. When we do so, we deny Hayez as a Romantic, and see him only for his academicism.55 Early scholars did just this, just as they denied Toma’s paintings as overly sentimental and lacking the scientific study of light and nature seen with the Impressionists, or even the Macchiaioli; they did this with Minardi as well, when they obscured his ideological and academic rigor behind claims of obsolescence. To see Minardi devoid of his context, of the

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religious priority or the political implications of retaining traditionalism, is to leave the story half told. Just as if we fail to recognize the Risorgimento involvement of many of Hayez’s patrons; or if we fail to adequately contextualize the effects of poverty and discontentment of the post-unification era in the south. The following chapters intend to cast the artists in their proper setting. No artist operates over the arc of his career with absolute consistency, especially when their active career spans multiple decades as it does with all three. Nevertheless, if this study can provide a sliver of insight to those unfamiliar with these artists by recognizing attributes of character and style, and, as Boime first did 30 years ago, relating them to the historical backdrop of their context for a wider audience, it will fulfill my goal in rescuing these artists from the obscurity they have suffered outside of Italy.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6

7

8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

Clarelli, Mazzocca, and Sisi 28. Among those that felt differently were Massimo d’Azeglio and Stefano Jacini. See Duggan 145. See Mack Smith (1968) 1–2. Mack Smith (1998) 8. For Gioberti’s text Del primato morale e civile degli Italiani, see Mack Smith (1968) 83–4. Underneath the masthead of Giovine Italia was written, “Serie di scritti intorno nella condizione politica, morale e letteraria della Italia, tendenti alla sua regenerazione;” under Apostolato Popolare it read: “Dio e il Popolo / Lavoro e frutto propoziomente;” and under Pensiero e Azione appeared “Dio e il Popolo / Libertà. Associazione.” On Mazzini and the Rome question, see Mack Smith (1994) 69, 149. Gioberti also addresses the issue of the role of Italy’s regions and their defining characteristics in his Primato. Tuscany and Latium, being in the center of the peninsula, formed its core, and some saw their capital cities of Rome and Florence as the “true heart.” See Patriarca 396. Reprinted in Recchia and Urbinati 34. Borutta 198. Ibid. 201. Mazzini’s “Duties of Man” is reprinted in Recchia and Urbinati 83–4. The original publication was released in parts between 1841 and 1842 (parts 1–3), 1859 (parts 4–5), and 1860 (parts 6–7). For a complete list of Mazzini’s writings, see Mazzini (1864–1870). Limiti 492–502. Mack Smith (1994) 49. Ibid. 64–5. Catholic Church 10. Mack Smith (1998) 9. For the full text of the Napoleon’s “Preamble” for his Constitution des républiques française, cisalpine et ligurienne (1797), see its translation in Mayo 25. Mack Smith (1968) 5–6. For a concise history of Il Conciliatore, see Lozito 153–70. De Sanctis 929. Bandera 12: “… vietava ogni ingerenza non solo nella politica, ma ersino nelle cose muncipali…” On Porta and the Cameretta Portiana, see Bezzola, Vita di Carlo Porta nella Milano del suo tempo and Le charmant Carline: Biografica critica di Carlo Porta. Berchet 423–86. Cranston 106–7. For the full text of the “Programma” by Piero Borsieri, see Branca 7: Parleremo di versi, parleremo di prose, di opere forestiere, di opere nazionali, di spattacoli, di declamazione, di belle arti di antichi e di moderni, di po della libertà poetiche e di precetti, di tutto insomma che eccciti l’ecciti del bel mondo senza stancarla.

27 Chiappini in Patriarch and Riall 57.

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28 De Sanctis 919–20. 29 Ibid. 939. 30 On the significance of I Promessi Sposi see Ciccarelli in A. Russel Ascoli and K. von Henneberg 84–5; and G. Vigorelli in Palazzo Reale di Milano 144–46. On Manzoni’s decision to use the Tuscan, see Barricelli 31–3 and 141–47. 31 Mazzini (1841) 363–90. See also Manzoni’s discussion of the need for a national language in 1833– 1836, reprinted in Mack Smith (1998), 71. 32 Much has been written on the interrelation between opera and politics, notably and recently Chiappini and Smart. 33 On censorship, see Sanguanini. 34 For a translation of Mazzini’s “Manifesto of Young Italy,” see Urbinati and Recchia 36. 35 Mack Smith (1994) 59. 36 Ibid. 58–60. 37 For the events surrounding the Second War of Italian Independence, see Mack Smith (1968) 166–83, and Riall 27–9. 38 The “Southern Question” as pertaining to Naples was first addressed in 1875 by the Tuscan Leopoldo Franchetti (Condizioni economiche ed amministrative delle provincie Napoletane, 1875), which is reprinted in Mack Smith (1968) 373–78. 39 See Mack Smith (1998) 5–6. 40 Spinosa and Alisio. 41 The fictional account of the violence by S. Sontag at the end of her The Volcano Lover (1992) left a strong impression on this author. 42 See Duggan 106; and Mack Smith (1968) 117. 43 Settembrini 4: Gli altri italiani soffrono anch’essi, ma i nostri mali trapassano ogni misura. La Toscana ha un principe umano, un governo mite e ragionevole: nel Piemonte gli ordini civili son saldi, il principe voglioso di operare, gli uomini parlano, scrivono, e ha dignità di uomini: nel Lombardo-Veneto è il gran male della dominazione tedesca, e son puniti severissimamente anche i sospetti, dai peccato politico, ma la giustizia civile, criminale, ed amministrativa serbasi esattissima: nello Stato Romano dopo sedici anni di oscena tirannide or finalmente si respire, e si benedice al magnanimo Pontefice che si fa promettitore di lieto avvenire a tutta l’Italia. Ma sono ventisette anni che le Due Sicilie sono schiacciate da un Governo che non si può dire quanto è stupido e crudele, a un Governo che chi ha imbestiati, e che noi soffriamo perchè forse Dio ci vuol far giungere alla estrema miseria e all’estrema vergogna, per iscuoterci poi ed innalarci a fortuna migliore; da un Governo che non vuol vedere, non vuol udire, e chi ha finalmente stancati. 44 Ibid. 5: Pel sangue santissimo di Gesù Cristo vi preghiamo di alzar la vostra voce e dire ad un re super stizioso e stolto che non ci costringa a spargere quel sangue che ricadrà tutto sul suo capo; che il trono dei tiranni spesso cade e si stritola come un bicchiere di vetro; che l’ira dei popoli è l’ira di Dio e non bisogna provocarla; che noi siamo stanchi, e la pazienza stancata diventa furore. 45 Gildea, Mark, and Warring 87. 46 Ibid. 188. 47 Nelson Moe (2001 and 2006) has contributed significant perspective on the northern disdain and dismissal of the south and its politics. 48 G. Massari (CC Lib del Mezz 2:137), reprinted in Moe (2006) 163. 49 G. B. Cassinis (CC Lib del Mezz 3:351), reprinted in Moe (2006) 166. 50 See statuto in Mack Smith (1998) 136–37. 51 Ibid. 54. 52 Moe 2. 53 See Mack Smith (1998) 69, 370 on massacres at Pontelandolfo, Casalduni, and Catellamare. 54 Ibid. 46ff. 55 Ojetti called Hayez a “false Romantic” (17) and Bellonzi called him more Neoclassical than Romantic (80). Argan described his work as “incredibly false” (191–96).

3

Tommaso Minardi and the Roman Destiny

Frame: 18081 The light dipped below the Mausoleum of Augustus, dissolving gradually into the Tiber River. Young Tommaso sat in his studio alone, with a drawing underway on his easel. The composition he attempted now depicted a bearded philosopher surrounded by acolytes engaged in discussion. The light ebbed, and Tommaso moved to light his small oil lamp. The philosopher drawing would be impossible to continue at this point, not because of the faded light, but because of the looming, inconstant shadows that created an improper atmosphere for exploring the reason of the ancients. This light was for the mysticism of the saints and martyrs. Silence encompassed the whole space. Only the distant sounds of the trattoria on the Via Ripetta emerged from the background. Young Tommaso imagined his fellow students were there, where they would remain most of the night waiting for fireworks to erupt out of the Teatro Corea nestled among the ruins of the mausoleum. This was the quiet time for him, one for contemplation, a time without the distraction and boisterous diversion that followed his friends Domenico and Agostino. And Michele. Their ease and banter, their sureness and instinct filled Tommaso with a sense of inadequacy, inferiority. Doubt. Lots of doubt. He went to the pocket of his trousers where he had hidden away his letter from home, lest the others saw it and thought less of him. It was from Maestro Zauli, his second father, his mentor, his maestro. It had been over two years since he had left the elder artist’s studio, but he still relied on him for bolstering his confidence and affirming his talents. He read the words over again, “the value in drawing results not in its quickness, but rather in the patient and accurate interpretation of truth.” Patient he was. He knew he was the consummate student of nature and life, and would always be so. He put his letter away and looked at the now shadowed composition on his easel. The subject was one that he struggled with thematically, even if it was frequently chosen among his fellow students in their attempts to gain the attention of Professor Camuccini. The ancients did not speak to his soul but to his brain, making it difficult to plod forward and bring life to the subject. In this particular case, his homesickness came to his aid. The bearded philosopher, almost unintentionally, took on the physical characteristics of Maestro Zauli, leading him to turn two of the acolytes into himself and Michele, also Zauli’s former pupil. Tommaso wished Michele would listen to their former master as he had drawn him doing in this composition. Instead, his friend was out for another long night in the cafés and taverns of Rome, while Tommaso prepared for the next day at Camuccini’s studio, and then an evening at the Scuola di Nudo at the Capitoline.

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His friend’s transformation worried him. Later and later nights led to long days of minimal inspiration and effort in the studio. Minardi wondered how to help Michele. His fluency and intuition would only take him so far with line and value, and true progress was going to take the kind of focus and constant study advised by Maestro Zauli. Perhaps it was the maestro that he should appeal to for aid in redirecting Michele and perhaps urge him in the right direction. A letter to the maestro might save Michele and his studies from his own predilection toward intemperance. The shadows were now growing long and erratic, and Minardi laid down his stylus and retreated towards his desk and his stacks of books, his letters and papers, and his Bible. He would pen a quick note of concern to Zauli, and then prepare for bed by reading some scripture. He looked at the Bible, its familiarity, its worn edges, its comfortable reliability at all points in his young life. He looked to the other side and saw the books recently borrowed from Agostino, all which failed to give him the answers he desired and instead triggered a new sense of disquiet and confusion. During the time in the studio, and in his rare forays out to the cafés near the Piazza di Spagna, he met many young artists, including French students working at the Villa Medici. These artists had drunk deeply from the well of Voltaire. Minardi listened, but had little ability to respond to their ideas with any conviction. To be sure, this led to his increasing struggle with moral uncertainty. He did not have answers to how the faith of his ancestors translated to the morality of equality, fairness, and freedom. What seemed to him as prevalent to Christianity was interpreted by these illuministi as a shift away from faith. How was he to paint the true nature of the subject’s soul if he could not account for its morality in this modern world? Agostino, who admired Voltaire, had shown compassion for Minardi’s spiritual conflict and had sought to give him a means to rectify the opposing sides of philosophy and religion. He began by loaning him The Confessions of St. Augustine, but when Minardi was unable to find solace there, he gave him studies to read by Francesco Soave, and then Ludovico Antonio Muratori. Whereas the latter author had not satisfied him completely, reading his historiography seemed to be helping quell some of his doubts. More and more he realized that perhaps it was not his own ignorance of philosophy that was the problem, but that he was listening too much to young scholars interested in an anti-clerical, Enlightenment position made fashionable by the French. He was not one to seek the ideas most in vogue; his path was based on commitment and faith. He began to feel the edges of his spiritual conflict abate and the devotion much more comfortable to him return. By the time he completed the letter to his maestro, the darkness had crept into every corner not assaulted by the flickering of his lamp. Michele would surely be grateful for his intercession, even if it caused him a bit of embarrassment at first. Maestro Zauli was a kind and convincing soul, and he would make him see the light. Minardi closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. Although his spiritual confidence was starting to return, his unease with rendering nature’s form was still very much alive. The next day would be equally full of challenge and determined study. He deeply felt, though, that study was his path and his salvation.

Ottocento Rome: Internationalism, Neo-Guelphism, and the Accademia di San Luca Ironically, the painting most recognized and reproduced by Minardi is the least representative of his work. In his Self-portrait in a Garret from 1813, he depicted himself as a young artist in a moment of contemplation and isolation, isolated from others and groping to find

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his way in Rome’s center (Figure 3.1).2 It was these uncertain days that he recalled to a former pupil, providing the fodder for the 1899 biography Tommaso Minardi e il suo Tempo. Most scholars identify this work as a Romantic self-portrait; it literally portrays the struggling artist in a tower. In truth, it appears at a point in the artist’s career before his predilections towards spirituality were transformed into his artistic philosophy of Purismo. Consequently, the painting best exemplifies the themes of complexity and contradiction, and a particular and troubled phase for this young artist. He appears as a young man, wrapped in his cloak and seated on a bare mattress on the floor, looking out to the viewer surrounded by the tools of his study, including a human and bovine skull, drawing implements, and a maulstick with palette. These latter tools of painting are all the more curious since it is wellestablished by his biographers that he vastly preferred drawing to painting. The disorder of his lodgings conveys the informality and instinct of Romanticism; only the inclusion in the

Figure 3.1 Tommaso Minardi, Self-Portrait in a Garret, c. 1813, o/c, Florence, Vasari Corridor, Galleria d’Arte Moderna di Palazzo Pitti Source: © Alinari Archives, Florence.

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background of the crucifix and the Neoclassical canvas on the wall speaks to his piety and his ties to the academic tradition that defines his career in Rome. Although other artists—Antonio Canova, Vincenzo Camuccini, or Jean-AugusteDominique Ingres—are more typically linked to Rome and its academies, Minardi arguably is a better representation of Ottocento Roman art. His Roman identity is based largely on the following two circumstances. First, Rome was accepted as a cosmopolitan and a well-established academic center. Artists were among those drawn to Rome to learn from its history among international ex-patriot communities, specifically the German, English, Russian, and French. Minardi’s interaction with the German spiritual painters known as the Nazarenes was crucial to his early artistic development. Secondly, the papacy established Rome as a spiritual capital. Until Rome became the national capital in 1870, and excepting those times when the pope fled Napoleonic or republican forces, the pope oversaw the administration of the region. Those artists who chose to embody the Catholic heritage of Rome, including the Purists and the Nazarenes, were relatively limited in comparison to those artists inspired by the visual context of the ancient world. As Jacques-Louis David famously said, “Only in Rome can I paint Romans.” Nevertheless, papal patronage and papal oversight were a significant condition of the Roman environment, and had a profound impact on Minardi. The cosmopolitanism of Rome is the crux of the revisionist investigations of Stefano Susinno, whose work on the complexity of the city’s artistic culture of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries provides the most complete reconstruction. Mazzocca, while describing Susinno’s inclusive methodology, characterized Rome as a “laboratory of state painting that would have known a universal diffusion.”3 Susinno himself described it thus: Rome interpreted its primary role in art for how it coincided with its historical one as a universal city, removed from a nationalistic context. With the unfolding of a national and unitary sense in nineteenth-century Italy, Rome not only saw its universal character fade in relation to the political scene of the time, but also the reduction of artistic capital or, in any case, as an indispensable pole intertwined in dialogue with Paris, Vienna or Saint Petersburg.4 Broadly speaking, Roman pictorial research, the laboratory Mazzocca described, became the locus of origin for the Neoclassical style. Since 1663, the Prix de Rome had brought French artists to Rome, and provided them with a direct connection to the ancient past through collections swelling with recently discovered artifacts. French academicians Charles Le Brun and Jean-Baptiste Colbert, along with Gianlorenzo Bernini, founded the French Academy in Rome in 1666, which relocated to the Villa Medici on the Pincio Hill in 1803. Later, during the nineteenth century, the French presence at the academy infused the capital with a radical spirit, and republican sympathies became more influential on pictorial development. More and more, religious models of the Renaissance and Baroque eras were eclipsed by a distant, pre-Christian past. The glorious Roman past, and the exemplum virtutis of the Roman Republic, was palpable in the fabric of the city, but also in the influx of antiquities from Pompeii and Herculaneum from the middle of the eighteenth century. Between 1755 and 1769, Johann Winckelmann catalogued the antiquities entering Rome for the collection of the Cardinal Albani, thereby reestablishing the classical aesthetic. Winckelmann, most notably in his Geschichte der Kunst des Alterthums in 1765, initiated the shift from a late Baroque stylistic focus to the simplicity and grandeur of the ancient world. Contemporary

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painters, including Joseph-Marie Vien, Anton Raphael Mengs, and Jean-Baptiste Wicar, responded with pictorial reconstructions of the ancient past. In addition to artists from the north, artists from throughout the peninsula arrived in Rome to study at the academy of St. Luke (Accademia di San Luca), which was becoming increasingly classical in its curriculum. Pietro Benvenuti, later Director of the Accademia di Belle Arti in Firenze, was in Rome between 1792–1803; Giuseppe Bossi, secretary and reformer at the Brera Academy, was there between 1795–1801; and Luigi Sabatelli, also at the Brera, was there between 1789–1794. As administrators at cultural centers outside Rome, these artists disseminated the classical canon throughout the peninsula. The Roman Vincenzo Camuccini and the Piacentine Gaspare Landi, both of whom later served as presidents of the Accademia di San Luca, remained in Rome and were largely responsible for the identification of classicism with the Roman style. Minardi did not abjure Rome’s universal character, but he did challenge the primacy of Neoclassicism in modern painting. He actively resisted Neoclassical imitation, which had become dominant by the early nineteenth century through the paintings of Camuccini, Landi, and Wicar. Rather, Minardi saw the Jacobin and therefore anti-clerical motives of Neoclassicism as harmful to other currents and influences, including the artistic accomplishments of the Middle Ages and Renaissance. By the time Minardi took up his position at the Accademia di San Luca in 1822, he felt Italy had gotten lost in the universalism of Neoclassicism, as he told De Sanctis. In Italy, as elsewhere, the fashion of false classicism soon spread, and via Benvenuti and Sabatelli entered Florence, through Bossi and Appiani it went to Milan, and due to Camuccini it arrived in Rome; and, all the academies, with their absolute authority, dictated it as law, a new school of art which denied any Italian sentiment.5 His concern was with the influence of Neoclassicism over the Italian artist, which could “defile the native idiom with foreign voices.”6 What Minardi’s words tell scholars, then, is that there is a danger in limiting an investigation of the visual arts in Rome to its role as the classroom for Neoclassical erudition and eclecticism. Such a strictly limited reading of Rome as the school of David and his followers fails to recognize the pertinent and critical factors exclusive to Ottocento and Roman culture. Minardi arrived in Rome at a point in the century when the fashion of the ancient world became more suspect as superficial and inauthentic, and—to supporters of the pope—even pagan. His concern for reviving the current Roman school therefore differed significantly from the Neoclassical painters well-established in Rome. He sought renewal, not just revival. He sought to reform the academy and to revitalize the church, all with the aim of liberating the Italians from the French manner. Minardi’s rejection of the “falseness” of the Neoclassical style, which still held dominance throughout the first half of the century, led him to call for “the need in art for a new evolution, which will inspire a more relevant sentiment, more characteristic of the national genius and best conserved in our own glorious tradition.”7 He did not describe a thematic contemplation of past paintings, in a way similar to the eclecticism of Neoclassicism; instead he advocated for a return to the spirt of the Renaissance masters. He saw with Raphael, Perugino, and Fra Bartolommeo a return to life, from imitation to truth. He did not accord the same value to reconstructions of the Roman Republic, because they were imitating image, not life. Spiritually, artistically, Minardi’s sentiments conveyed a dominant current in Rome in the century. From a political standpoint, the

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papacy felt the increasing need to sanction religion over republicanism, and in Minardi the church had a champion who visually verified the temporal primacy of the Church.8 By mid-century, the artistic style that best answered the call for piety was Purismo, which emphasized the predisposition towards tradition, a universal spirituality, and the continuation of a legacy. Many scholars recognize the 1843 essay written by the Roman literary theorist Antonio Bianchini, “On Purism in the Arts” (“Del Purismo nelle Arti”), as the beginning, the manifesto on a mid-century style. In reality, Bianchini put into words what artists and authors had been investigating since much earlier in the century: the reduction of means, the quest for the bello ideale, for truth, for morality. In Neoclassicism, the search for truth and morality most often had a civic rather than religious character. Due to Roman artists seeking spiritual truth, their models shifted from the classical age to the late Middle Ages and the early Renaissance, specifically the Trecento, not coincidentally also the beginning of the rise of papal power in Rome. Minardi, by this point already a Professor at the Accademia di San Luca in Rome for over two decades, signed Bianchini’s statement, along with other artists from Italy (Pietro Tenerani) and elsewhere (Friedrich Overbeck). The timing of Bianchini’s “manifesto” is significant. The same year Vincenzo Gioberti published his Dal Primato Morale e Civile degli Italiani. Gioberti began his appeal to forge unity without revolution but with words, “…Italy contains within herself, above all through religion, all the conditions required for her national and political resurrection or Risorgimento…”9 As Gioberti did, Bianchini linked Catholicism to national identity, and challenged the Enlightenment rationalism of Milan and Turin. Minardi’s piety and his devotion to the pope manifests frequently in his subjects, translated through the Purist ideals of simplicity and truth; his piety also defined his pedagogy and his role at the academy, where he used a religious and pictorial conservatism to determine civic engagement through the arts. Minardi, therefore, occupies a very significant and instructive place in Ottocento Rome and the reemergence of Roman painting. Whereas scholars have characterized Purismo as an offshoot of Neoclassicism, or in some cases as an outgrowth of Romanticism due to its chronology, it is neither.10 Neither antithetical nor derivative, Minardi and his Purist style represent particular concerns and ideologies that distinguish him from French stylistic counterparts. The transition from Neoclassicism to Purismo is not linear, and does not indicate a simple filiation as some have suggested.11 Purismo also does not follow a chronology that locates it at a distinct point in the century after its identification by Bianchini in 1843. It was in formation early in the century, and grew in visibility and adherents during an era which saw political upheaval and regional rivalries throughout the peninsula.

Minardi’s Road to Rome Minardi was born on December 14th, 1787. Most of what we know about his early years comes through his two biographers, his former student Guglielmo De Sanctis and his close associate of later years, Ernesto Ovidi. The closest thing to his own voice comes in 1854, when De Sanctis recorded Minardi’s memories related to him in front of a fire as the aging artist recovered from an illness.12 His recollections construct the image of a pious and dedicated student, especially when it came to religious texts. As we see with all artist memoirs, this fireside chat was his opportunity to reconstruct his career as a continuous narrative. For Minardi, the narrative he wished to establish centered around piety and spiritual inspiration. He described to De Sanctis how even as a child he studied religious texts, when the “passion of Jesus Christ moved [him] to tears.”13 He described how while

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still very young he was able to correct his aunt when she “spoke confusedly to others about biblical facts,” and even as a young art student, he “chose subjects from the Bible.” Although he described supportive parents devoted to his education and securing him opportunities, he acknowledged their trepidation at his choice of an artistic vocation. Rather, they were in favor of a more traditional education in the classics. Due to the intervention of an uncle, and after he surreptitiously sought instruction from a friend’s artist father, they were swayed by his clear ability as a draftsman. His aunts, on the other hand, saw the art of painting as “miserable” and convinced him instead to consider architecture.14 His temporary acquiescence likely resulted from his early concentration on drawing, always his passion, over the technical processes of painting. Minardi’s earliest instruction in art was from the Bologna-trained artist Giuseppe Zauli, a professor at the liceo artistico in Faenza.15 Minardi credited Zauli with nurturing his love of art and introduction to printmaking. The young man, now only 14 years old, was guided by Zauli to seek artistic models in works by great artists installed in Bologna and Florence. It was Zauli who told Minardi’s parents that he had taught him all he could; the young man needed to leave for Rome. Whenever Minardi wrote to his former master after moving on, he continued to receive encouragement, Zauli at one point telling him that “the value of drawing did not result from quickness, but in the patient and accurate imitation of life.”16 Minardi acknowledged the intellectual debt he felt for his maestro, who he called his second father, in his drawing Socrates and Alcibiades from 1807 (Figure 3.2). In the image, he pictured Zauli as Socrates engaging a group of

Figure 3.2 Tommaso Minardi, Socrates and Alcibiades with the Portrait of Zauli, 1807, ink on paper, Faenza, Pinacoteca d’Arte Antica e Moderna Source: © Mondadori Portfolio via Getty Images.

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attentive young students in dialogue. Standing behind another student on the upper right is a young man that bears the unmistakable features of Minardi, in essence paying homage to his first and perhaps most influential master. In 1803, and as a result of Zauli’s direction, the young artist arrived in Rome on a scholarship awarded by the Congregazione di Carità and a bequest by conte Cavina. He had with him a letter of introduction to Prince D. Agostino Chigi, one of his protectors while “abroad.” Through him, Minardi secured an introduction to Felice Giani, who offered the young artist a room at the Palazzo Correa. Minardi lived here for the next 25 years, at first with Giani and the German artist Michael Köck. The biographies of Ovidi and De Sanctis are vague on Minardi’s early actions during his stay. They do mention he sought out an earlier acquaintance, Agostino Comerio, who he described only as a Milanese he had met in Faenza prior to coming to Rome. Minardi described how he benefitted from his fellow artists’ warm hospitality. Shortly after he arrived, Comerio introduced him to artists surrounding the Accademia di San Luca, including Camuccini. Camuccini was at the height of his career, and was acknowledged as the head of the Roman school of painting. By the time Minardi met him, he had already received high praise for a pair of commissions for Lord Bristol, an Irish nobleman living in Rome. His Death of Virginia and Death of Julius Caesar were completed between 1793 and 1806, and refigured subjects from the Roman Republic in the grand scale typical of history painting (Figure 3.3). At this point in his career, Camuccini defined the Roman school of painting, and Italian Neoclassicism more generally. He was elected to the Accademia in 1802, was its head between 1805–1810, and then again in 1827. In addition, he was Director of the Vatican Mosaic Studios, Superintendent of the Vatican Picture Galleries, and Inspector of Public Paintings for Rome and the Papal States.17 De Sanctis recounts how Camuccini acknowledged the young artist’s skill, and even offered to

Figure 3.3 Vincenzo Camuccini, Death of Julius Caesar, 1793–1818, o/c, Naples, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Lib. / A. Dagli Orti.

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acquire one of his paintings for an interested friend. Minardi, however, was more interested in honing his skills in drawing, and after a short time left Camuccini’s studio to refocus his study. His swift departure foreshadows a combative relationship between the two artists in later years. Around this time and early in his stay, Minardi described a significant event which unsettled his conviction in faith and made him question his instinct to resist the pull from a Neoclassical current. After leaving Camuccini’s studio, Minardi had occupied a communal studio with other students from Faenza, including Comerio, Domenico Gallamini, and Michele Sangiorgi. Rome, like many intellectual centers during this period, supported Enlightenment imagery present in the paintings of artists like Camuccini. In this company, Minardi was introduced to these concepts, and Voltaire, and began to navigate the contradictions between religion and philosophy. He read St. Augustine, and Francesco Soave, but it was the work of Lodovico Antonio Muratori that helped him construct a more complete history of philosophy. The effect on the artist was significant, and resulted in his withdrawal from his peers. As he told De Sanctis, “I learned to look suspiciously at certain doctrines then in vogue and to make myself ever more eager for study and solitude…”18 He had met and triumphed over his first crisis of faith. In combination with a misunderstanding between he and his studio mates, Minardi opted to work alone and recommit to his spiritual direction. Between 1808 and 1810, Minardi began to achieve success and expand his study to other parts of the peninsula. In 1808 he won a competition at the Bolognese Accademia di Belle Arti, which carried a significant annual stipend. The award was annulled, but Minardi competed again in 1810 and was again successful. While outside of Rome, he also travelled to Milan, Florence, and Ravenna, recounting to De Sanctis the new models and stimuli presented to him. Upon his return to Rome, he was nominated and admitted to the Accademia di San Luca. His conviction to the Catholic nature of art was somewhat challenged by the studio practice most common in Rome. The Accademia saw its role as preserving the supremacy of Italian painting from past centuries, even while drawing from regional traditions from throughout the peninsula. Although no academy on the peninsula could identify a collective or nationalist agenda, the Accademia di San Luca recognized the past traditions of artists from many regions, and aimed to continue the cultural dominance of past eras. Boime described how the academy’s aim was to train “masterpiece” makers.19 Susinno, in his assessment, described a different sort of aim. By maintaining a reactionary academic and classical curriculum, denying any new pictorial current, the Accademia struggled to retain its authority culturally. Romanticism, emerging in Rome and elsewhere around 1820, was identified as being oltralpe, beyond the alps. Acknowledging autonomous artistic aims or invention went starkly against the enforcement of the canon, and was resisted longer at this academy than elsewhere in Rome or the peninsula. To the academy, going against classicism was going against Rome. Perhaps it is the clarity of hindsight related in both the Ovidi and De Sanctis biographies, but Minardi clearly maintained his separateness from the prominent Neoclassical approaches. He continued his study at the Accademia, but worked independently of the traditional curriculum. In this aspect, his early contact with Felice Giani (1758–1823) was significant. Born in Piedmont, Giani studied and worked throughout the peninsula before settling in Rome in the 1790s.20 Whereas Camuccini followed a French model in painting à la David, in other words historical scenes in the French mode, Giani was interested far more in the concerted research of the past through graphic study and innovative compositions (Figure 3.4).

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Figure 3.4 Felice Giani, Diana, 1804, graphite, pen, brush and watercolor on paper, Washington, Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum Source: © akg-images.

During this time, he traveled between Bologna, Faenza, and Rome, completing over 30 decorative ceiling paintings with innovative compositions for private patrons, as he did in the Roman Palazzo Altieri from 1789–1792. Most significant for the development of Neoclassicism, in 1788 Giani organized the Accademia de’ Pensieri in his home at the Piazza Correa.21 This “Academy of Thoughts” brought artists of all nationalities together in informal gatherings to experiment with compositional solutions. Each month artists would complete drawings of the same subject, then come together to anonymously display their work and listen to comments from their colleagues. Among the artists that frequented the “academy” were those who went on to run the next generation of major artistic centers. Bossi and Luigi Sabatelli both went on to work in Milan; Pietro Benvenuti became head of the Florentine academy; and even Camuccini, who stayed in Rome, gathered at the Palazzo Correa to experiment with compositional solutions.22 The “academy” was closed by 1796, but Minardi recalled Giani’s influence, who he described as “Gianni Romagnolo,” to De Sanctis. Giani continued working with students, founding a school of decoration “inspired by ancient grotteschi and Raphael.”23 Giani’s example, although described by most scholars as proto-Romantic or Neoclassical, may have gone further. Minardi described Giani as “a surprising poet improviser, full of imagination, studious and rich in classical ideals.”24 He recognized the elder artist’s facility and invention, developed graphically, that focused on the “total effect,” but that often yielded to a “mannerism” based on a devotion to the Carracci. Although little has come down to us about Giani, his Accademia de’ Pensieri and numerous innovative drawings lead most scholars to refer to him as an early indication of Romanticism in Italy, almost an Italian William Blake. His subjects were most often traditional in historical

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iconography, but his solutions often convey a heightened sense of emotion and action. Giani’s looser stylistic interests differ dramatically from Minardi’s Purist perspective, but they shared an interest in new solutions, which in the case of Minardi was often applied to biblical subjects. After two years in Rome, Minardi submitted a drawing to represent Bologna in the Accademia del Regno Italico, which opened in Napoleonic Rome in 1805. The short-lived academy, which closed in 1814 following Napoleon’s defeat, was the first and last centralized academy of fine arts on the peninsula. After 1811 the academy was housed in the Palazzo Venezia and run by Giuseppe Tambroni. It gathered young artists from the regional academies of Venice, Milan, and Bologna to study as Italians, recognizing early on a nationalist mission for the arts.25 Similar to the Accademia di San Luca, it sought to establish the highest standards of pictorial instruction, directed as it was by artists steeped in Neoclassical doctrines. Their work did not differ significantly from the Neoclassical examples coming out of the Accademia di San Luca, but the administration—represented in the studios by Antonio Canova—recognized a changing social order and experimented with how to reflect this pictorially through composition or new social and civic narratives. Organized by the temporary unity of the Napoleonic enterprise, the academy shaped an approach to painting that spoke to both regional heroes and national ideals. Whereas the Accademia di San Luca steadfastly enforced the classical cannon, the Accademia del Regno Italico was, as Susinno described, more flexible, with professors who had “identified in their artistic practice a human and social destiny of great prestige.”26 Canova lent his reputation to the program, and to the prospect of defining a modern Italian art. He participated in an active dialogue with theorists throughout Italy about how to regenerate artistic production on the peninsula and distinguish artistic accomplishment from the northern schools.27 Instead of identifying Rome with the ancients, in a sense putting all nationalist eggs in a classical basket, Canova looked to the revival of fresco painting to extend art to the monumental scale so identified with Italy’s past glories. Again, this approach denied the individualism present in a proto-Romantic school present at the turn of the century with artists like Giani. Aiming for the collective over the individual, the anthem over the reverie, the Accademia del Regno Italico, for very different reasons than Neoclassicism, denied the independence of creative development. The Rome of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries was dominated by the figure of Canova. His presence until his death in 1822 made Italy the leading country in sculpture, even though it would cede its dominance in painting to northern European schools. His centrality to Roman cultural production is evidenced by his position as the Inspector of Antichità e Belle Arti dello Stato della Chiesa; the head of the Accademia di San Luca; and, between 1804 and 1814, the organizing force behind the Accademia del Regno Italico. His influence over Minardi during this period was tempered by two factors. First, Minardi was not up to the technical challenges of fresco painting. Susinno suggested his “saturnine and depressive nature” prevented him from overcoming his reticence for painting.28 He did, however, receive from his former master Zauli detailed technical information on the fresco process that he passed on to Canova and his colleagues. He turned down, though, the opportunity to share in the commission to fresco the walls at the Casa Massimo.29 The project fell instead to another group of German artists, who, like the Italians, saw the regeneration of fresco paintings as important for the regeneration of art, specifically Christian art. Secondly, Canova, although stylistically more Purist than Neoclassical, employed subject matter that was almost “entirely pagan” and inconsistent with Minardi’s conception of painting as spiritual and moral reform. As head of the Roman

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style, Canova’s sculpture followed the spirit of the time and, according to him, “was incapable of being infused with the spiritualism of Christian art.”30 Later, his work shifted when the classical association with the French became less palpable. For Christian themes, Minardi was more compatible with the ex-patriot Germans known as the Nazarenes. Similarly inspired and religiously motivated, the Germans provided him a supportive and collaborative community of religious painters. Perhaps due to their greater number or their lack of a provincial identity, their stronger association with religious painting was largely due to their proficiency in painting, especially fresco painting. As Minardi did not like to paint, he rarely did it. He had not begun doing so in 1803 when he arrived in Rome, and only began in 1805 after the urging of Michele Köck, a fellow artist at the Palazzo Correa.31 When Minardi settled in Rome permanently as an academic in 1822, he all but left painting behind. When he did paint, according to De Sanctis, he would dawdle and become “quiet and preoccupied.”32 The Nazarenes shared his interest in drawing, and in developing a style that merged form and content to express a spiritual truth. Artists and authors, including Goethe, used the term “Nazarene” to describe this informal group of artists who were organized around similar, although not defined or consistent, aesthetic and iconographic interests based on pious devotion and rendering of a higher truth.33 The original group, which included Johann Friedrich Overbeck, Franz Pforr, and Ludwig Vogel, arrived in Rome in 1810, but they were joined shortly afterwards by Peter von Cornelius, Wilhelm Schadow, Joseph von Führich, and Philipp Veit, as well as others. The artists themselves preferred the moniker Lukasbund, referring to a brotherhood devoted to painting. By adopting St. Luke, these artists were linking themselves with the historical art guilds and their patron saint. The references to a medieval monastic community extended to their lodgings and studio space at the abandoned monastery of San Isidoro on the Pincian Hill. Even their dress and shoulder-length hair were meant to evoke German artisans of the Renaissance. They lived a simple life, working and sleeping in the monastery’s cells, consulting with each other in the evenings around the tables in the refectory. Rome, for the Nazarenes, was a universal capital conducive to free study and artistic independence. Whereas their gesture on the surface appears rebellious, in reality it was far more practical; as non-Austrians they were not eligible to attend the Viennese academy after it reopened following Napoleon’s occupation. Nevertheless, they saw Rome as a place to escape academic restrictions so they might reform art to reconnect with the people and with daily existence. Lionel Gossman described their conviction to produce art for churches, or public buildings “…to combat the modern transformation of art into a commodity to be enjoyed and displayed by private individuals in their houses or put up for sale in galleries.”34 Critically, the Nazarenes have suffered from the same rejection by a Modernist critical framework that Minardi did. Although Gossman diligently traced the critical dismissals from the early nineteenth century forward, I would argue that the number of exhibits and monographs outside of Germany paints a rosier picture for the Nazarenes than we can afford Italy during the same period.35 Nevertheless, the shared mission of reform for both Nazarenes and Minardi and his followers had a similar fate in confrontation with Neoclassicism. Whereas some artists of the late eighteenth century saw Rome as supranational and separate from a nationalist program, valued for its authority in educating Europe on the spirit of the ancients, others recognized that Rome could not abdicate its role in the early nineteenth century, after the Regno Italico, as a religious capital. These artists struggled to preserve Rome’s religious authority against the Enlightenment and anti-clericalism leading up to nationalism. By rejecting the Neoclassical style, even in the way it answered the profligacy of the Rococo and the flourish of the neo-Baroque, the

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Nazarenes and Minardi aligned themselves with the papacy, denying the legitimacy of republicanism. Ironically, this bold shift away from the Roman-inspired French classicism, in a sense their progressive development of artistic theory and the ideal, led to their individualism. What critics like Jacob Burckhardt recognized as the “dynamic process of history,” the march away from the past towards intellectualism and theory fundamental to Neoclassicism determined, as Gossman describes, the Nazarenes’ and Minardi’s rejection of current practice and an alternative vision. Overbeck’s Easter Morning (1818) demonstrates the Nazarene concern for simplicity and truth, resulting from the balance of form and subject (Figure 3.5). Neoclassical erudition and eclecticism is absent here, as is an overly faithful referencing of past artists. While the Nazarenes proclaimed the supremacy of Perugino and Raphael, their work aims not to imitate, but return to nature in the way their Renaissance precedents did. The true model,

Figure 3.5 Friedrich Overbeck, Easter Morning, 1818, o/c, Kunstpalast Düsseldorf Source: © akg-images.

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according to Overbeck, was nature; the influence from past artists informed their spirit, not their forms.36 Diverging from the truths of nature and the spirit would result in falseness. At its best, Nazarene painting, in its small devotional objects or large scale decorative cycles, reveals a calm and exalted state of painting, an opportunity for unencumbered devotion, free from theory and intellectualism. The Nazarene artists displayed their desire to integrate objective and subjective study best in the early commission for the Prussian diplomat, Jakob Salomon Bartholdy (1779–1825). Bartholdy arrived in Rome in 1815 to take up his post as Consul General, and almost immediately recognized the highly competitive artistic climate. In an effort to provide work for his countrymen, he offered two rooms for decoration at the Palazzo Zuccari, now the Bibliotheca Hertziana.37 As the first monumental narrative fresco cycle of the century, and modern fresco generally, the Casa Bartholdy frescoes were of great interest to the pockets of artistic communities throughout Rome. Together, Overbeck, Peter Cornelius, Franz Catel, Wilhelm Schadow, and Veit completed a series of frescoes depicting the Old Testament narrative of Joseph, chosen to reflect Bartholdy’s Jewish heritage. In all cases, these frescoes—now in Germany—reveal a clarity, a restraint, but an absolute accuracy in form. In Overbeck’s Sale of Joseph or Veit’s Seven Years of Plenty, both completed in 1817, Cinquecento models are certainly present in spirit, but not at all as literal models. The color, the contours, and the symmetry are combined, as Raphael or Andrea del Sarto had done before, with a straightforward and simple study of nature. They aim for a refinement and resonance, not decorative flourish or archaeological accuracy. Minardi shared the Nazarene’s commitment to nature and spirit, and the rejection of the “false, classical style.”38 During this time, he immersed himself in an arduous study of Renaissance art, but like the Nazarenes he sought to find the same model of spiritual and natural cohesion, not imitation of style. His earlier compositions depict classical subjects, but his interest in furthering religious painting already pressed on the young artist, and began to emerge in works from this formative period, even before his contact with Overbeck and his colleagues. Minardi’s 1807 painting Supper at Emmaus reveals an interest in Caravaggio in the dramatic cellar light and humble setting (Figure 3.6). Minardi’s idealized Christ, however, speaks more to Fra Bartolommeo than to Caravaggio, with the polished features of the idealized Christ, not the peasant. The juxtaposition of this work with Overbeck’s Supper at Emmaus of the same year demonstrates that, if not a similar model and solution, both artists explored non-classical prototypes to enhance spiritual content. By 1814, Minardi had shifted almost exclusively towards religious subjects, as seen in his St. Paul sending a letter to Philemon (Figure 3.7). The subject is not a common one. The elder St. Paul passes a letter to the escaped slave, Onesimus, to deliver to his master, Philemon, in an effort to speak in the slave’s defense. Perhaps the unusual subject forced the artist to consider a fresh composition. Canova so admired the work that he asked for it to be translated into a painting.39 The painted version, now in Faenza, lacks the dramatic value contrasts of the drawing, and communicates less through facial features, especially those of St. Paul’s, whose gravitas and solemnity disappears in the painted version. Susinno described the drawing as “proto-Purist,” as it indicates the artist’s stylistic tendency well before the 1842 manifesto. In its restraint, and clarity, the Philemon painting speaks to purity as represented in the classical subjects and the linear solutions of John Flaxman, who Susinno credits as an important influence in works like this. Separate from the linear treatment of drapery and form, however, the drawing exhibits a careful attention to the construction of the setting, and a sophisticated rendering of light. Minardi’s St. Paul goes a long way in explaining the recognition of his contemporaries, and indeed ever since then, even though he completed very few paintings.

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Figure 3.6 Tommaso Minardi, Supper at Emmaus, 1807–1810, o/c, Pinacoteca Communale di Faenza Source: Per gentile concessione dell’ Amministrazione Communale.

Minardi is probably best known during this time for a long and tortured commission he received from the Milanese engraver, Giuseppe Longhi. Longhi asked for a faithful drawing after Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. Minardi received the commission in 1810; he did not complete it until 1826. De Sanctis described the “endless despair and distress” the commission brought him.40 His struggle, as described by Susinno, came not from the act of copying, but the act of translating. The Last Judgment commission represents a type of commission little understood, the disegno traduzione.41 Commissions of this type were required in an era before photographic reproductions, and were required for the process of calcography, which was used for the reproduction of images in book production. Minardi saw the commercial value of this type of commission for artists and draftsmen trying to make a living, and later as a model of professionalism for the students at the Accademia di San Luca. Beyond pedagogy, the disegno traduzione was a financial necessity. The scope of this particular commission, however, was perhaps unrealistic for the perfectionist Minardi. He described to De Sanctis, rather, what he lost from the commission. “I spent the best years of my youth around this copy, which took all my days and prevented me from accepting new commissions; so while fortune liberally offered me gifts, it was quite impossible for me to grasp them.”42

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Figure 3.7 Tommaso Minardi, St. Paul Refers Onesimus to Philemon, 1814, black pencil and brown wash on brown paper, Rome, Accademia di San Luca Source: © Accademia di San Luca, Rome.

The difficulty of the drawing was not just the scope of the work, but the need to translate the drawing with an accuracy that went beyond lines and values, instead searching for effect. As Susinno described, copying Michelangelo, either stylistically or in literal replicas, often devolved into exaggerated musculature and gesture. What comes across in such translations is less terribilità and more specious melodrama. Anyone who has ever compared a replica, even a faithful replica, of Michelangelo’s David with the real thing recognizes the ineffable quality of the original. Minardi accepted this charge and struggled to overcome the difficulties in translating the untranslatable. Longhi never produced Minardi’s drawing in print due to the protracted time it took to complete. Esteem for the drawing, however, was high, and it entered the Biblioteca Vaticana Apostolica at the exorbitant price of 4000 Roman scudi. Minardi adeptly balanced Michelangelo’s forms with the spiritual impression, rather than producing an unintentional and anachronistic translation. His own early Purist sensibilities sought to apply the ideal, what Susinno described as “translating from his ideal mirror: the painting of Raphael.”43 In other words, Minardi translated Michelangelo through the lens of Raphael. The effect, ironically and inexplicably, is closer to Michelangelo than most reproductions, from then and now, ever achieve. In the midst of turmoil and exertion of the Last Judgment, Canova approached Minardi about taking an open position as the Chair of Drawing at the Accademia di Belle Arti in Perugia. In his letter to Giacomo Antinori at the Perugian academy, he admitted nominating Minardi was a personal sacrifice, because the honed graphic skills of the young artist provided “very effective assistance” in reproducing images of his own sculpture. Minardi, along with others, including Giovanni Demin and Giovanni Tognoli, was adept at translating

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Canova’s sculpture faithfully without evoking drama through value contrasts, exemplified by Minardi’s drawing of a funeral stele by Canova (1820), and one reproducing Bertel Thorvaldsen’s Cristo of 1829. Both indicated Minardi’s success at rendering sculpture through mass without suggesting the surrounding environment or pronounced light effects. In spite of his usefulness in this capacity, Canova not only put forth his name, but recommended him for director. Minardi left in 1818, and shortly after became the Perugian academy’s Director. At only 31 years of age, Minardi adopted his most enduring role as educator and mentor.

Minardi at the Accademia di San Luca At his post in Perugia, Minardi seemed to have found his calling. Bolstered in confidence and committed to developing the graphic skills of his students, Minardi worked tirelessly, “spending hours, day and night.” The shy, withdrawn, and uncertain student became the dedicated and engaged instructor. De Sanctis described the transformation. Under his direction, the academy at Perugia was no longer an academy, but rather a private school, as seen often in the best times in art, when there was a sincere brotherhood between master and pupils; this was extended to everyone, almost as if they were being guided on a difficult journey by hand.44 Although there is scant information besides the De Sanctis passage about Minardi’s time in Perugia, it is very likely he would have modeled his interaction with the students on his own memories of Zauli and Canova. A newer democratic approach to art instruction, more prominent after Enlightenment principles found their way south to Italy in the late eighteenth century, emerged in several institutions after the turn of the century and responded to a growing middle class and new generations of students who came from outside the traditional artistic circles or family workshops.45 Students now came from all walks of life, and needed role models to help them transition not only from student to professional, but also from the working class to the bourgeois class. Minardi, the son of a chimico tintore or cloth dyer, understood this new class of students and responded with patience and compassion. Minardi remained in Perugia until 1821, when the Chair of Drawing at the Accademia di San Luca, Luigi Agricola, died. He had not been forgotten in Rome, and many artists were aware of his frequent return trips to work on the Last Judgment commission. His reputation garnered a significant following among Roman students, to the extent that in February 1821 students at the Accademia di San Luca petitioned Pope Pius VII for his appointment through the Cardinal Chamberlain (camerlengo), Bartolomeo Pacca, chief administrator of the academy.46 They appealed to the camerlengo, and therefore pontiff, to overlook the Accademia’s statute of choosing a cathedra, a chair position, from members of the academy’s Consiglio, or advising body. Minardi, who had only that year been awarded the status of accademico di merito, was technically not eligible. The event in itself may appear a minor one, merely an attempt to challenge a technicality, a formality. In essence, though, the students were challenging the status quo; they recognized the need to challenge the Neoclassicism of the academy with new currents and modes of expression, including Purismo and Romanticism. Students requested a professor “to instruct [them] in the purity, and the simplicity of style, advantages that are precisely found in Minardi.”47 Rome, according to them, needed to distinguish itself from a French model and to incorporate pedagogy particular to the Roman aesthetic.

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The venerable and established order at the academy, however, did not respond positively to this appeal. Professors still mired in the Neoclassical style vociferously protested Minardi’s appointment. Jean-Baptiste Wicar, for example, blasted the efforts of Minardi’s supporters, which included the academician Gaspare Landi, to elect Minardi. He appealed to the Secretary General of the Chamberlain, Filippo Tomassini, stating the office should not be responsible for “having let be elected a chairman and person much inferior to me.”48 When Cardinal Pacca allowed for the statute to be overlooked, Minardi, now only 33 years old, was allowed to be considered among the candidates for the Chair of Drawing. He was eliminated in the first round of voting, and Domenico del Frate successfully secured the position. The controversy did not end there, though, as del Frate died in November 1821. The second time around, Minardi was successful and secured the position. In doing so, however, he drew harsh criticism from the academy for going against Canova’s nomination for his replacement in Perugia. The elder artist had recommended the painter Giovanni Silvagni as a replacement, but Minardi had recommended his own replacement, Giovanni Sanguinetti. The Accademia di San Luca saw this as an improper presumption, and recommended Minardi be censured by preventing his installation as Chair for a year. Only after the intervention of the high-ranking Cardinal Albani and Cardinal Pacca was Minardi allowed to assume the position definitively in March 1822. Minardi represented the changing of the order, from the universalism of the Neoclassical style to a purism that emphasized simplicity, and more importantly piety. Purismo represented, at least in part, rejection of the anti-clericalism of the Enlightenment, and the paganism of its style. It also recognized a level of influence among the younger artist class hungry for the renovation of the school and its principles. Renovation is precisely what Minardi set out to do, and over the next two decades he worked to reform and reorganize the academy. He was joined by Landi and the Danish expatriot sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen in presenting a broad set of reforms to the academy. His pronounced impact on the curriculum occurred between 1827 and 1832, when he served as a member of the Consiglio Accademico. Broadly speaking, he aimed to do three things: shift the focus to allow a greater emphasis on drawing, and therefore professional opportunities for students; integrate the opportunity of invention within the drawing curriculum to advance compositional innovation; and recognize the supremacy of ecclesiastical narratives rather than the near exclusivity of the ancient world.49 In later writings, including his unpublished 1836 Dissertation on the Painting of the Nativity at the Arcadian Academy (Dissertazione sulla pittura del presepio Academia di Arcadia), he promoted the Christian subject so the curriculum could “move far from the pagan examples of art.”50 He saw the cultural situation in Rome at the beginning of the third decade of the Ottocento as urgent, and felt reform was necessary to retain its position as a Christian capital rather than a Neoclassical outpost. In addition, he addressed with first-hand knowledge the concerns of students coming from a lower social class. His curriculum for drawing, even though it reached back to the early Renaissance for stylistic inspiration, responded to the very current needs of the city, of the student and the market. In part, Minardi’s focus on reformation was due to the strength of Canova’s impact on him, not only for his work recording the older master’s sculpture, but in the way he approached academic instruction and administration. While he had not responded to the sculptor’s call for the regeneration of fresco painting, or the application of classical principles in the modern age, he modeled his former professor in his personal and supportive interactions with students. Minardi remembered Canova’s presence at the evening

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drawing sessions, where he would encourage students individually. It was at one such drawing session that Canova approached Minardi about the open cathedra of drawing at the Accademia in Perugia. Subsequently, when Minardi arrived in Perugia, he emulated his professor’s dedication, creating a school with “a sincere brotherhood between maestro and scholars.”51 De Sanctis, himself a pupil of Minardi’s at San Luca, recounts how his accessible style displeased the older professors, and resulted in an admonishment from the Cardinal Pacca to show less attention to the students so as “not to make the other professors look bad.”52 In 1876, at the dedication of Minardi’s statue at the cemetery at Verano outside of Rome, a former student of Minardi’s who was recognized at several Italian academies, Cesare Mariani, described the sacrifice Minardi made for his students in the effort to regenerate Italian art. He not only sacrificed his ambitions, his own dreams of glory and fame, what Mariani called the biggest sacrifice for an artist to make; he taught students to understand the truth by not relying on dogma, precepts, or dissertations. He fostered open discussion and recognized genius through progress. At the same memorial occasion, former pupil and engraver Luigi Ceroni recalled his impartiality, patience, and friendship. He recalled how Minardi never missed the chance to inculcate in his disciples “the love of art and work.”53 It is the account of the Tuscan sculptor, Giovanni Dupré, though, that brings Minardi’s teaching vividly to life, describing him as “a father to all the artistic youth” in Rome. I said that Minardi was like a father, and it is true; he treated the young pupils as children, and allowed them in his own studio. At one time, I saw Consoni, Mariani, Marianecci and many others gathered around him joking respectfully with their revered teacher.54 Dupré described one particular instance when Minardi came upon a younger artist in a state of melancholy. He asked the nature of the problem, and embraced the young man, in the midst of a crisis of confidence. The older artist responded with the following: Take courage, my son; get rid of those whims, go back to Florence, resume your work with courage, and have more faith in yourself, in your strength.55 Never married and without children, Minardi’s students were his focus and his passion. His dedication to the professor-student relationship is reinforced in many of his drawings, as with his 1807 drawing of his Maestro Zauli as Socrates. The drawing even conveys the precedent of an informal, Socratic method of teaching, one learned from Zauli. Other examples from the professorial perspective include the drawing of his studio from an uncertain date and now at the Spencer Museum of Art in Lawrence, Kansas (Figure 3.8).56 Here, students gather around a draped model recreating the deposed Christ, while the Master stands to one side allowing young students to gesture and interact in various ways. On the other side of the composition, in front of a fire and warming his hands, sits a scowling figure, presumably older than those engaged in activity. Little is known of this drawing, as it was originally attributed to Camuccini. It is singular in its depiction, though, primarily because it includes three female students gathered around the nude, albeit draped, model, something prohibited until the very end of the century. A notation on this drawing indicates it was a pensiero, an “idea,” for a later realization. One cannot help think, however, the unusual composition may be

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Figure 3.8 Tommaso Minardi, Scene with Artists and Corpse, 1821, charcoal and wash on paper, Spencer Museum of Art, University of Kansas Note: Museum purchase: Letha Churchill Walker Memorial Fund, 1976.0039.

commenting on the need for the renewal of studio practice in the modern age. The figure on the far right is in the act of animated teaching, while the figure on the far left turns his back on the students’ activities. Although the physiognomy of each figure are reminiscent of Minardi as the engaged professor, and Camuccini as the withdrawn one, the descriptions are neutral enough to preclude identification. Nevertheless, could this be a comparison between the more liberal pedagogical practice of Canova and the more reactionary Camuccini or Wicar? In contrast to Minardi, Camuccini embodied the standard academic artistic preparation typical in prior centuries, and therefore was a foil to the renewal of the academic curriculum. Camuccini was born into a family of artists, collectors, and art dealers.57 His entry into the artistic milieu occurred traditionally through his brother, a painter who oversaw his education until he entered the prestigious studio of Domenico Corvi. It was through his brother that he met Lord Bristol and began his first significant commission, the acclaimed Death of Caesar (1798) (Figure 3.3). His educational path, therefore, reflected the traditional path of a young artist, from family to the master’s studio, before rising to the level where he acquired noble and powerful patrons. Minardi, by personalizing instruction and preparing students to seek professional opportunities other than exhibitions and commissions, went against the tradition of Camuccini and the “masterpiece makers.” When Minardi arrived at the Accademia di San Luca, the instruction of painters followed a strict instructional practice based on the scaffolding of access to artistic models.

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The first year, students copied from prints, the second year from plaster busts, and the third year from multi-figure groups. Any instruction on the nude, perspective, or geometry came from outside the Accademia, and Minardi believed, as De Sanctis noted, that this resulted in students “incapable of faithfully portraying truth.”58 Outside instruction was available at the Scuola di Nudo located on the Capitoline Hill in the former convent of the Santa Maria in Aracoeli, and then in the Roman church of Sant’ Apollinare. In addition, private studios, like Minardi’s own in the Palazzo Colonna, provided students with additional, more directed opportunities for mentorship and the acquisition of skills. In 1825, Minardi wrote about the need to redevise the program of study to hone drawing skills early in the curriculum, to ensure students acquire the “accuracy of eye and hand to imitate things,” skills which transfer to all forms of practice.59 Minardi was not alone in advocating for reform, and was supported by Landi and the sculptor Pietro Tenerani. His suggestions were published in the Atti di Accademia in 1825, and included the following: 1) instruct students in geometry as the basis of composition; 2) increase the study of the nude rather than imitation from casts and pictorial models; 3) integrate the study of cadavers into the study of painting and sculpture; 4) eliminate the practice of drawing separated body parts to focus on the organic whole; and 5) instruct students on the proportion studies of Leonardo. The reforms were not resisted outright, and several of those on the advisory committee, which included Wicar, Thorvaldsen, Köck, and Camuccini, agreed with various elements of the reform. Change was slow, though, causing Minardi to renew his appeal. By 1829, little had changed. Coming from a young professor, to some undoubtedly an upstart, Minardi’s actions, even tempered with the elder Landi’s approval, were eager and precipitous. This was most certainly the case with Camuccini, who must have taken Minardi’s criticism of manierismo as a personal insult. The conflict erupted at the Concorso del Nudo of 1827, a timed drawing competition for young artists.60 Minardi broke from convention after posing the model and then remaining on site. After Camuccini became aware of this, he claimed Minardi remained to correct and assist his own favored pupils to ensure their success. Minardi’s response, as stated in a formal complaint to then academy President Girolamo Scaccia, was derisive and dismissive, inciting Camuccini’s rage. Minardi responded formally, and in the end the Accademia mandated that in future competitions professors were to leave the studio after the model was posed. Notwithstanding Camuccini’s resistance to new practices, Minardi continued his focus on molding students into successful, practicing artists. While still in Perugia, in 1820 and 1821, Minardi had instituted evenings similar to those held by Felice Giani at the Accademia de’ Pensieri. The discussions of composition encouraged students in invention, and broke from the practice of copying old master solutions. On its second meeting, on February 25th, 1820, Minardi and another professor, Bernardino Picella, debated the compositional theories of Nicolas Poussin in his Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery (1653).61 Picella argued its virtues, while Minardi challenged its conventionality. He spoke for an hour and half on the predictability of the composition. Another of Minardi’s pedagogical practices was to keep open albums in his studio compiled expressly for students.62 These albums contained subjects he felt were useful in forming a repertoire for young artists. The variety of treatments, sometimes of the same subject completed at various points in the artist’s career, encouraged invention, one which was not cultivated at the academy prior to Minardi’s tenure. Religious scenes figured prominently among the subjects in his portfolios, indicating a shift away

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from the hegemony of classical subject matter and a French aesthetic orientation. This attitude alone would be enough to draw the ire of Neoclassical reactionaries Camuccini and Wicar. Minardi was concerned more about his students’ development than his colleagues’ resentment, though, and he pictured this concern in his compositions. In the first decade of the century, he returned to the subject of mentorship, first treated with Socrates and his student Alcibades (1805, 1807), Apollo among the Shepherds (1807), and Plato’s Academy (1808). Perhaps the most telling testament to his relationship with students, however, is the small work now held at Aberystwyth University College of Art depicting Minardi and his faithful student Luigi Cochetti. The drawing dates to 1822, shortly after Minardi returned from Perugia, and depicts Minardi in a studio setting standing with his arm on Cochetti’s shoulder. The self-portrait seems more familial than professional, evoking the particularly close relationship between the two.63 Minardi’s teaching role was not limited to the Accademia, as he had a thriving studio in the Palazzo Colonna, where he was located near his close friends Don Vincenzo and Donna Chiara Colonna. De Sanctis described the Colonna studio in great detail after studying there himself.64 It consisted of anticamera, where many students would work along with the master after he arrived in the morning, and another studio that housed students working at a higher level. These students would have surely helped Minardi on some of his later and larger commissions. Minardi’s compositions were displayed throughout the vast space on the walls in order to give students visual reinforcement of the master’s focus on the study of nature, its harmony with the ideal, and his innovation of traditional compositions. Further within the suite of rooms was Minardi’s own studio, which De Sanctis described as the sanctum sanctorum, accessed rarely by students except for times when the master welcomed visits from dignitaries of the Roman art world. As a young artist, Minardi greatly benefited from drawing commissions from other artists, especially Canova, and like Canova, he saw the need for professional outlets to ensure the regeneration of the arts in Rome. Whereas in the eighteenth century art patrons and audiences were found among the highly educated upper classes, after the era of revolution and the entry of the French into Rome, the shift in patronage became dramatic.65 The late eighteenth and early nineteenth century suffered from a decline of aristocratic patrons within the city, both from a loss of fortune and self-imposed exile; the flight of many clerical figures, including the pope; and the slow disappearance of tourism. Combined with the changing nature of students in Rome, who were arriving to study more often from working class backgrounds, the need for new professional opportunities was paramount. Minardi would have identified with the emerging class of artists, and he was not alone. Another young artist at the Piazza Venezia, Francesco Hayez, was raised by an uncle due to his impoverished circumstances. Canova himself was orphaned as a young child after his father’s death and his separation from his mother after her remarriage. Both Minardi and Canova were nurtured in their artistic interests by individuals outside of the traditional artistic ambit, a priest and uncle in the case of Minardi, and a stonecutter grandfather in Canova’s. Both artists would have recognized, sympathized and advocated for the new class of student artists, and deemed that financial viability and social mobility through the expansion of artistic applications were pressing concerns. Precisely because of his background and concern for his students, Minardi recognized the need for sustainable employment other than painting commissions. This approach was a dramatic break from the old order at the academy, where all efforts were aimed at

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developing Neoclassical painters. His own practice of translating sculptures by Canova or Thorvaldsen into graphic media for reproduction guided his efforts in revamping the curriculum to emphasize draftsmanship skills applicable to calcography. Originating in the fifteenth century, calcography was the process of engraving on copper plates to allow for the reproduction of imagery in books and periodicals. The clarity of line was crucial, and the accuracy of rendering determined a successful attempt. The Calcografia della Camera Apostolico was founded in Rome by Pope Benedict XIV in 1738, and provided a significant opportunity for new artists. Those effectively trained in draftsmanship were in demand, especially by Canova. The sculptor wrote to a friend in 1800, “…I have never seen the engraving of a statue that pleases me.”66 He considered few able to produce adequate drawings, or able to translate drawings into representative prints, and so he employed a consistent group of artists he could collaborate with closely. Minardi was one of these draftsmen, as were Bernardino Nocchi, Stefano Tofanelli, and Domenico del Frate. These artists were successful in separating the work from its ambience, utilizing value to create volume without augmenting effect, and fixing firm contours that could translate legibly into the printing process. In addition to Canova, the Venetian scholar Leopoldo Cicognara needed draftsman for his Storia della scultura dal suo Risorgimento in Italia al secolo di Napoleone, which was published as three volumes between 1813 and 1818. Minardi completed two significant illustrations for the publication, the reproduction of Nicola Pisano’s pulpit in Siena and the Arca di San Domenico in Bologna.67 Along with his experience translating sculpture, Minardi had also completed the translation of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment into print. He was well informed on the process, and pushed to develop a curriculum dedicated to training students for a career in reproducing images for publication. In 1833, he was elected member of the Artistic Commission of the Calcografia Camerale, and remained close with its Director, his former pupil Paolo Mercurio. Sadly, Minardi lost his partner in reform when on October 13th, 1822 Canova passed away, and with him his indomitable presence in Rome. As it was for many, Canova’s death was the loss of a mentor and champion for Minardi; he was the kind and patient supporter fondly remembered by countless artists whose studies brought them through Rome. Earlier in the year Minardi suffered the devastating loss of his first and dearest master, Giuseppe Zauli. He wrote to a friend, “I lost my maestro, my friend, my second father.”68 He was in Faenza to deliver the funeral oration, and then returned later in the year to do the same at the funeral of his father, Carlo Minardi. Also in July, his old friend and fellow artist, Michele Sangiorgi, the artist pictured next to Minardi in his drawing of Zauli as Socrates in Socrates and Alcibiades of 1807, died at the young age of 37. After 1822, and the passing of Canova, Rome started to move away from the French Neoclassical style, largely due to the efforts of Minardi. Before he retired from the academy due to health reasons in 1853, he shifted the discourse of painting, composition, and drawing decidedly towards the regeneration of Catholic subjects and early Renaissance models. He was particularly well-situated to influence students after 1829, when he assumed the role of Chair of Painting after the departure of Gaspare Landi. Simultaneously, he served as Professor of both Composition and Theory of Art. He retained this unrivaled influence over the pedagogy until 1836, when Filippo Agricola and Giovanni Silvagni assumed their positions as professor of Painting and professor of Composition and Theory, respectively.69 In other words, after 1822, the Accademia di San Luca entered a period of significant Minardi influence.

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Minardi’s Academic Discourse: Delle Qualità Essenziale della Pittura Italiana From his role within the academy, Minardi produced academic discourses to champion purity, morality, and piety; his work, in turn, visualized his principles. By the time of his ascension to the Chair of Drawing, any former evidence of Michelangelo’s or Caravaggio’s influence over him was gone, and instead, his work exuded a simplicity and clarity. His address to a gathering of the Pontifical Academy of Archeology and the Accademia di San Luca in 1834 perhaps best summarizes the path he laid out for students. The address, “On the essential quality of Italian painting from its Renaissance until the epoch of perfection” (“Delle qualità essenziali della pittura italiana dal suo Rinascimento fino all’epoca della perfezione”) predates by ten years similar statements by Antonio Bianchini in the Purist manifesto “On Purism in the Arts” (“Del Purismo nelle Arti”), attesting to a recognizable Purist aesthetic emerging much earlier than many authors recognize.70 In his address, Minardi answered the criticism levied against contemporary painters of religious imagery. In so doing, he not only challenged the beginning of the Romantic discourse in literature, painting, and politics, he clearly defended the virtue of the road to the ideal. If many who came later have been offended by the extreme precision, which they call dryness and miserable aridity, let them understand—these wordy babblers who understand nothing—that without dryness and aridity (we repeat the phrase with a smile) painting never would have arrived at its true perfection. I say this only for the sake of brevity. Woe to those young students who do not travel along the same road, narrow indeed, but straight and smooth.71 He proceeded by enumerating the three great epochs of Italian painting. In the first, he recognized the attainment of the ideal in the work of Giotto through his reduction of forms and their unity with nature. I repeat, then, that for these reasons there would be in the work of a mature painter, through natural necessity, maximum expression always united with the greatest simplicity and suitableness, unity of subject always proportioned to the subject itself, natural ingenuity, all born spontaneously from the first impressions of pure nature.72 The second epoch, corresponding to the Quattrocento, combined “naively formed geometry” with descriptive means, warning about the “weakening of expression” when the focus moved to material reality. With those of great genius, il Beato, or Masaccio, the “amalgamation of sentiment and artifice” is maintained through the virtue of geometry. In the third epoch of “perfection”—the epoch of Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael, and Titian—artists of great accomplishment were able to rectify the physical with perception, where “an effort at unity remained to be stabilized.”73 To Minardi, Raphael alone was the “sure guide,” as he created harmony through all parts of his compositions. In his “Della qualità essenziale…,” Minardi was reinforcing his earlier focus, the pictorial concerns he formulated while still in Perugia. Even earlier than his Roman address, in 1820, he had already proclaimed the primacy of Raphael’s example. Then, he wrote: For the first time composition was symmetrical without being monotonous, indeed with the infinite variety of nature: the grandiose gesture of clothes without excluding

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He’s clear, though, that all stems from a study of nature, and not the imitation of art. “Nothing ever came to a good end running counter to nature.”75 Implicit in this statement, and his reformation of the academic curriculum more generally, was the shift away from a French model. By establishing Raphael as the contemporary model, Minardi was exploiting a growing anti-French sentiment in the years following the occupation and annexation of Rome. Christopher M. S. Johns demonstrated how even Canova was affected by a growing distaste for the French before his death in 1822, leading him to choose religious subject matter over the mythological subjects which had established him as the titan of Neoclassicism.76 Minardi likewise placed an increasing emphasis on the religious models of the Renaissance, especially after his early years as a student. Whereas the ancien régime at the academy, represented by Camuccini and Wicar, continued to paint the ancient world as the paradigm of history painting, others eschewed the connection to the French Neoclassical school, seeing it as the propaganda that fueled the devastating and anti-papal forces of the French Revolution. Camuccini’s paintings from this era adopt the same stylistic precepts espoused by the French school, as seen in his Continence of Scipio, completed in 1835. Minardi’s support of the pope and Catholicism as representative of Rome’s glory lent to his address a subtext of political commentary. Minardi, in a later address in 1836, challenged the cultural dominance of the ancient world more directly, through subject as well as style. Focusing more on the unity, harmony, and piety of the subjects, he described the need for grand humility, “always quiet, simple, tranquil and solitary.”77 His ideological program formed, Minardi sought to apply his theory of idealism, one which aimed to capture the harmony and devotion in religious compositions, to his infrequent, yet still extant, paintings, as in his large scale altarpiece for San Andrea Quirinale, St. Stainslaus Kostka with saints Agnese, Cecilia e Barbara (Figure 3.9). The commission, made early in 1824 in order to commemorate the saint’s feast day in November, progressed slowly. Pietro Rossini, the Jesuit priest overseeing the commission, grew frustrated with Minardi’s pace. By September, Rossini removed the painting from Minardi’s studio and transferred it to the convent on the Quirinal Hill, and virtually held the artist prisoner until the work was completed. Even at this phase of his career, Minardi was reluctant to paint. Nevertheless, after its eventual completion, the finished composition was critically acclaimed by those moving in a Purist direction, and of course was panned by Camuccini and his school. The work refers to the young St. Stanislaus, a son of a Polish official who arrived at Sant’Andrea, or Montecavallo, in Rome in 1567 to take his vows in the Jesuit order. He was a young saint, only 17 years old, and had arrived on foot to escape the abusive treatment of an older brother. His fervent piety, which manifested in extreme asceticism, was linked to his declining health, causing him to interpret his fevers and hallucinations as visions and sacrifice. At his beatification in 1605, the story of his death became legend. Foretelling his own end, St. Stanislaus reportedly wrote a letter to the Virgin beseeching her to welcome him into heaven on her feast day two days on, the day he actually succumbed to his illnesses.

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Figure 3.9 Tommaso Minardi, Appartition of the Virgin to St. Stanislaus Kostka, 1825, o/c, Rome, San Andrea Quirinale Source: © Alinari / De Agostini Picture Library.

Minardi’s commission acts not only as a commemoration of the young saint’s life within the chapel bearing his name, it also heralded the growing bifurcation of the academy into those in the classicist camp, like Camuccini and Wicar, and those in the Purist camp, specifically Minardi and Overbeck. Minardi’s painting interacts with the already extant sculpture completed in the early eighteenth century by Pierre Le Gros of the young saint recumbent in illness before meeting the Virgin and ascending to heaven. Minardi does not picture the saint at all, but pictures the appearance of the Virgin, accompanied by three saints. Agnes holds her symbol of the lamb, Cecelia the harp, and Barbara is dressed in her red cloak. The saints, with the aid of putti figures, scatter roses and lilies on the path, welcoming Stanislaus. By having the Virgin and saints reach past the picture frame to the statue beyond, Minardi is employing the Baroque technique of coextensive space. The composition is far more dynamic than is typical, a far cry from the Neoclassical frieze-like arrangements as the figures reach out diagonally from the picture plane. Chromatically, this early treatment reveals Minardi’s admiration of Titian. The air is resplendent with the golden, atmospheric tones of northern Italian paintings, à la Correggio. Rather than color defined by the figure and its lineaments, Minardi acts closer to Landi, letting deep shadows encompass the figures and define the composition spatially. In so doing, Minardi does not sacrifice the precise drawing, clear contours, and idealized treatment that shows his quest for clarity and the ideal, but combines it with augmented, transcendent color. The figures are constructed with the reliance on nature in the manner of his Renaissance guides, specifically Raphael, to balance the ideal with truth. What he

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does not do here is apply the classical precision in rendering the figures, nor does he ascribe to an anticipated compositional scheme. As a result, this work leaps backward to the Renaissance, while simultaneously pushing forward from Neoclassicism to Purismo. Although Purismo is linked to the 1842 publication of Antonio Bianchini’s manifesto “Del Purismo nelle Arti,” earlier treatises by Leopoldo Cicognara and Bossi also address the notion of the ideal, but relate it specifically to Italian nationalism.78 Minardi’s St. Stanislaus Kostka provides an early visual example of Purist ideals, but grows out of the cultural debate underway earlier than Bianchini’s treatise, or even his own addresses to the Accademia. On its most basic terms, this cultural debate is reduced to the stylistic focus of the Classicists and the Romantics. Yet, the anti-classical discourse goes beyond the usually recognized Romantic voices affiliated with northern practices, and also indicates a growing nationalistic shift on the peninsula. Purismo also expanded artistic discourse beyond the classical to reignite an Italian tradition along the lines of the spiritual painting of Fra Angelico and Perugino. Cicognara’s Del Bello, which first appeared in 1808 and reappeared in subsequent editions before the artist’s death, championed the Greek ideal of beauty, but only as measured with the spirit of Dante, the italiana bellezza. The significance, I believe, to this outlook must be placed in context with the French occupation of the peninsula in 1808, its annexation in 1809, and subsequent spoliation of Rome’s artistic treasures. The French school, and its strict adherence to classical models, charged Neoclassicism with a political significance increasingly distasteful to Roman or Venetian artists in Canova’s or Cicognara’s circles. In Del Bello, Cicognara characterized beauty as distinct from the other less tangible elements of transcendence and grace, among other phenomenon. In doing so, he laid the foundation of a moral dimension to beauty that goes beyond the classicizing practice of the physical ideal. Cicognara placed greater value on nature, championing past artists not as models for composition or form, but as models in their quest for grace and the sublime. He acknowledged medieval and Renaissance Italian artists for their triumphs in interpreting nature simultaneously with the ideal. Perhaps more importantly, though, Cicognara’s aim was to direct artists away from the Neoclassical style as defined by the post-revolution French artists at the Villa Medici in Rome. It is important to note, here, that Cicognara was working in Venice, and published his treatise in Florence. His close connection and correspondence, even his collaboration with Canova made him a substantial presence in Rome as well. The artists Cicognara sent to Rome under Canova’s care at the Accademia del Regno Italico, namely Hayez and Demin, were there to reestablish the Italian school of painting for its cultural primacy. Minardi’s mature compositions like his St. Stanislaus Kostka, and other far more prevalent graphic examples, manifest this same concern, formed under Canova in the Roman and decidedly post-Napoleonic context. Minardi’s ease in drawing resulted in the 1836 Adoration of the Shepherds, which demonstrates his desire to respond to Cicognara through a composition embodying grace (Figure 3.10). In conjunction with an address to the Accademia di San Luca entitled Dissertazione sulla pittura del Presepio, this work almost comprises Minardi’s doctrine. In the 1836 address, Minardi advocated for humility, not seeking perfection, but truth. In the drawing, Minardi shows the shepherds and avoids the exalted subjects of the procession of the magi, or the triumph of the church. His figures are simple, simplified, and most certainly relate to the Quattrocento precedent of Perugino. As Maria Antonietta Scarpati observed, the humility and grace of the treatment attests to Minardi’s understanding of the composition in the context of Perugino and Umbria, not to mention the

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Figure 3.10 Tommaso Minardi, Adoration of the Shepherds, 1837, pen, brown ink wash and graphite on paper, New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art Source: © akg-images.

identity of the region to the humility and piety of St. Francis.79 Nature is not slavishly copied, but neither is Perugino and the Renaissance ideal. The beauty of the Virgin does not at all access classical prototypes, but indicates a grace that is most closely tied to ecclesiastical painting. This composition is one of three that Minardi completed on this theme specifically, but he spent his later career pursuing similar subjects in search of a spiritual model for contemporary culture. The shift away from the Neoclassical, French precedent was largely complete by the 1830s when Minardi presented his Dissertazione to the Accademia di San Luca. Instead, Roman culture was more affected by the residual republican spirit that Napoleon left behind. The Carbonari uprisings in the 1820s and 1830s indicated a cultural conflict

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within the peninsula, specifically Rome. Demonstrations for unification and an Italian republic contradicted papal authority in most cases. Except for the Neo-Guelph faction led by Gioberti, republican activists pushed for a republic based on inherently Enlightenment (illuministi) and therefore anti-papal principles. In the multitude of graphic compositions from Minardi’s later years, many of which are in deposit at the Accademia di San Luca, religious devotion seeks to counteract the decreasing influence of the church. Between 1822, when he returned to Rome, and 1842, when he signed the Purist Manifesto, Minardi completed compositions reconsidering sacred themes, including dozens devoted to saints and martyrs (St Joseph, St. Berandino, St. Cecelia, St. Anthony, Eudoro and Cymodocea, Christian marytrs), and others refiguring the holy family scene. Minardi’s Madonna of the Rosary from 1840 perhaps acts best as a bookend to the 1822 depiction of San Stanislaus Kostka (Figure 3.11). As paintings are rare in Minardi’s

Figure 3.11 Tommaso Minardi, Madonna of the Rosary, 1840, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Source: © Alinari / De Agostini Picture Library

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output, the work acts as an appropriate next milestone in the evaluation of his religious subject matter, and the integration of color with his treatment of light and form. Minardi’s disinclination to paint is evident in two ways, even at this mature point in his career. First, it took him an inordinately long time to complete the work, even considering its somewhat substantial size—nearly 3 by 4.5 feet—for this type of devotional image; in fact, he did not complete it until five years after the death of the patron, William Humble Ward, Lord Dudley. Secondly, Minardi fully developed the composition and tonal variations thoroughly in at least two preparatory drawings, one particularly close to the painting and now at the Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe degli Uffizi. The painting was only completed after a thoughtful, careful, and exhaustive preliminary process. The image, done two years before the publication of Bianchini’s “Del Purismo nelle Arti,” exemplifies the tenets of the Purist aesthetic—a grace achieved through the nature of the painter. In other and more recognizable terms, the Madonna of the Rosary exhibits Minardi’s understanding of the models of grace, namely from Raphael, but does not slavishly copy any artist to achieve this result. In the image, the Virgin interrupts her devotional reading to glance down at her child who playfully places her rosary beads around the sheep’s neck. He arrives at this truly Raphaelesque solution through his own investigation of harmonious color, the application of lights and darks, and the contours of the human forms. Yet, much about the work indicates its Renaissance precedent, including the arched canvas, the idealized sweetness of the Virgin’s face, and the natural interaction between the figures. Examination of several drawings in the same Virgin and Child genre indicates the variety of solutions Minardi explored, both in narrative and gesture. Rather than translate Raphael to a modern age, he approached the subject as Raphael did, always acknowledging with great humility his esteemed model. Specifically, in the Madonna of the Rosary, he explored the arrangement of forms in space through the twist of the Virgin’s torso and the shift of the Christ child on her lap. The shadows he determined in the preparatory phase allow him greater confidence in allowing forms to fall into areas of shadow, and he used value to construct the space beyond the figures. In addition, Minardi’s palette, perhaps due to his diffidence when it came to painting, is restricted largely to red and blue, without the reliance on the balance of color triads typical of Raphael. Down the center of the composition, Minardi utilized a bold, stark white in the halo, the trim of the Virgin’s garment, the lily, and the cloth wrapped around the Christ child. Rather than jewel-like colors or color harmonies, the glowing white organizes the composition around an inherent central triad. With his Madonna of the Rosary, Minardi solidified his mature artistic aesthetic within the terms of his religious ideological focus. His status at the Accademia di San Luca, especially after the passing of the Neoclassical champion Camuccini in 1844, was well-established. After the election in 1846 of Pope Pius IX, Minardi’s spiritual pictorialism, inspired by the glories of the Italian past and a supernational universalism, became Rome’s pictorial program.

Papal Primacy in the Prelude to the Risorgimento: Minardi’s Commission at the Palazzo Quirinale In 1842, Minardi reinforced the development of a nationalist artistic theory by signing his name to Bianchini’s Purist manifesto, Del Pursimo nelle Arti.80 Much of the “manifesto” first appeared in two lectures made to the Società romana degli amatori e cultori di Belle

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Arti in 1838 and 1839. As we have seen with Minardi’s works adhering to Purist tenets completed well before 1842, the essay confirmed rather than introduced Roman artistic sympathies in the years prior to unification. As Minardi had done in his 1834 address to the Accademia di San Luca, Bianchini adopted a defensive tone against the rising popularity of the Romantic movement, dominant largely in Milan. Rather than a manifesto, the document defends Purismo against accusations given voice by Neo-classicists and Romantics throughout the century. In it, Bianchini identified five major errors his contemporaries made when criticizing Purismo. First, he addressed the misassumption that painters “copy nature miserably and continually with every defect.” He continued by listing other misascribed “sins,” including artists returning painting to the childish phase of Cimabue; the mistaken notion of the hatred of Purist painters of chiaroscuro and the illustration of volume; the assumed condemnation by the Purist painters of Correggio, Michelangelo, and even the late works of Raphael; and finally, the inaccurate criticism of their failure to distinguish the times or places of the subject through costume or architecture. In addition to disproving these misassumptions, Bianchini vehemently denied the German origin of Purismo. In other words, rather than Overbeck and the other Nazarenes importing the Purist sensibility to Rome, Bianchini maintains Rome nurtured their spiritualism through the pictorial language already long extant in the artistic center. As Bianchini described it, echoing Minardi before him, Rome inspired artists not to copy a style or imitate an approach, but “what is seen should be cultivated in the imagination under the aspect preferred by each individual and should be reproduced in a manner according to each person’s inclination and strengths.”81 Bianchini’s systemization of the Purist aesthetic aimed to position Rome as a cultural guide and authority to the peninsula as a whole. Appearing as it did simultaneously with Gioberti’s Del Primato civile e morali degli Italiani, published in Brussels also in 1843, the Purist aesthetic furthered the primacy Rome might play in the unified state. With Camuccini’s death in 1844, the Neoclassical approach no longer challenged the religious orientation, and the French influence largely dissipated. The biggest challenge to the spiritualism and idealism of the Roman aesthetic came instead from the liberal political ideology in the north and its cultural manifestation in painting and literature. Purismo was a foil to the Romantic, liberal strategy for nationalism, and illustrated the strategy Rome would adopt during the Risorgimento. Minardi and Bianchini’s aesthetic program was unexpectedly bolstered in 1846 with the election of Cardinal Giovanni Maria Mastai-Ferretti as Pope Pius IX. Consequently, Rome pointed the way towards reformation of the old order, a brief progressivism that made unification seem plausible. This optimism was short-lived, ending with the reaction of the pope to the rise of democratic forces under the Roman Republic in 1848; before this drama, though, Pius IX’s early years encouraged those with a liberal outlook.82 In particular, he granted amnesty to prisoners held for their revolutionary activity, which boldly challenged the Austrian government’s attempt at authoritarian control. His more liberal policies towards education and the ministry to the poor were received by those throughout the papal states as significant steps towards a modernization of the Church. When Pius IX appointed the liberal Pellegrino Rossi as Secretary of State and implanted a new Constitution in 1848, significant liberal advances seemed attainable and imminent. When Rossi was assassinated in 1848, however, and the Republic threatened papal control, Pius IX responded by escaping into exile. When he returned in 1849, his reformminded approach was dramatically tempered. During the remainder of his years, until his

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death in 1878, he was far more reactionary and resistant to the notion of the Risorgimento and popular sentiment. Pius IX’s reluctance to engage in war with Austria and his protection of papal authority coincided with Minardi’s rise as a significant cultural authority at the Accademia di San Luca. Giovanna Capitelli described Minardi as the arbiter of Pius IX’s taste, and his commissions and official positions testify to his growing reputation.83 The most significant assignment came from Pius IX in 1847 shortly after his election and the commission to pictorialize the primacy of religious power for the Quirinal Palace. In typical Minardi fashion, he took over 15 years to complete and install the painting. The location is significant as the Quirinal is, and was, the locus of temporal power in Rome. Minardi was charged with validating the central and inviolable authority of the papacy through the iconography in his Mission of the Apostles (c. 1864) (Figure 3.12). It is with this commission that Minardi assumed the mantle of pictorial manifestation of Catholic authority in the new state. The date of the commission dated to a period directly before papal authority succumbed to the insurrection of the Roman Republic, but was actually completed much later, following the reinstatement of the papal government. As a result, the Mission of the Apostles, also known as The Propagation of Christianity, conveys a clear message about the political dominance and legitimacy of the Church. Whereas the promotion of the fine arts by the Catholic Church had declined during the early years of the century, the election of Pius IX saw a rise in church commissions at the Quirinal and the Vatican

Figure 3.12 Tommaso Minardi, Mission of the Apostles, 1864, fresco, Rome, Palazzo del Quirinale Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library / V. Pirozzi.

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that visually reinforced his political aspirations. At the Vatican, after an initial offer and appeal to Minardi for its decoration, the stanza dedicated to the Immaculate Conception was granted to Francesco Podesti. Both Podesti’s Proclamation of the Dogma of the Immaculate Conception and Minardi’s Mission of the Apostles projected the laws of the Church, relying on the same order and legibility that served Raphael at the height of the power, spiritual and temporal, of the Church. Minardi would certainly have understood the weight of his task. That in part could explain the length of time it took him to complete the work. Another reason, of course, was his reluctance to paint. The work itself is not a fresco by Minardi’s hand, but more likely his student, Luigi Fontana (1827–1908), who worked directly from the professor’s cartoon and studies.84 The location of the work was significant. Occupying the short wall of the Sala degli Ambasciatori, it occupies a space between the seventeenth-century frescoes made available by the reorganization of the palace by Napoleon. Three smaller rooms became one great hall that ran the length of the south side of the palace. As its name implies, this hall was to host dignitaries, as it still does today. The commission, the last made for the palace before Pius IX moved from the Quirinal to the Vatican, was a strong statement of the reach of the church to the four corners of the world. Representatives from a vast world would have recognized through this iconography the fundamental role of Rome and the Church. The painting depicts over 70 figures representing various aspects of Christian dogma. In the center of the composition and framed by a golden aureole, Christ holds the standard of the cross in one hand and an open book displaying the words ut omnes unum sint (“that they all may be one”) in his other.85 Directly beneath Christ are the Old Testament fathers Abraham and Moses, who sit directly above a stream from which both the lamb and the lion drink. On either side of the upper register, angels blow the trumpets of the Christian word throughout the world. Underneath them, the 24 elders from Revelations offer up incense, while women offer up their children, symbols of the first group of holy martyrs. On the outer edges, hazy images of pagan figures are driven from the frame. Life-sized figures dominate the foreground, and include not only the apostles, but also the evangelists. Inarguably these figures, and the fresco as a whole, reference the Catholic glory of the Renaissance, specifically through the chromatic richness balanced to enhance both the decorativeness and overall harmony of the scene. Their traditional garb and the semi-circular arrangement, reminiscent of Raphael at the Vatican stanzas, links the work to a much earlier era than the Baroque example by Carlo Maratta that hangs on the opposite wall. But even as the recognizable tones of Raphael dominate, the figures act with a purpose and mission; they do not stand idly in the presence of the word of God, but muster so that they may move out to transmit, disseminate, and perpetuate the centrality of the Church. Although stylistically adhering to the Purist method, Minardi diverged from the pictorial philosophy of the German Nazarenes, the artists most often used to describe Purist spiritualism in painting. A contemporary work by Overbeck, The Triumph of Religion in the Arts, possesses a similar declarative intent, but pictures a very different context and message (Figure 3.13). As both Overbeck and Minardi signed Bianchini’s treatise during the time these two works were completed, the similarity in approach cannot be dismissed. The works share historical models, and a clarity in composition and description. The unity of the two branches of Roman and German Purismo is unassailable, and readily calls to mind Overbeck’s painting Italia e Germania from 1828.86 Yet, Overbeck’s Triumph is more directly based on Raphael’s Disputà composition, and in the end employs a different stylistic approach. The result is a very different thematic emphasis. While Minardi

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Figure 3.13 Friedrich Overbeck, The Triumph of Religion, 1831, o/c, Frankfurt, Städelsches Kunstinstitut und Städtische Galerie Source: © De Agostini Picture Library / akg-images.

championed religion and the centrality of the Roman Church, Overbeck provides perhaps the most convincing argument for the harmony between art and religious piety. The Overbeck was completed between 1829–1840 for the Städelsches Kunstinstitut in Frankfurt. It mimics the “domed” composition of the Raphael, with the Virgin and Child surrounded in the upper register by figures from the Old Testament and the apostles; St. Luke kneels in the act of drawing and King David kneels with his lyre. The lower composition, however, presents the viewer with an entirely different cast of characters. Pre-mannerist artists consume themselves with the practice of poetry, church building, and the arts. Dante and Petrarch are conspicuous on the left, and directly behind the fountain Leonardo is talking with Holbein. Dürer looks out from the back in the presence of Raphael, and could that be Michelangelo with his broken nose and moody demeanor peeking from behind a figure remarkably like the probable portrait of Antonello da Messina? On the far

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left, Overbeck mimics Raphael’s self-portrait in The School of Athens by including himself with then director of the Städelsches Kunstinstitut, Philipp Veit. Unsurprisingly, Il Beato himself receives pride of placement on the center right. All things considered, the difference in iconography is incidental. What is far more significant to the study of the nineteenth century is the way each artist interpreted the Purist program. Overbeck’s sharp linearity, what Friedrich Schlegel described as “sober and naïve,” is in marked contrast with Minardi’s softened contours and areas of fluid chiaroscuro.87 Overbeck was clear that his “deliberate primitivism,” as Gossman describes it, was meant to avoid the virtuosity of artists working after Raphael, when religious figures appeared as “idols—not servants of holiness.”88 What Gossman recognized in Overbeck’s consistent clarity throughout the picture plane is a descriptive democracy, a concentration on all figures equally, the secondary figures as well as the primary ones. To Gossman, this indicates an avowal of anti-absolutist ideology, a “reconciliation” between art and morality by seeing all parts of the composition in service of the whole.89 Morality, from a more general Purist perspective, takes on a different tenor in Minardi’s Mission of Apostles. Unity is aided by the decorative color and the use of chiaroscuro within the landscape to organize the picture plane; as a result, the liveliness and verism of his figures does not read as “virtuosity” or “idolatry.” Around them, Minardi allows for the color to glow atmospherically, without the constriction of color to line. The movement of the figures that Overbeck freezes in his composition allows Minardi to embody the mission of the Church to spread Christianity from the center of power in Rome. From the throne room of the Quirinal Palace, visitors and dignitaries convened to pay homage to the pope and his primacy on the world stage, then went forth with the message of the apostles. As the apostles were mustering for their Catholic mission, moving towards the edge of the frame to continue outside, Minardi used the natural effects of light within space to disseminate the Catholic word. The discrepancy between Minardi and Overbeck relates to content, then. Minardi’s stylistic distinction linked him to a Rome of an earlier age, and the other glorious examples of religious painting in the Renaissance. His work does not champion religion separate from Rome, but uses a Roman stylistic idiom to affirm apostolic succession, and consequently the continued supremacy of Rome.90 Minardi’s embodiment of this aim, to pictorialize and legitimize the Roman church within a period of great nationalistic fervor, supported Pius IX’s cultural program and his stance on papal infallibility defined by the First Ecumenical Council of the Vatican in 1869–1870. Susinno described his aim to use sacred images, including this one, to “erect a fragile bulwark and severe warning against a world where secular and liberalist forces, nationalist and anti-absolutist, would end up prevailing.”91 The Quirinal project is only one indication of Minardi’s central position in Pius IX’s cultural program. He served in many official capacities. Pius IX placed him on the commission overseeing restoration of Church properties and decorations. Among the locations where he acted as consultant during restoration are the Basilica of St. Paul, Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, San Lorenzo in Lucina, San Lorenzo furoi le mura, and Santa Maria in Trastevere.92 He assumed the prestigious position as Overseer of Vatican Mosaics, and was an advisor at the Calcografia Camerale. Beyond the Pope’s recognition of his importance as cultural advisor, his artistic achievements were recognized by the honorary positions throughout Europe. In 1868, after unification was institutionalized under the Piedmontese House of Savoy, Vittorio Emanuele II awarded him the highest honor of the new state, Commendatore della Corona d’Italia.

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His new advisory role coincided with a significant decline in his health. In 1854, he suffered a grave illness. Although not described in the De Sanctis biography, Ovidi’s brief mention of a treatment involving quinine suggests that he had contracted malaria. The illness required a long convalescence, and Minardi’s friends Angela and Francesco Ovidi, the biographer’s parents, nursed him back to health.93 It was this point in his career that De Sanctis visited him and recorded his memories. Looking back on his career, after the events of 1848 and his constant struggles with Camuccini and the classical school dominant during the first decades of the century, Minardi had the opportunity to frame his past for De Sanctis, and took the opportunity to emphasize the constancy of his piety. After his recovery, Minardi continued to be productive and complete major commissions, including his Mission for the Apostles for the Quirinal. He retired his teaching role at the Accademia di San Luca to do so, although he continued to work with students privately from his new studio in the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj, where he moved after invitation by Filippo Andrea V Doria. Prior to moving, he began the redecoration of the palace Chapel after the eighteenth-century renovations of the interior. Minardi completed the Coronation of the Virgin, which comprises the largest work for the vault of the chapel. Large in scale, this work is consistent with the Mission of the Apostles for its decorative and brilliant color, reconceived conception of the composition, and his careful balance of nature and the ideal. Susinno described the work as Late Purismo, for its difference in coloration and the absence of the golden tonality from his earlier works.94 To a certain extent, the additional sweetness (monumentale confetto) and limitation of Minardi’s usual accomplished chiaroscuro may be explained by his collaboration with his most faithful and devoted student, Cochetti, who participated in other areas of the chapel. Although this work occupied a less accessible and official space, his studio’s proximity to the location perhaps offered a personal connection that inspired him in his remaining years. His productivity during these years, from 1854 to 1868, cemented his identification as the leader of the Roman Purist style. The time away from teaching allowed him the focus to finish commissions, many of which had been begun years earlier, and to complete works that were in keeping with both his patriotic and religious outlook. Everything changed, however, in June 1868, when he suffered a debilitating stroke that left him paralyzed on his left side. De Sanctis gave an intimate account of his visit to the artist the night before the stroke. When he entered the studio, he found Minardi drawing, in the company of his “faithful lantern,” the one De Sanctis remembered from his evening visits to the master while a young student. Minardi’s shoes were drenched by a visit to the Casa di Livia, not yet excavated at that point. The concerned pupil implored the master to get out of his wet clothing, but Minardi, occupied with his drawing, said it was not worth the effort as he would be retiring soon anyway.95 After the stroke, he was not affected cognitively, but his public interactions almost entirely ceased. Instead, he once again relied on the care of Angela Ovidi, and in recognition of this service and friendship, he left her and her husband a portion of his studio and papers, including the many drawings he had assembled for students as compositional guides. Under the oversight of Ernesto Ovidi, these letters and drawings were appropriately archived in the Fondo Ovidi at the Accademia di San Luca. Minardi passed away on January 8th, 1871. Five years later, on June 15th, 1876 he was celebrated by fellow artists on the occasion of the installation of Luigi Fontana’s life-sized portrait at the Campo Verano outside Rome. Among the many dignitaries to speak was Professor Cesare Mariani (1826–1901), who was named Academician of Merit at the

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Accademia di San Luca in 1863 and would go on to serve as the academy’s President from 1888 to 1890. Also a former student of Minardi’s, Mariani qualified the importance of Minardi in the Roman ambit during the Ottocento. He recognized Minardi as “[opening] the door for a long and industrious path towards the transformation of art … [his] light and powerful genius saw how necessary it was for a radical reform in the methods of teaching within the studio.”96 Even though he was commonly recorded for his conservatism and adherence to the past, his reforming intentions were understood by his students. He demonstrated how to engage with his time, and refocused instruction towards nature to spur future and independent investigations.

Conclusion: Minardi’s Devotion to Church and State Minardi is not the first artist to come to mind when considering Rome during the Risorgimento. He is not even the first when considering Rome of the nineteenth century. Yet, when Rome is studied outside the customary framework of the shift between Neoclassicism and Romanticism, and instead contemplates the particularity of its ambit, the way it was administered by the Church’s claim of temporality and legitimacy, Minardi is the obvious choice to represent the city’s aesthetic. Moreover, where his adherence to Purist principles may at first seem to promote a regional, even supernational point of view and thereby deny patriotic sentiment or intention, his iconographic strategies and references to the early Renaissance accounted for a distinctly patriotic spirit based in cultural terms. De Sanctis, who published his biography on Minardi in 1899 well after unification, validated such a claim. He addressed Minardi’s patriotism directly, and as a result added a dimension to Minardi rarely considered by later scholars. First, he acknowledged Minardi’s enthusiasm for Vincenzo Gioberti’s Del Primato morale of 1845, but he also described Minardi’s attachment to Massimo d’Azeglio’s La disfida di Barletta from 1833, a story strongly linked to the Risorgimento and one that made Minardi’s heart “beat with the love for the fatherland.”97 Whereas Gioberti provided a conservative approach to unification, preserving the historical dominance of the church as the administrative center for an envisioned Italy, d’Azeglio captured the imagination of the Italians so to nurture their distrust of the foreign invader. When d’Azeglio, as with other Italian Romantics, reconfigured the models for contemporary subject matter, they left behind the classicism of the revolutionary era to incorporate references from the medieval and Renaissance periods, those epochs when Italians were, if not unified, at least sovereign. Those artists and authors who identified as Romantics, namely d’Azeglio and Hayez, focused on the political actions and uprisings of these historical periods in an effort to incite the passions of the contemporary viewer. Scholars only link Minardi to Romanticism through his moody and isolated 1813 Self-portrait in a Garret, but he drew from the same eras for his Purist aesthetic as those clearly aligned with Romanticismo Storico; his religious subjects recall the height of Italian sovereignty during the early centuries of the Renaissance. De Sanctis’ anecdote of an encounter late in Minardi’s life affirms a patriotic spirit beyond the pictorial solutions of his Purist compositions. As the biography appeared decades after unification, De Sanctis felt the need to explain Minardi’s particular brand of patriotism, the Neo-Guelph approach of Gioberti.98 In 1868, De Sanctis visited Minardi after the elder artist’s stroke and resulting paralysis. De Sanctis was accompanied by a Russian countess, identified as Tscheliekeff. As they entered, they found Minardi

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comfortably reading in an armchair. He was in good spirits and eager for the company, but responded negatively to the young countess when she spoke to him in French. “I have never wanted to speak foreign languages out of a certain national pride. See, I know French, but I always have been hesitant to use it.”99 In addition, De Sanctis described how devoted Minardi was to Gioberti’s texts, and remembered the long discussions of Primato, but also Gioberti’s Del Rinnovamento Civile d’Italia from 1851, which was a reaction to the papal resistance to and dismissal of a unified civil society under a papal administration. In Del Rinnovamento, Gioberti shifted sharply towards a democratic ideology; Pius IX responded by placing the book on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum. Pictorially, Minardi aligned himself with Gioberti and the pope both, picturing the renewal of spiritual art while completing papal commissions validating the apostolic succession. His reticence to comment more directly, according to De Sanctis, could be read as resignation or disinterest, rather than “the result of his early devotions.”100 Cautious, perhaps, but Minardi was fearful of precipitous change and the violent, unsustainable climate resulting from the 1848 insurrections. Nevertheless, late in his life, he clearly articulated his civic patriotism. Patriotism takes many forms. Risorgimento scholars have largely focused on the forthright, immediate expressions of artists relying on political allusion or the display of italianità. Yet, the more muted and traditional patriotism of Minardi is no less authentic or aspirational of a national identity.

Notes 1 Minardi dictated his autobiography in 1854 to his former pupil and friend, Guglielmo De Sanctis, who published it as Tommaso Minardi e il suo tempo in 1899. 2 See Olson (1992) 112–13. 3 Susinno (2009) 13: “…laboratorio di una pittura di state che avrebbe conosciuto una diffusione universal…” 4 Susinno (1991) 399–400, and reprinted in Susinno (2009) 113: Roma interpreta il proprio ruolo orignale sulla scena dell’arte fintato che esso coincide con quello storico di città universal sottratta ai particolare nazionalistici. Con il procedure in senso nazionale e unitario della storica dell’Italia ottocentesca, Roma vede non soltanta tramontare la sua carraterizzione universalistica in rapporto all scena politica del tempo ma anche ridursi fino alla vanificazione il suo range di capitale artistica o comunque di polo irrunciabile in quell’intreccio di dialoghi con Parigi, Vienna o San Petersburg nel quale consisteva la sua specficità speciale. 5 De Sanctis 33: In Italia, come altrove, si propagò ben presto la moda del falso classicism, ed entrarono per quella via il Benvenuti ed il Sabbatelli in Firenze, il Bossi e l’Appiani a Milano e a Roma il Camuccini, i quali tutti nelle Accademie, con autorità assoluta, dettavano legge: nuova scuola, che era la negazione del sentiment italiano nell’arte. 6 Ibid. 38: “Questi, con la facondia e con gli scritti esortò gl’Italiani a non insozzare l’idioma native di voci e modi stranieri, e quegli, con gli esempi e con gli ammaestramenti, tenne sempre vivo il culto dei grandi maestri.” 7 Ovidi xvii: “…quindi il bisogno anche nell’arte di una nuova evoluzione, la quale si ispirasse ad un sentiment più proprio, più caratteristico del genio nazionale, e meglio consentano alla nostra gloriosa tradizione.” 8 Ventra 316.

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9 For a copy of Gioberti’s text, see Mack Smith (1968) 74–5, and for further discussion on the Bianchini, see Susinno (2009) 43. 10 See also Faldi 238–46. 11 Ibid. 239–40. 12 De Sanctis 3ff. 13 Ibid. 10: “Alla lettura della Bibbia si aggiunse quella degli Evangeli, tradotti da Remigio fiorentino, nei qulai la passione di Gesù Cristo mi commoveva sino alle lacrime.” Also, p. 9 “…raccontava confusamente ad altri i fatti biblici.” 14 Ibid. 10–11: “Ma le mie zie, principalmente un ache faceva la dottoressa, sempre mi ragionavano quanto miserabile fosse l’arte del pittore, e me ne davano degli esempi, ai quali io non poteva oppormi…” 15 Susinno 193. 16 De Sanctis 20–1. 17 On Camuccini’s career in Rome, see Hiesinger (1978) 297–98. Camuccini was named Director of Vatican Mosaic Studios in 1803, Superintendent of the Vatican Picture Galleries in 1809, and Inspector of Public Paintings, in 1814. 18 De Sanctis 23: “…appresi a riguardar con sospetto certe dottrine allora in gran voga ed a rendermi sempre più desideroso dello studio e della solitudine.” 19 Boime 90. 20 On Giani, see Poppi, translated in Olson (1992) 43–50 and 268, Susinno (1991) 402. 21 See Rudolph 175–88. 22 Poppi 44–5 and translated in Olson 44–5. 23 De Sanctis 21: “…ispirandosi alle antiche grottesche e allo stile raffaellesco…” 24 Ovidi 6: “…un sorprendente poeta improvvisatore, pieno di fantasia, studioso e ricco di idee classiche.” 25 For more on Accademia del Regno Italico, see Poppi 43–60 and Susinno (1992) 93–106, and Mazzocca (2008) 28ff. 26 Susinno (1991) 121: In palazzo Venezia, nell’Accademia del Regno Italico (1809–1814), convergono le forze intellettuali di aree economicamente e culturalmente più aperte al contributo europeo; i giovani che da Bologna (Minardi, Sangiorgi, Guizzardi), da Venezia (Hayez, Demin), o da Milano (Tognoli) raggiungono Palagi a Roma per apprendere l’arte sotto la direzione di Giuseppe Tambroni e la supervision affettuosa e partecipe di Canova, sono anche importatori di una vision più duttile e aperta del mestiere, non figli d’arte formati in una bottega familiar, bensì nuovi professionisti, di estrazione generalmente piccolo-borghese, che hanno indivduato nella prassi dell’arte un destino umano e sociale di maggior prestigio. 27 For Canova’s nationalism—his italianità—and his complicated relationship with the French, see Johns 39ff. 28 Susinno (2009) 122. 29 De Sanctis 25. 30 Ibid. 36: “Il Canova seguì ne’suoi concepimenti lo spirit del tempo, interamente pagano, e fondò una scuola incapace d’infondere nelle opera quello spiritualism, che è proprio dell’arte Cristiana, alla quale poi tornarono il Thorwaldsen ed il Tenerani.” 31 Olson 271. 32 De Sanctis 141: “Il Minardi quando era costretto a dipingere, diveniva taciturno e preoccupato. Recavasi assai per tempo allo studio e si gingillava un poco in piccole faccende…” 33 On the Nazarenes in Rome see Gossman, McVaugh (1981) 6 and Thimann 255ff. 34 Gossman 26. 35 For example, Andrews, Frank, and Forster-Hahn. 36 Gossman 38. 37 McVaugh (1984) 442–52. 38 De Sanctis 33: “…la moda del falso classicismo.” 39 Susinno (1982) 40. 40 De Sanctis 41–2: “… sconforti ed angustie senza fine…”

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41 Susinno (2009) 185–202. 42 De Sanctis 41–2: I migliori anni della mia giovanezza l’ho spesi intorno a questa copia, che tutte prendeva le mie giornate e mi toglieva animo di accettare nuove commissioni; talchè mentre la fortuna con largo mano mi offriva i suoi doni, mi era affatto impossible afferrarli. 43 Susinno (1982) 188: “…traducendo dal suo specchio ideale: la pittura di Raffaele.” 44 De Sanctis 47: “…passava le ore del giorno e della note” and: Sotto la sua direzione, quella di Perugia non era più un’Accademia, bensì una scuola private, come assai ve n’rano ai beati tempi dell’arte, alloquando era sincera fratellanza tra maestri e scolari, e questi venivano ognuno, quasi per mano, guidati nel difficile cammino. 45 On Minardi’s pedagogical and mentorship concerns, see Susinno (2009) 171–84 and 185–91. 46 Corbo 131–41. 47 Ibid. 134: L’autorità venerate dell’E. V. può scorgere in tal modo all’ottimo scopo l’elezzione indicate, ed hanno i riccorrenti fiducia che l’E. V. non dubiterà di pore in mezzo tale l’autorità trattandosi, di promuovere il public (sic) bene, e la gelosa nomina di un Maestro delle pieghevole gioventù per istruirla nella purezza, e nella semplicità dello stile, preggi appunto che si trovano nel Minardi. 48 Wicar, reprinted in Corbo 135: “Potrei con di dissipare ogni sospetto; e la Scuola Pubblica e S.E. non avrebbero il rammarico di aver lasciato eleggere un cattedraitico una persona molto inferior a me.” 49 Ventra 309. 50 Ibid. 319. 51 De Sanctis 47: “… sincera fratellanza tra maestro e scolari.” 52 Ibid. 47–54: La qual cosa dispacque ai vecchi professori e se ne dolsero col Cardinal Camerlengo, il quale, senz’altro, mandò a chiamare il nuovo maestro e lo ammonì di mostrarsi meno premuroso verso la gioventù: non essere bene far sfigurare gli altri. Ovidi (35) doubted this exchange took place as stated in De Sanctis’ account. 53 Cenni sull’inaugurazione del monumento…1876, 13–16 and 28–30: “…l’amore dell’arte e del lavoro.” 54 Dupré 254–60: Ho detto che il Minardi era come un padre, ed è vero; trattava i giovanni alunni come figlioli, e li teneva nel proprio studio ed ho veduto in quell tempo il consoni, il Mariani, il Marianecci ed altri molti intorno scherzare piacevolmente col venerato maestro. 55 Dupré 275: “Fatti animo, figlio mio; levati dal capo codeste fisime, torna a Firenze, riprendi i tuoi lavori con coraggio, e abbi più fiducia in te, nelle tue forze.” 56 On this unusual drawing, see Susinno (1982) 123–25. 57 On Camuccini and his background see Barilli (1992) 260, Hiesinger (1978) 297ff, and Susinno (1991) 400ff. 58 De Sanctis 57: “…incapace di ritrarre con sincerità il vero.” 59 Susinno (2009) 192: “Lo scopo principalismo, e di altissime importanza nel primo periodo degli studi di disegno che il giovane acquisti una tal esattezza d’occhio e di mano alla imitazione delle cose, che non gli sfuggano neanche le ultime particole delle medesisme.” See also Ovidi 37–8. 60 Ovidi 39–40.

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61 Scotti 22–3. 62 Ventra 305ff; Dupré 258. 63 For this very personal drawing see Susinno (1982) 80. Until 2019, the drawing was mistakenly identified as a self-portrait with a tutor. 64 De Sanctis 136–39. 65 Johns 21. 66 Reprinted in Honour 262. See also Guerrini 166. 67 Cicognara 80ff. 68 T. Minardi to Signor a Lazi, from Rome, 30 marzo 1822, reprinted in Rossi Scotti 36: “Ho perduto il mio maestro, il mio amico, il mio secondo padre.” 69 Susinno (1982) 84. 70 Reprinted in Joshua Taylor 174–94. 71 Taylor 184. 72 Minardi 7: Dunque, ripeto per le ragioni accennate saranno nella pittura dell’adulto per necessità di natura massima espressione sempre uniti a massima semplicità e convenienza, unità di soggetto sempre propozionata al soggestto stesso, ingenua naturalezza in tutto, perché tutto nasce spontaneo dale prime impressioni, dal primo concetto della pura natura. 73 Ibid. 15: “…cospirando alla unità, restava a stabilirsi nella terza epoca.” 74 For the original text see in FABAAS, Titolo C, Atti fino al 1820 lettere e relazione fatta per le pitture di S. Savero, reprinted in Migliorati 280: …si vide per la prima volta perfettamente stabilito il compor simmetrico senza monotonia, anzi con la infinita varietà della natura: il gesto grandioso dei panni senza escludere le parti minute: il dare ragione di tutte le minute parti senza cader nel secco; il casuale e spontaneo andamento delle pieghe senza confusione e senza ledere l’andamento del nudo sottoposto; somma grazie unita a somma dignità e sostenutezza; masse grandi di chiaroscuro con una dolcezza a cui nulla poco sopra in seguito aggiungeva. 75 Ibid. 26: “Contro natura nulla mai giunse a buon fine.” 76 Johns 26. 77 For Minardi’s “Disseratazione sulla pittura del presepio Accademia di Arcadia” from 1836, see Ventra 319: “…sempre quieta, semplice, tranquilla e solinga.” 78 For texts to the polemical treatises on Ottocento aesthetics, see Barocchi. 79 Scarpati 263. 80 Bianchini first published the essay in the Neapolitan journal Lucifero in 1842, but it was then released as a pamphlet in 1843. 81 Bianchini 211–13. 82 Riall 19–20. 83 Capitelli (2007) 43–55. 84 Susinno (1982) 287. 85 As the site of the fresco, now the official residence of the Italian President, is mostly inaccessible, I have relied on photographic evidence and the description reprinted by Susinno (1982) 286–87 of Luigi Dall’Olio, who published a pamphlet on the fresco in 1864. 86 Thimann (2005) 255–78. 87 F. Schlegel, “Report on the Paintings in Paris 1802–1804” taken from Gossman 149. 88 Frank 107. 89 Gossman. 90 Thimann 271–72. 91 Susinno (1982) 287: Non sembri artificioso ipotizzare un nesso di collegamento tra simili imprese artistiche ed i problem politici dello Stato che vedeva di anno in anno erodersi la sua crediblità nel contesto delle nazioni europei; e non si può non cogliere il valore anche di “vessilla fidei” di tante sacre rappresentazioni, erette quale ultimo fragile baluardo e severo monito ad

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un mondo dove le forze laiche e liberiste, nazionali ed anti-assolutiste avrebbero finite ineluttabilmente per prevalere. 92 93 94 95 96

97 98 99 100

For a full list of Minardi’s papal appointments, see Susinno (1982), Ovidi, G. De Sanctis. Ovidi 83ff. Susinno (1982) 272. De Sanctis 213–14. For the proceedings of that day, including text of the many speeches given in Minardi’s honor, see Cenni sull’inaugurazione del monumento…1876, including C. Mariani on pp. 13– 14: “Minardi aperto la porta per il lungo ed operoso cammino verso quella trasformazioni dell’arte … Il lucido e potente ingegno di Tommaso Minardi vide quanto necessaria fosse una radicale riforma nei metodi d’insegnamento e di studio.” De Sanctis 133. Ibid. 134–35. Ibid. 135: “Non ho mai vouto parlare lingue straniere per certo orgoglio nazionale. Veda, il francese lo conosco, ma ho sempre scansato di usarlo.” Ibid. 136: “…il frutto della prima educazione.”

4

Francesco Hayez and the Rise of History Painting during the Risorgimento

Frame: 1814 Spring came early to Rome in 18141. Just my luck, thought Hayez as he looked out the window of his studio over the Piazza San Marco. By this time next week, he would be gone, off to Florence under less than auspicious circumstances. The sun was moving low over the Teatro Argentina, and the young artist sat idle, somewhat despondent, ignoring the study for the Ulysses and Alcinous underway on his easel. With the promise of spring and the hope of a new commission, Hayez should be on top of the world. Instead, he sat, avoiding the task of packing up his studio. By far his most impressive commission to date, the Ulysses and Alcinous marked the first real recognition for Hayez. He had received such positive reviews from Signore Diedo in Venice. Diedo, Secretary of the Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia, had connections, and could really make a difference for his career. Besides, Hayez could stretch out his studies with Professore Canova no longer. It was time to show his mentors, Canova and the conte Cicognara both, that their faith in him was not misplaced. An important commission would do just that. The work sat neglected today, though, as it reminded him of the shame and frustration consuming him. No, today was for packing his belongings and preparing for travel, a task he took as an unwelcome interruption to the work he wanted to do. His internal disturbance was heightened by the knowledge that he alone was responsible for this outcome. His own actions, reckless and impulsive, had caused Canova to act as he had and demand Hayez leave Rome for Florence until the situation cooled. No doubt he wanted Hayez to learn a lesson about professional decorum, as well. The sculptor, normally paternal and indulgent, had employed an unusually exasperated tone, and Hayez left his studio at the Palazzo feeling mortified. He wanted the Professore to know this lesson was already learned. He knew in his heart that his actions, and what he considered adventurous and playful behavior, had derailed the momentum of his career and were now leading him away from the stimulation and camaraderie of Rome. He thought back to the circumstances that landed him in this predicament. First, there were the disruptive, but still harmless antics he performed with his fellow pensioners at the academy, although he was always in the lead. Hayez was proud of the galvanizing effect he had on the other artists, all who looked to him as a lively and youthful distraction to offset their rigorous, academic studies. Scaling the Trevi Fountain to reach Neptune’s head was perhaps ill-advised, maybe even a bit treacherous, but Hayez considered it a release from the pressures of study. Walking through the streets blindfolded,

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even the congested streets of the via dell’Orso, was likewise a relatively harmless lark. Neither of those would cause more than a mild irritation to Canova, though, nor even to the less tolerant Giuseppe Tambroni, consul of Rome who oversaw the academy. If only he had limited his attentions to this type of mild prank and his work, of course, he would be staying in Rome. The real cause of Hayez’s circumstances was his difficulty in ignoring beauty, especially when its embodiment lived so near his own studio in the form of the seductive surgeon’s wife. In all honesty, it was her actions, not his, that began the whole affair; she was the one who walked into his studio in the middle of the night while he was sleeping. From that point on, though, Hayez was consumed with her and made sure to always leave his door unlocked. He spent less time with his colleagues after dinner engaged in artistic debate, and more time with her in amorous bliss. Although both attempted discretion—not difficult with her husband always away—they were discovered soon enough. Her pull was powerful, and what began as an exciting diversion soon became a compulsion. Regardless, he should have honored his promise to his colleagues to break off the affair after the surgeon became aware. Then, two nights ago something happened which sealed his fate, at least as far as Canova and Tambroni were concerned. While climbing the tower stairs outside his studio in the evening darkness, he was met by a shadowy figure who knocked him down. Stunned more than injured, Hayez struggled to his feet as his neighbor, the architect Luigi Rossini, appeared from the stairs above. Rossini was disturbed to see Hayez in his state, and helped him right himself. It was only then that Hayez found out his attacker was Costanza V., the surgeon. More troubling was the discovery that Hayez was more harmed than he at first realized, as the surgeon had actually wounded him with a blade. With the seriousness of the attack, Hayez was not able to convince Rossini to keep the information quiet from his Professore or Tambroni. So now, at the beginning of his fourth year as pensioner, the privileged additional year he had only just accepted, he was packing his studio and leaving Rome. He would transfer his studies to the Florentine academy to avoid any remaining danger or personal conflict. Canova did not hide his disappointment, which, for the young artist, was the hardest part of the entire episode. The kindly, patient, and infinitely knowledgeable sculptor had up until now indulged Hayez’s excesses in personality as the spirit and passion of a promising young artist. He saw Hayez’s talents as a way to return glory to Italian, especially Venetian, painting. Of course, that would not happen if the young artist continued to act recklessly and court peril. With the sun gone and the wintery chill returning to the air, Hayez’s eyes left the adjacent piazzas—his view took in both the Piazza Venezia and Piazza San Marco—to rest on the box in the corner of his studio. Inside moved one of the snakes who had shared his space ever since it acted as a model for his 1812 Laocoön. He had bought the two snakes from a merchant who had found them in the fields around the Castel Sant’Angelo. His intention had been to free them in the countryside, but he had not done so yet. Now, there was little time. It would not do to leave them behind after all the trouble he had already caused. He had no time to travel out to Tivoli to free them. Besides, they had grown to over two meters long. How could he even get them to the fields around the Castello? With an ounce of mischief or a pound of desperation, Hayez came up with a solution. Hoping to avoid detection, he lowered the first snake from the merlon at the corner of the Palazzo Venezia and the church of San Marco Evangelista. Again, chance plotted against him and brought a procession to the front of the church precisely at the moment the snake shifted and fell to the piazza. The terrified parishioners screamed and

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scattered as the serpent disrupted the peacefulness of the evening, causing the chaos Hayez seemed unable to avoid. Meanwhile, his other serpent model rested in the fountain in the courtyard of the Palazzo Venezia, waiting to surprise other unwitting inhabitants. Hayez certainly knew now, if not before, that Florence was not a precaution; it would be his much-deserved penance.

Milan: Passion, Politics, and Painting Similar to Minardi, Hayez used an early self-portrait to characterize the artistic climate in Milan during the Ottocento (Figure 4.1). He painted himself, at this point in his mid-30s,

Figure 4.1 Francesco Hayez, Self-Portrait with Friends Migliara, Palagi, Grossi, Molteni, 1827, o/c, Milan, Museo Poldi Pezzoli Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library / G. Cigolini.

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amidst four friends who were all immersed in the emerging Romantic ideology and political fomentation. This group portrait is notable for how it recalls an earlier selfportrait by the Milanese artist Giuseppe Bossi (1777–1815) done in 1809, which depicts the artist among three friends: Gaetano Cattaneo, Giuseppe Taverna, and Carlo Porta (Figure 2.2). Together, the four figures in Bossi’s earlier portrait represent the currents of the Romantic movement arising out of Enlightenment influences in Milan. Porta is the literary figure mentioned in Chapter 1 for his affiliation with the journal Il Conciliatore, and the literary salon known as the Cameretta Portiana, both which appeared after Bossi’s death; Taverna was a cleric and educator; and Cattaneo was not only the cousin of the Risorgimento activist Carlo Cattaneo, he was a Romantic and radical poet in his own right. Seen in relation to the 1809 Bossi group portrait, Hayez’s painting from 1827 shares a similar ambiguous setting and an informal arrangement of figures. But where Bossi showed himself in a darkened background, looking out from the depths of shadow, Hayez placed himself prominently in the center of the composition. He looks out at the viewer as if to introduce himself to the Milanese community, surrounded by fellow Romantic intellectuals, the painters Giovanni Migliara, Giuseppe Molteni, Pelagio Palagi, and the poet Tommaso Grossi.2 Not his first self-portrait, and arguably not his best known, this work introduces Hayez to the world as a Romantic intellectual, a new breed of artist. He is not merely the new kid in town, he is quite literally part of a circle. Mazzocca recognized the similarity of intent in these two works, how in this variation of the group portrait both works are likewise relatable to earlier collective approaches by the Nazarene brotherhood, among others. Yet, the key to Hayez’s portrait may lie not in its relation to the tradition of ambit portraits, but rather in how Hayez, shortly after arriving in Milan, publically stated his inclinations, his stylistic interests, and even his political sympathies. Grossi, pictured on the far right, most directly links Hayez to a patriotic milieu. His Ildegonda (1825), I Lombardi alla prima crociata (1826), and Marco Visconti (1835), not to mention his later involvement with the liberal and patriotic Maffei salon, championed the expression of liberal and patriotic ideals. Palagi is a painter associated with variations of the Neoclassical approach in Rome before arriving to the nascent Romantic community in Milan in 1815; and Giovanni Migliara was an artist associated with theatrical projects at the opera house, La Scala. In his descriptions of these figures, Hayez placed each without background, contrasting the open weave of the canvas and sketchy, peripheral marks with the highly refined and descriptive physiognomy of all five figures. Its informality, looseness, and as Mazzocca describes, scoperta intimità and fratellenza intelletuale (“intimate discovery” and “intellectual brotherhood”) point to Hayez’s focus on the modern, a retreat from the theory of early century, and the individuality prized throughout Europe by different breeds of Romantics.3 Romanticism in Italy has proved problematical for scholars during this era, and it is often denied entirely when defined exclusively by French parameters. Mazzocca, writing in the 2018 catalogue for the exhibit Romanticismo, challenges Italy’s exclusion from the Romantic discourse, instead describing it as parallel but divergent from the northern European artistic models and their shift away from classical source material and a high finish. Contrary to Neoclassicism, Romanticism did not follow precise models, entrusting art to the individual genius and inspiration of the artist who by his nature rejects the rules in the name of the spontaneity of creation.4

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A liberal outlook in regard to the visual arts, however, allowed for different conditions and different responses. On the peninsula, invention was encouraged primarily from literary discourse centered primarily in Milan. The first calls for a modern artistic expression, at the expense of the classicized bello ideale of Cicognara or Canova, was frequently debated in journals like Il Conciliatore, which called for new models and modes, and the Austrian-backed, far more conservative Biblioteca Italiana. One of the earliest inspirations, for painters as well as poets, was Madame de Staël’s “On the manner and usefulness of translations” (“Sulla maniera e l’utilità delle traduzioni”), published in the Biblioteca Italiana.5 Here, she called for Italian writers to seek new source material by translating northern authors in order to free themselves from a traditional, stale classicism. Other authors followed her lead, like Ludovico di Breme, who saw the potential of new sources in creating “…analogies to various epochs, customs and places,” and Giovanni Berchet in his Romantic manifesto “On the ‘Cacciatore feroce’ and on the ‘Eleonora di Goffredo’ by Augusto Bürger: Grisostom’s half-serious letter to his son” (“Sul ‘Cacciatore feroce’ e sulla ‘Eleonora di Goffredo’ di Augusto Bürger: Lettera semiseria di Grisostomo al suo figliuolo”).6 Some scholars, such as those who advocated for modern and Romantic poetry and prose, saw the role differently for the visual arts, as Ermes Visconti did in his Idee elementari where he called for the retention of Neoclassicism “for painters, sculptors and composers.”7 It wasn’t until the Pavese author and critic Defendente Sacchi published his views that Romanticism in the pictorial arts found its true champion in Italy. As scholars have shown, Milan was the atmosphere that best accommodated Hayez’s Romantic sensibility. He recognized this early in his career, and, although identifying as a Venetian artist, he moved permanently to Milan in 1823. His first visit came in 1818 when he sought out Palagi, a close friend from Rome, and through him met members of the literary and artistic circles, including Manzoni, Grossi, Visconti, and Ignazio Fumagalli, who was then Secretary of the Accademia di Brera.8 After the great success of his “first” Romantic subject, Pietro Rossi (1820), Hayez recognized the proper ambit for his ambitions. The overwhelming praise his Pietro Rossi drew from Milanese patrons, academics, and colleagues convinced Hayez to adopt this community as his new home. Of all the academies on the peninsula, the Accademia di Brera proved the institution most aligned with liberal intellectuals interested in new modes of visual expression, and throughout the century it occupied the center of the Romantic sensibility in the pictorial arts. Earlier, at the turn of the century and under Napoleonic rule, the academy was reorganized by Andrea Appiani and Bossi in an attempt to move history painting beyond Settecento baroquism towards a politically engaged Neoclassicism, conceived in the style of Jacques-Louis David. This openness is precisely what Hayez recognized decades later, when he began to consider Milan as his own base. The Accademia di Brera was increasingly considered crucial for the development of history painting, more so than centers like Venice or Rome driven by their past glories rather than future potential. As I have posited in Chapter 3, the Roman solution to Risorgimento iconography was their allusion to the past eras of artistic, political, and religious power; Venice, under the influence during the first half of the century of Leopoldo Cicognara and his focus on the bello ideale, promoted a refined and decorative classicism that eschewed the drama of the political age. In Milan, the dominance of Enlightenment ideals within the institutions urged the development of a new and more liberated breed of history painters, which continued after the end of the Kingdom of Italy in 1814. Even under the Restoration, the Enlightenment-inspired pictorial language at the Brera continued

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unabated. The academy continued a program, albeit disguised, which, if only through allusion, now allowed for the expression of nationalism and distrust of the status quo under the Austrians, and the need to overthrow the accepted political and social order. The foundation for Romantic and Risorgimento cultural engagement was set in 1802 when Bossi, who became secretary of the academy at age 25, began to reform the academy along the lines of the French model.9 A Napoleonic painter associated with other Enlightenment intellectuals, including those from the Cameretta Portiana, Bossi traveled to France between 1795–1801 where he was exposed to the contemporary development in history painting at the studios of modern artists, including that of David. Back in Milan, he encouraged a similar engagement between artists and contemporary political ideals, beyond the updated immediacy found in the portraiture of Andrea Appiani. Two of his most impactful reforms include the introduction in 1805 of annual exhibitions, and the dramatic extension of the picture gallery, the Pinacoteca di Brera, from the small group of casts that had formed the initial collection at its founding in 1776. In contrast to those at the Accademia di San Luca, the Brera competitions encouraged submissions from artists throughout the peninsula and other European centers, engaging artists in a more inclusive and widespread artistic dialogue. The combination with the exhibitions not only promoted artistic exchange, the competitions encouraged artists to measure their style against others from differing backgrounds. Milan, as a result, became a European, not just Italian, cultural center, and shifted the focus away from other regional academies, specifically Rome’s Accademia del Regno Italico. After the closure of the Roman academy in 1814, Milan dominated as an artistic stage, specifically in regard to history painting, and did so for the remainder of the century. Outside the walls of the Accademia di Brera, the wider Milanese intellectual and literary community shaped an art market that set the stage for Hayez’s arrival and the establishment of a Romantic school. Chapter 1 discussed Milan’s affluent intellectual class fortified in Enlightenment ideals, with many individuals serving in the Napoleonic administrations of the Cisalpine Republic and later Italian Kingdom. Many of these Napoleonic officials were collectors and patrons of the arts, including two of Hayez’s champions, Giovanni Battista Sommariva and Francesco Teodor Arese Lucini. The literary circles that arose in confluence with the new political ambit, including those affiliated with Il Conciliatore and those inspired by the patriotic writings of Ugo Foscolo, encouraged the development of new and nationalist, rather than classical, iconographic solutions. Entirely distinct from the papal patronage and influence discussed in relation to Minardi and Rome, the focus on liberal sentiment and the implementation of republican ideals was central to the development of artistic expression in Milan, and affected Hayez deeply. Among the intelligentsia spurred most by the patriotic and passionate environment was the circle gathered around the writers of the Il Conciliatore, discussed in an earlier chapter. In addition to these writers, two voices stand out for their steadfast support of republican ideals, and their recognition of art as a powerful tool. Both Giuseppe Mazzini and Defendente Sacchi (1796–1840) reinforced a modern brand of painting that denied the universalism of classicism, and the supernational authority of Catholicism.10 As in Rome, Mazzini circulated his ideas through his writings; prior to unification, it was Mazzini that recognized Hayez as the artist who innovated history painting through his civic engagement and historical allusion. In other words, according to Mazzini, Hayez’s brand of history painting, centered at the Brera, promoted a politically progressive, modern voice. Even before Mazzini anointed Hayez the painter of the age, Sacchi formulated a critical position that challenged the common dedication of classical thinkers, namely the search

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for the bello ideale. Based primarily on his belief of the essential value of cultural unity, first published in the early 1820s, Sacchi integrated his social theory with the visual arts in journals like Il Nuovo Ricoglitore, Gazzetta Privilegiata di Milano and Cosmorama Pittorico, the latter of which accommodated illustrations of the images through the process of calcography. His largest impact came after 1834 when he promoted the modern school of history painting through reviews of exhibitions held at the Accademia di Brera, and after 1828 with a series of Visiti to the studios of contemporary painters. His first visit, to the studio of Hayez, acted in a sense as a treatise of his artistic views, which he saw as necessarily utilitarian in that painting should represent rather than transcend the contemporary age. Paintings like Hayez’s, according to Sacchi, would fulfill a social purpose. In 1829 he wrote: As for me, I believe that the works of artists are national products and that we must talk about them, not out of individual regard for those individuals who made them, even if they show contempt for them, but for the country: it also seems to me that until the artists stop to write the annals of their own art, it is also worthwhile to think of those good and bad in the service of restoring the glory of the patria.11 Sacchi shifted the focus from art to the role of art, and how it spoke to the people about virtue and purpose. Along with the words of Mazzini and Sacchi; the poetry and prose of Grossi, Leopardi, and Manzoni; and the lirical operas of Giuseppe Verdi, the Milanese community stimulated distinct and progressive artistic strategies. Moreover, the reforms of the Accademia di Brera under Bossi and Appiani established a liberal artistic environment, opening the door to the innovation of painting away from the timeless ideals of the ancients. Hayez placed himself just as he had in his 1827 self-portrait, in the center of this space. There, amidst a developing Romantic environment, he began pursuing a pictorial approach described by Sandra Pinto in 1973 as Romanticismo Storico, which accounts more accurately for the fusion of political climate, literature, and image that emerged in the years following Hayez’s arrival in Milan.12 Divergent from the northern European artistic currents, more commonly based on emotionalism and individualism, Italy by nature was absorbed by an activist, nationalist, cultural expression. Milan, therefore, became the beating heart of the Risorgimento, and embodied the nationalist ardor and impulses that pushed Hayez into the role of Romantic and patriot. When Hayez was only 16 years old, he completed his first painting, a family portrait unusually melancholic and ambiguous for such a young artist (Figure 4.2). In it, two women with strikingly similar features embrace while a young boy and girl play at their feet. In the upper left corner an adolescent carries a sheaf of drawings while looking out over the group. Originally identified simply as Family Group, the arrangement of figures does not follow a typical family arrangement, and it took over 50 years before the composition was identified as a self-portrait of the artist with members of his nuclear and extended family.13 In his autobiography, Le Miei Memorie, Hayez described his early childhood, and provided the necessary background for the painting’s interpretation. Hayez was born to Chiara Torcellan of Murano and Giovanni Hayez, a simple tradesman from Valenciennes, France.14 He was one of five children, so his aunt, who was childless, offered to relieve some of her sister’s burden by taking in one of the children. This aunt was married to Giovanni Binasco, who was an antiquarian and art dealer with a collection

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Figure 4.2 Francesco Hayez, Self-Portrait with Family, c. 1807, o/c, Treviso, Museo Civico Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library.

including works by Titian and Veronese. Hayez had vivid memories of seeing his uncle’s collection while on infrequent visits with his mother. It was Hayez’s fascination with these paintings that made him a natural choice for the foster arrangement. Although he was bettering his situation significantly, Hayez was alienated from his birth family and saw little of them after the transfer was made. As Hayez remembered, the affection of his aunt and uncle and his love of his uncle’s paintings somewhat softened the loss he felt. Until his return to Venice years later at the conclusion of his studies, though, Hayez had little contact with the family he left behind. Since Hayez’s autobiography wasn’t published until 1890, the subject of the self-portrait was unidentified when it came up for sale at the Accademia di Brera. In his attempt to identify the subject prior to sale, the current owner Giovanni Basso wrote to Hayez, who confirmed his authorship and indicated it was indeed a self-portrait. Basso recorded the painting as a group of two sisters-in-law, Hayez, and his young siblings. With the simultaneous appearance of Hayez’s Memorie, it became quite obvious that the two

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women embracing at the center of the composition are in fact Hayez’s mother and her sister, his adopted aunt. The variation in costume indicate two social classes, but the near identical features betray their kinship. Elena Cantra, writing for the 2015 Hayez catalogue, also recognized the two sisters, but differs by identifying Hayez both as the young boy playing on the ground in modest garb, “a bit scruffy with unrolled socks,” and also as the older and more gentile student artist in the background. She, then, sees a double self-portrait, as if Hayez was reliving the memory. Cantra suggests the aunt’s gesture, pointing to the young boy who looks back at his sister with an expression of trepidation, recreated the very moment she asks to adopt Hayez into her own household. Whether this is the case, or what we’re seeing is one of the rare visits Hayez made as a young man to his birth home, the melancholic and even longing tone of the adolescent Hayez is clearly discernible. Under his uncle’s tutelage, Hayez began to study both art and literature. Binasco’s intention, according to Hayez, was to train him as a restorer and to employ him in his practice. Before long, though, the young man’s talent and work ethic convinced Binasco to seek more formalized artistic instruction for his young ward. First, Hayez entered the studio of an artist identified only as Zanotti, who died shortly after he began under suspicious circumstances. He then entered the studio of Francesco Maggiotto, where he began learning the fundamentals of drawing. In the evening, he would return home and study the classics under his uncle’s vigilant and demanding eye. A couple of years later, in 1800 when he was nine years old, he began to frequent the sculpture collection of the Galleria Farsetti, where he enjoyed additional opportunities to draw from antique sculpture and casts. In 1803, he was admitted to the Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia and the Scuola di Nudo—where his painting of a nude figure won top honors—and after the academy reorganized in 1806 under the Kingdom of Italy, he entered the new academy and the studio of Teodoro Matteini. He continued at the Venetian academy until 1809 when he, along with two fellow students Giovanni Demin and Vincenzo Baldacci, accepted a prestigious scholarship to study in Rome at the newly formed Accademia del Regno Italico. Hayez left for Rome in October 1809, accompanied on his journey by his fellow student from the Venetian academy, Demin, and his uncle, who was determined to keep Hayez on a virtuous and industrious path. The journey had few stops, but did pause long enough in Florence to meet with Camuccini’s Tuscan counterpart, Pietro Benvenuti (1769–1844). Perhaps with a touch of revisionist memory after a long and accomplished career in the Milanese Romantic community, Hayez recounted in his Memorie the lukewarm reception by the artist, and his own disappointment at seeing the famous master’s work. In particular, the absence of color in Benvenuti’s working process left Hayez feeling cold. Since Benvenuti privileged form over color, his compositions began with only a tonal rendering; to a Venetian raised on Titian, this must have been anathema. Moreover, he deemed Benvenuti’s work as capitulation to the primacy of the French style, writing “As far as color, Benvenuti was rather an imitator of the current French school, which was hard, false and exaggerated.”15 The group arrived in Rome a few days later. To the young artist, this environment seemed much more promising. As a Venetian, Hayez had an immediate entry into Canova’s studio. Not only did he have a letter of introduction that Minardi did not possess on his arrival six years earlier, but those few years saw the institution of the Roman study scholarship at the Accademia del Regno Italico. Minardi arrived before the academy’s founding in 1805, and joined the academy only a year before Hayez in 1808.

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Prior to that, Minardi had studied mostly at the Accademia di San Luca. Arriving when he did, Hayez had the advantage of immediately entering the Napoleonic academy under the guidance of Canova, and escaped the rigid idealism of the more reactionary Camuccini. As a result, Hayez sidestepped the concentrated classical curriculum of the Accademia di San Luca. He was most certainly in contact with an academic and Neoclassical ambit, but this was tempered by his immediate access to the increasingly anti-French stance of Canova and the cosmopolitan community of artists, scholars, and authors.16 The Accademia del Regno Italico diverged from the Accademia di San Luca in its mission to nurture a nationalist spirit, to find ways to regenerate the cultural and particularly artistic supremacy of the whole peninsula. By bringing artists from three regional centers—Bologna, Venice, and Milan—to study and work together under the watchful eye of the great Neoclassical sculptor, the academy set the tone for the students’ later investigations into an Italian artistic identity. At the same time, Rome allowed for an exchange of ideas and a continuing dialogue with other cultural capitals. Susinno characterized the nexus of artistic opportunities as follows. Simultaneously, Rome performed the function of a major European “university” for the qualified learning of the artistic profession, an art market in continuous evolution for the diverse tendencies of fashion and taste, and a vast workshop for the satisfaction of the local needs of monumental painting, as well as those elsewhere.17 Artists responded in various ways. Minardi transformed the classical formalism to a spiritual purism. Hayez’s experience at the Accademia del Regno Italico exposed him to a broad range of approaches that had everything to do with forming his later Romantic and nationalistic approach to history painting. Hayez’s more relaxed interaction with artistic peers, however, had to wait until the departure of his uncle in March 1810. Binasco’s control over the 18-year-old artist prevented rather than encouraged his immersion into a new community. After his departure, Hayez wasted no time in reaping Rome’s academic and social rewards. In his Memorie, he acknowledged his camaraderie with Pelagio Palagi, Bartolomeo Pinelli, and of course Minardi. Significantly, he also met artists from foreign academies, including Jean-Victor Schnetz and Jean-Dominique-Auguste Ingres from France, and Friedrich Overbeck from Germany. Interspersed with his descriptions of the artistic ambit in Rome, Hayez described his time there as boisterous and mischievous. Not unlike the stereotypical “preacher’s daughter,” Hayez recalled how when finally liberated from his uncle’s watchful eye, he participated in some raucous and reckless behavior. Regardless of his social escapades, Hayez worked diligently and began to receive recognition for his efforts, mostly through Cicognara’s and Canova’s promotion of his talents. His first major success came with the 1812 competition held at the Accademia di Brera, which had recently been convened by Bossi. Hayez submitted his Laocoön (which explains the presence of the two snakes in his studio) and received first honors (Figure 4.3). His version showed costumed figures in an attempt to modernize the traditional iconography as stipulated by the contest. His work, therefore, reconstructed history rather than imitated artistic precedents. In a diplomatic move, the Milanese jury decided to split the award between Hayez and the young artist Antonio De Antoni, who was the pupil of the esteemed Milanese professor Andrea Appiani. The jury stated that Hayez’s depiction was “true and expressive,” but that De Antoni showed, “a fine style, […] sober in composition and well-arranged.”18 Rather than try for exclusive honors the

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Figure 4.3 Francesco Hayez, Laocoön, 1812, o/c, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera Source: © Alinari / De Agostini Picture Library.

following year, Hayez arranged for an “accident” to ruin the canvas he had already begun, his Death of Abradates. He later completed the painting, but in a truncated form (at the painting’s first exhibition in the 1983 Hayez retrospective, Susinno identified the figure wearing a fez hat as a portrait of Minardi).19 The following year, in 1814, Hayez again was recognized on the smaller stage of the Accademia di San Luca competition when his Atleta trionfante was chosen as the best from among a group of 14 submissions, including two by the French artists Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres and Schnetz. The life-sized painting, still in the collection of the Accademia, demonstrates a moment of transition for Hayez, from the student to a more professional stage. The earliest evidence of Hayez’s professional potential occurred in 1814, shortly after the success of his Laocoön. Hayez had left Rome temporarily, and unwillingly, as a punishment for his reckless behavior and in order to protect him from its consequences. In the meantime, the required annual scholarship submission, his composition of Rinaldo e Armida, had reached the academy of Fine Arts in Venice and the attention of Antonio Diedo, its Segretario. Diedo was duly impressed, and commented on the bozzetto Hayez had included for the Ulysses at the Court of Alcinous (Figure 4.4). Diedo praised Hayez for his invention in the composition, and Hayez responded that he intended to do a large scale version. Before beginning the work, though, he was shipped off to Florence, and was looking for a reason to return. Then, in March 1814, Giuseppe Zurlo, an official from the Kingdom of Naples, wrote to Hayez requesting a painting for the King, Joachim Murat, who was interested in promoting the Italian school of Neoclassicism.20 Murat had seen the bozzetto of the Ulysses from Diedo, who had carried it to Naples without Hayez

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Figure 4.4 Francesco Hayez, Ulysses at the Court of Alcinous, 1815, o/c, Naples, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library / A. Dagli Orti.

knowing. A decade before, Murat had negotiated the acquisition of two paintings by Camuccini, the Death of Julius Caesar (1800–1804) and his Death of Virginia, the latter which was not completed before Murat’s fall from power. Both works, along with Benvenuti’s Death of Holofernes (1793), had previously been in the collection of Frederick Hervey, Lord Bristol, who died in 1803.21 After 1815 and the restoration of the monarchy in Naples, Ferdinand I assumed the three works into the Royal Collection. Hayez, by accepting the Neapolitan commission, would put his own work in the context of the two great history painters, and establish his reputation on an international stage. The significance of the commission persuaded Canova to rescind Hayez’s “exile.” In a letter to Cicognara from June 18th, 1814, Canova confirmed Hayez’s uncle was in transit to Rome to chaperone, because “otherwise I find a certain danger of him losing time and corrupting his genius with occupations outside of art, which are fatal to his study.”22 A lot was riding on the commission. Not only would the successful completion of the monumental painting further Hayez’s career, it would represent a new school of Italian painting. Canova and Cicognara, therefore, saw the artistic results of the short-lived Napoleonic academy as a challenge to the French interpretation of Neoclassicism, even after the Accademia del Regno Italico closed under the Restoration. Irrespective, some artists, like Hayez, remained in Rome, and continued their mission under Canova’s guidance. For Hayez, the closure of the academy coincided with professional opportunities, including the Murat commission, and a potential collaboration with Palagi on the completion of a fresco cycle at the Palazzo Torlonia. Fresco painting had largely disappeared

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by the nineteenth century, even though the technique played a crucial role in the cultural achievements of the Renaissance and Baroque eras. Neither Hayez nor Palagi had received formal training in fresco. Ironically, Minardi, who refused to participate in the resurgence of fresco painting being, as Susinno described him “neurotically blocked” in painting, passed along a letter in 1810 from Zauli including instructions for working in fresco. This information was augmented by the recent discovery in the Vatican Library of Cennino Cennini’s Libro d’Arte from the early fifteenth century.23 Alongside Palagi, Hayez completed four lunettes in the Galleria Teseo in the Palazzo, all of which were destroyed in the building’s demolition for the 1901–1902 extension of the Piazza Venezia. Reestablishing the art of fresco, according to Tambroni and Canova, would recall the triumphs of the past, and, as Mazzocca explained, bring back glory to Italian art.24 On Tambroni’s views, in particular, Hiesinger wrote, “For him fresco was not only the noblest form of painting, but one whose domination by Italians in the past made it the ideal vehicle for a revival of the country’s artistic honour.”25 Canova agreed. Between 1814–1815, after the fall of Napoleon, he was mostly occupied with the return of the works of art surrendered to Napoleon under the Treaty of Tolentino. Upon his return, though, accompanied by the pillaged treasures from the Vatican, Canova sought to continue his strategy to place Rome at the center of a developing nationalist message in the arts through fresco. He was aided by Pope Pius VII, who, grateful for the returned treasures, bestowed upon Canova the title Marchese d’Ischia. The title came with a 3,000-scudi income per annum, and Canova, known for his generosity, dedicated the first year of revenue to a project that would establish the glory of the papacy, support young artists under his protection—including Hayez—and work to promote the authoritative role of Roman art.26 His plan was to employ young artists in Rome to fresco the lunettes that ran the length of the recently opened Museo Chiaramonti at the Vatican Palace. As it was, the Chiaramonti cycle specifically fulfilled Canova’s objectives to demonstrate a nationalist school of painting based on Roman precedent and centrality. It continued to advance the resumption of the buon fresco technique, but this time on a bigger stage than the private, early-century commissions at the Palazzo Torlonia, or the Casa Bartholdy (1816–1817). In addition, it championed Pius VII’s recognition of the significance of the arts in establishing the authority and legacy of Roman art through images dedicated to historical restorations, the foundation of Vatican collections and the promotion of the fine arts in an academic and public context. The cycle consists of 15 images. Hayez produced the cartoons for five of the compositions, but completed only three before returning to Venice. Demin completed one lunette, although Hayez mentioned he was commissioned for several. Canova also sought the participation of the German artists affiliated with the Nazarene group, who had just received acclaim for their fresco cycle at the Casa Bartholdy.27 In the end, only Philipp Veit completed a lunette. Hayez’s artistry did not exactly shine with this commission, and overall the experiment was not considered a success by either the artist or Canova. In an 1817 letter to Cicognara, Canova praised Hayez’s composition dedicated to sculpture, but described the other two as “truly bad,” and “a long way off from the first.”28 The direct and allegorical nature of the figure of Sculpture reads as monumental in the lunette, and requires far less exposition than the two “bad” lunettes did. The other two, The Return of the Vatican Treasures (Figure 4.5) and The Foundation of the School of Design, both require a narrative that is more illustrative of events than allegorical. Each requires the description of setting and an advancing action, a lot to ask for the modestly scaled lunette format.

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Figure 4.5 Francesco Hayez, Return of the Vatican Treasures, 1817, fresco, Vatican Museums, Galleria dei Chiaramonti Source: Mondadori Portfolio via Getty Images.

Canova perhaps saw an awkwardness in the iconographic solutions, especially considering the constraints of the location and the medium. In the Return fresco, which lies at the closest point to the contemporary entrance of the museum, Hayez referenced Rome by the allegorical figure of the Tiber River, which reclines in an obvious antique reference. The Tiber is balanced in the foreground by the bust of William Richard Hamilton, the English diplomat present in France during the negotiations of the restitution of the Vatican collections. In addition, Hayez established the entry into Rome by including the view of Monte Mario, and depicts the actual event with the caravan of the crated artistic patrimony of the pope returning to Rome. Was this perhaps a lot to ask for a composition compromised by both shape and scale? In all cases, the secondary putti figures can be generously described as clumsy. What is far more apparent is the artist’s interest in translating history painting to the present context, not the supernatural putti required by tradition. In the end, the intended nationalist content was somewhat obscured behind the artist’s awkwardness with the medium and classically inspired figures. Shortly before Canova’s death in 1822, he entreated Hayez again to return to Rome and complete the lunettes, and again Hayez declined, this time due to his obligations in Milan. At this point, Canova resorted to another German artist, unnamed, to finally complete Hayez’s designs. Long before the completion of the Chiaramonti, Hayez had returned to Venice. Ostensibly, he left Rome to accept the task of completing a composition arranged as a tribute to the Austrian emperor Francis I on the occasion of his fourth marriage to Caroline of Bavaria. Cicognara had arranged for the compulsory Venetian tribute to be comprised of paintings and sculptures, and Hayez was required to paint his composition in residence in Venice. Other factors most certainly contributed to his decision to return, including his marriage to Vincenza Scaccia in 1817, but Canova’s cool response to his work at the Vatican gallery may also have factored into the decision.29 Canova had not given up on having Hayez finish the lunettes, but Hayez must have already accepted the resurrection of fresco painting was not his path. He finished the third composition shortly between his wedding and his return to Venice, but no matter how hard Canova encouraged Hayez to return to Rome for the last two, he continued to move in another direction. The tribute commission, on the other hand, encouraged Hayez in his desire to

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explore history painting and its civic relevance. His contribution, the now lost Hezekiah’s Piety, accompanied three others chosen by Cicognara, and was meant to illustrate characteristics of the virtuous monarch.30 Although others saw the tribute as a capitulation to the northern power, Hayez supported Cicognara’s plan of delivering what amounted to a royal tithe through the artistic patrimony of Venice. Hayez had every intention of returning to Rome. There, artists from around the world experimented and collaborated in contact with the exigencies of the age. The ambivalence he held for the Chiaramonti project, though, must have influenced his reticence to return at that time. The commissions he accepted in Venice were no more enticing to Hayez than the Chiaramonti frescoes. Rather than continue his exploration of narrative and the honest investigation of nature, Hayez found himself accepting decorative commissions in Venetian palazzi, particularly through his contact with Giuseppe Borsato, Professor of Ornamental Painting at the Venetian academy. He completed four decorative compositions comprised of grisaille roundels and dancing figures for the throne room at the Procuratie Vecchio at the Piazza San Marco, now at the Museo Correr, as well as decorative commissions at the Casa Papadopoli and the Palazzo Duse Manin in Padua. At the latter, his Socrates Finding Alcibiades in the Women’s Quarters demonstrates his interest in figurative compositions beyond the merely decorative. The most significant of the commissions from this era are the recently restored series of frescoes for the ground floor at the Palazzo Ducale, making Hayez the last artist to contribute to the decoration of the ducal palace. The series depicted large-scale, allegorical figures of nereids, continents, and Neptune. Venice made buon fresco problematical, and these commissions were done a secco, in a tempera technique, which accounts for the need for significant conservation and the loss of four of the lunettes by the time of their removal in 1962. The 2015–2016 Hayez retrospective at the Galleria di Scala saw their careful conservation, and the first time they were exhibited publicly.31 Hayez’s success with the Palazzo Ducale paintings, which were noted by Stendhal at his 1824 visit, translated to financial success, but also a growing dissatisfaction with the trajectory of his career.32 In his Memorie, Hayez described the constant work that precluded a more thoughtful and careful development through study and preparation. I stayed in Venice for three years, working constantly on commissions, from morning to evening, but this did not make me happy because in completing decoration alone, I couldn’t do the studies necessary for me to advance an art at which I felt I wasn’t yet skilled enough.33 Hayez wanted to develop his approach to history painting. Besides, these commissions called for the conservative, classical style of the early century, one supported by figures like Cicognara in his quest for the bello ideale. To nurture his own interest and developing aesthetic, Hayez would have to work independently and seek alternative stylistic and iconographic solutions. Concurrently with his discontent over the Venetian market he identified Milan as an environment more conducive to his development, one more accepting of experimentation and interpretation of modern ideals and expressions. His first trip was to visit Palagi, who was in Milan by 1815. He recounted in his Memorie the various figures he met, including those associated with the anti-classical journal Il Conciliatore, Ermes Visconti, Alessandro Manzoni, and Tommaso Grossi. Visconti wrote his Idee Elementari sulla poesia Romantica for the journal in 1818. In it, he advocated choosing topics from medieval history in order to

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relate poetry to the modern soul, and notably, to an Italian existence not dominated by foreign entities. To Visconti, the modern man could best express himself through new source material, and “generally all those opinions, grades and tints of passions that are not developed in the souls of the Greeks and Romans.”34 At the time Hayez met Manzoni, he had published his Inni Sacri (1818), which was published in the Milanese vernacular, and was working on his Osservazioni (1819), which was in defense of the Catholic church after Sismondi’s Histoire des Républiques italiennes decried its corruption. His Il Conte di Carmagnola, which was published in 1820, was based in Milan and Venice during the Middle Ages, and provided a literary prototype for the modern pictorial aesthetic. Finally, Grossi appealed to a collective nationalism fighting against foreign despotism with his poetry published on contemporary events and in the Milanese dialect. His Ildegonda and La Prineide were published in 1814, and his La Fuggitiva was published in 1816. Hayez claimed to know little about the polemics discussed between the Classicists and the Romantics in Milan, but upon his arrival he found an environment that coincided with his own interests, which went far beyond the classical or the decorative. The decisive moment came in 1820 when Hayez exhibited his painting Pietro Rossi, Prisoner of the Scaligeri (Figure 4.6).35 He began the work after returning from his visit

Figure 4.6 Francesco Hayez, Pietro Rossi, Prisoner of the Scaligeri, 1820, o/c, Milan, Private Collection Source: © De Agostini Picture Library, licensed by Alinari.

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to Milan, and completed it while in Venice. In an effort to access alternative sources and “continue the studies for which I was so inclined,” he read Sismondi’s Républiques, and settled on the subject of Rossi.36 The story unfolds around Rossi, a Parmigiano general leading a siege against the Veronesi Scaligeri clan after being imprisoned at the Castello di Pontremoli. When a messenger from the Venetian Republic arrives to announce his placement at the head of the Venetian troops, Rossi’s wife and daughters gather to urge him not to accept. His death in 1337 became, via Hayez, a symbol of the virtue of civic duty at the cost of great personal loss. The theme was not unique; one need only think of David’s Oath of the Horatii. Hayez, though, removed the subject from the context of classical virtue to relate it to a period prior to foreign domination in a particular Italian setting. Its relevance and engagement shifts the painting away from theory, and towards experience and sentiment. The enthusiastic response by Milanese patrons was a far cry from what Hayez experienced in Venice. The collector Giorgio Pallavicino Trivulzio acquired the work to the disappointment of other interested parties, including Count Francesco Teodoro Arese Lucini and the consul Gaetano de Castillia. All three were known for their republican convictions, and all three were arrested in the 1821 Federati uprising. The liberal, aristocratic class, holdovers from the Napoleonic era, provided the perfect audience for a modern form of painting, one that involved the viewer in contemporary and political reflection. Hayez realized he had “embodied the dominant idea of the moment.”37 With as many patrons as he could handle, he had to make the difficult choice to leave his home in Venice. In a letter dated July 31st, 1821, Hayez tried to explain to his professore, Canova. In Milan I know there are a number of buyers that would like to acquire my Pietro Rossi, and those that are not able to have commissioned me for others. Therefore, it is the Milanese and not the Venetians who have encouraged me this year to produce new pictorial works. It is in Milan, then, where I want to exhibit my work since it is there that the genius of the population still gives me hope for my fatherland.38 To paint for his fatherland (Italy), then, he had to simultaneously abandon it (Venice). Hayez retained his attachment to Venice throughout his career, and was careful to always identify as a Venetian through his signature, his donations, and the subjects he painted. Yet, Milan, the heart of the Risorgimento, was where his work would make the biggest impact. For this reason alone, in 1823 the Venetian-born and Roman-trained Hayez found himself moving to Milan.

Hayez and Romanticism at the Accademia di Brera Frequently, scholars refer to Hayez’s Pietro Rossi as a “watershed” painting. Others describe it as a Romantic or political manifesto. Mazzini popularized the latter claim when he highlighted the work in his 1841 article “Modern Italian Painters” for The London and Westminster Review. Mazzini likened Hayez to Martin Luther; he was “emancipated” and “starting a revolution.” He recognized in Hayez, and in works like Pietro Rossi, a nationalism necessary for the public to envisage revolution. [Hayez] is the chief of that school of historical painting called for by the national feeling in Italy; the Artist the most advanced we know in that sentiment of the ideal that is commissioned to preside over all the labours of the epoch … an artist perfect

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as the times permit, assimilating himself to reproduce it in symbols, to the feeling of the epoch, compressed within the bosom of the nation; harmonizing concept and form, idealizing his figures without perverting them, creating protagonists, not tyrants, causing much to be felt, much to be thought.39 In short, the Pietro Rossi was Hayez’s first step towards what Mazzini would later describe as a national painting, depicting “History, treated with a view to the future.”40 Rather than rely on a set of neutralized pictorial conventions to compose an idealized image, Hayez reconstructed history not unlike a dramaturg would, to make the image appear more immediate to the audience, instead of timeless, distant, and abstract. As his career progressed, his library was a crucial part of his studio, and he relied on his own interpretations of literature and history to connect his imagery to his age. Hayez did not merely focus on iconographic innovation, though. While updating history painting by choosing subjects from non-classical eras, he also moved away from the classicism and the linearity and the finish of David or Camuccini. He found inspiration instead in the palettes and effects of his own heritage, that of Giovanni Bellini or Titian. Smaller than typical Neoclassical compositions, the Pietro Rossi is just over four by six feet. Hayez placed Rossi in the atrium of the castle with the shadowy environment of a Gothic setting. Rossi forms the apex of an offset pyramidal composition, more in keeping with the Renaissance sacre conversazioni than the frieze-like composition of Neoclassicism. He also challenged the parallel of the picture plane with the kneeling daughter on the right side, whose back faces the viewer. As Manzoni sacrificed the classical unities of time and setting in his Il Conte di Carmagnola, Hayez challenged the conventional and classical treatment of the picture plane. Along with the Venetian-inspired structure, color demonstrates Hayez’s need to move away from classical pictorial conventions. His balance of saturation with value allows for an atmospheric reading that breaks from the distinct contrasts and linearity of Neoclassical precedents. Shadows encroach on the figures, and distinguish the stone interior from the light of the courtyard. Areas of light on Rossi’s armor and the center foreground organize the composition instead of the closed contours of the previous generation. In a sense, Hayez did in Venice what Minardi did in Rome: return to the heights of Renaissance accomplishments for inspiration, without using these compositions as rigid models. He described his pivot from his Roman training when he wrote: In executing this canvas, I gave myself up to truth, maybe too much so, as a way to move away from the conventional manner in which I had been working exclusively … and luckily I was warned in time by those who looked on me with paternal eyes.41 Rather than Raphael at the Vatican, Hayez looked to Titian, and the naturalism that inspired the investigation of light and color during the Venetian Renaissance. Cicognara and Canova had seen the future of Italian painting through the rejuvenation of the fresco technique; but in the Pietro Rossi Hayez had just completed an easel painting outside the accepted iconographical model, especially for history painting. Cicognara urged him to return to Rome and Canova, where his fame could build off the Vatican commission. Hayez had a very different plan in mind. By his own account, Hayez did not intend to paint a political or pictorial manifesto. His interest was in exploring history painting, which in the nineteenth century required just that sort of political commitment. Romanticism in Italy, from its inception, advanced

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in lockstep with Italian nationalism.42 The danger in identifying Italian Romanticism with nationalism, though, is in identifying nationalism exclusively with Romanticism. The civic painting Hayez introduced with his Pietro Rossi would prove to be the most readily associated with the dramatic, passionate, and engaged sensibility of the increasingly visible patriotic climate. The discrepancy between Roman and Milanese nationalism prior to 1861 is clear. Other statements and narratives existed in other regions, and could be driven variously by hagiography, a modern formalism, or even a reactionary piety, as seen with Minardi. A national outlook was not owned by one political orientation, nor was it directed by the one pictorial style associated with Romanticism. Hayez’s Pietro Rossi success prompted his move to Milan and the Accademia di Brera, where he filled the professorship left vacant by Luigi Sabatelli. The older artist received dispensation to work in Florence for three years on a commission, and Hayez replaced him during his absence, then acted in an advisory capacity after Sabatelli’s return. Then, at Sabatelli’s death in 1850, Hayez was unanimously nominated to be a professor of painting, which he held until 1880. At this stage, as he neared 90 years old, he held an emeritus and honorary status. On two occasions during his tenure at the academy, in 1855 and 1860, Hayez acted as interim President. As Professore, he was successful in pushing through the expansion of the studios to remedy the crowding of students and to provide the necessary light, and therefore conditions, for the study of form at the School of Painting and the School of the Nude. Meanwhile, he kept very busy working on an increasing number of commissions in his own space, which after 1829 settled in the Montenapoleone district on Via Monte di Pietà. Directly after the exhibition of his Pietro Rossi, other patrons solicited works from Hayez reflecting the same nationalist iconography.43 In 1822, the Marchesa Vittoria Visconti D’Aragona commissioned The Sicilian Vespers, one of three depicting this subject he would complete. Baron Gaetano Ciani commissioned a double portrait of his sons, Giacomo and Filippo, both of whom went into exile following the uprising.44 (Figure 4.7) Finally, Count Francesco Teodoro Arese Lucini commissioned two significant works from Hayez in these early years. Before each of these, Hayez completed Il Conte di Carmagnola, based on Manzoni’s play and reminiscent of the style of his Pietro Rossi. Hayez followed this work with an 1828 portrait of Arese in the Austrian Spielberg prison. In his Memorie, Hayez recalled how Arese, even while imprisoned and in chains, contacted an agent to make sure the artist was paid for the Carmagnola. Together, the paintings from this era—the Pietro Rossi, the Conte di Carmagnola, The Sicilian Vespers, and the portraits of the Ciani brothers—account for a major breakthrough in Hayez’s work, the “watershed” period that pointed forward to the remainder of his career. In the paintings after 1822, Hayez began an employ an approach to history painting based on three particular characteristics. First, he consciously created works that evaded the Austrian censors from the period of the 1820 exhibition at the Brera through the materialization of unity in 1861. Through allusion and strategic treatments of official subjects, Hayez addressed the Risorgimento indirectly, yet effectively. Secondly, his associates and patrons demonstrated a personal and political engagement in the subjects he chose and the narrative devices he used. Specifically, and perhaps most evident, his inclusion of patron portraits as characters within the historical settings—as he did with the faces of Grossi and the liberal Count Alessandro Porro Schiaffinati as the main characters in the Conte di Carmagnola—often provides the key to an accurate interpretation of the subject. The casting of contemporaries in historical compositions is also not new; one need only consider Ghirlandaio’s or Raphael’s examples at the Vatican. In the case of Hayez, however, he used the portraits to

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Figure 4.7 Francesco Hayez, The Apostles Giacomo and Filippo (Double Portrait of Giacomo and Filippo Ciani), 1825–1827, o/c, Private Collection Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library / G. Cigolini.

connect the subjects to immediate circumstances, and in some cases the choice of portrait even provides the liberal content he wished to obscure from the censors. Furthermore, when he used his own visage, he connected himself, personally, to the political message. Finally, Hayez’s choice of literary sources went beyond the Romantic attempt to liberate painting from restrictive classical precepts and universal objectivity. Often, when Hayez chose to illustrate the work of a specific author, he clearly established his romantic or liberal sensibility, as he did with his Byronic paintings. Censorship was varied and inconsistent on the peninsula throughout the nineteenth century. Policies depended on the regional administration, the time period, and, in some cases, even the individual official.45 Understandably, the eras before and after the

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Restoration saw differing levels of censorship and a shift in the type of material censored. The period between Restoration and unification, that is, from 1815 to 1861, is the era of most relevance in Hayez’s career, and indeed to the Risorgimento movement more generally. And, even though Austria exercised control over the entirety of the peninsula either through Austrian viceroys or political alliance during these years, particular regions experienced varying levels of restriction. Tuscany, for example, allowed for publications like Gian Pietro Vieusseux’s Antologia, which often published liberal concepts in relation to culture, if not politics directly.46 The Austrians maintained offices for their Department of Censorship in various cities throughout the peninsula, including Milan, and artists were required to submit all material for publication—prints, illustrations, musical scores, and pictures—for approval. The situation was different for painted images, as the audience was much smaller than it was for publishing or even the opera lirica. This latter cultural forum especially struggled with constant suppression. Opera lirica was by far the most popular form of entertainment, and had the potential to incite passions and encourage action through impassioned arias or anthems. Composers and librettists like Giuseppe Verdi and Temistocle Solera were frequently targeted by the censorship office in Milan, which was known for its rigidity, and elsewhere. This has led Mary Ann Smart to investigate just how revolutionary Verdi’s intentions were with his productions, and Emily Braun to question the political impact of easel painting in comparison to opera lirica with its limited audience and accessibility.47 In the case of opera lirica, Smart explains how the Milanese contemporary press was careful not to harp on nationalistic content without drawing retribution from Austrian censors. Rather than question Verdi’s role in fomenting the patriotic spirit, Smart counsels twenty-first-century scholars to look below the reviewer’s public face. If Austrian censorship was harsh and vigiliant, she writes: … then it becomes tempting to speculate about what they might ‘really’ have wanted to say in their accounts of … I Lombardi, and a small step from there to assuming that they would have noticed and cared about the same things today’s listeners hear in the operas.48 On the other hand, Braun acknowledges that paintings, although they did not have the large audiences of La Scala, and depended on exhibitions or reproductions to extend their reach beyond the private realm, enjoyed a freedom Verdi did not. The smaller audience allowed for a freedom in the expression of political content. In addition, easel painting did not have to adhere to the same review process as printed matter or public spectacles. With the aid of allusion or reference to religious traditions, painters could convey content straightforwardly while plausibly claiming neutrality. Even with the smaller audience, and therefore smaller target for censors, the threat of public exhibition of “objectionable” imagery caused artists like Hayez to act with caution and strategic misdirection to avoid the attention of the censors. One example is the double portrait commissioned by Baron Gaetano Ciani. The commission acknowledged the absence of the patron’s two sons, Giacomo and Filippo, after their exile following the Federati uprising (Figure 4.6). In his Memorie, Hayez confirmed his interest in sacred painting, which comprises a small category of his overall catalogue. So, by posing both figures as apostles in biblical garb, Hayez could certainly claim as precedent his previous work, not to mention the long tradition of apostle iconography, to justify the image to censors. Of course, the particular apostles chosen make the identities of the Ciani

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brothers instantly recognizable—he exhibited the work as The Apostles Giacomo and Filippo—and Hayez cast them in the role of nineteenth-century “apostles” of the Italian cause, spreading the word throughout northern Europe. Readily visible to any viewer are the white, green, and red robes of the figures. The convergence of these colors does little to mask the reference to the Italian tricolore. As a republican symbol tracing back to the 1796 Cispadane Republic, any reference to the tricolore was strictly prohibited by censors. In Rome, costumes for the operatic stage would be subject to approval in order to prevent the appearance that might reference “the colors of Italian demagoguery.”49 As a private commission, Hayez did not need to submit the work for approval, but he had some trepidation about what he exhibited. Some works, like his Portrait of the Count Arese, were so direct in their veneration of liberal sentiment, public exhibition was out of the question. In this case, specifically, Hayez wrote “This portrait, naturally, wasn’t exhibited, nor were many other paintings of mine.”50 While he did exhibit the Ciani portrait at the Accademia di Brera in 1827, he obscured its true meaning behind its religious title. Portraiture, like the Ciani portrait, was an effective tool in Hayez’s hands, and he used it to many ends. In these early years specifically, the inclusion of the patriotic portrait was often the idea of the patron. This was the case with the first version Hayez painted of The Sicilian Vespers (1822) for the Marchese Vittoria Visconti D’Aragona. She directed Hayez to include the portraits of the Contessa Maria Martini and the Count Pompeo Belgiojoso in the figures of the fainting woman and the one who supports her.51 The appearance of these two republican supporters—the former a female Garibaldini and the latter a composer—imbues the The Sicilian Vespers with nationalistic intent. By describing the 1282 uprising in Palermo, Sicily, Hayez was expressing resistance to foreign rulers by picturing the bloody revolt against French soldiers under Charles II and the Angevin Dynasty. The implications of the subject are clear, and the nineteenth-century viewer recognized the call to drive foreign, especially French, power off Italian soil. When Giuseppe Verdi debuted his opera of the same subject in Paris and Parma later in the century, censors required a change in title and setting, from Sicily to Portugal and from The Sicilian Vespers to Giovanna de Guzman, so as not to incite the public through the obvious allusion.52 Hayez’s strategy of using portraits of himself and his contemporaries in history painting succeeded in connecting the passions and politics of the past to his present ambit, while simultaneously avoiding the attentions of the censors at the time of the work’s exhibition. His career ambitions and his evolving political views explain how these nationalist statements can at times conflict with other official commissions, causing some scholars to question if Hayez was in support of the Restoration government. The pension he was to receive from Murat, for example, for the completion of his Ulysses and Alcinous is one early example of how Hayez benefitted from foreign and monarchist recognition. The task of navigating between nationalism and professional recognition from the Habsburg court was even trickier in 1822, directly after the positive attention he received from his Pietro Rossi. That year, he accepted the appointment to travel to Verona, issued by that town’s mayor, to record the meeting between the heads of the Restoration governments. Upon arrival at the European Congress, Hayez met with dignitaries, including an awkward meeting with the Austrian Emperor Franz I. His charge was to draw portraits of the attendees, which he did while stationed in a corner of the arena, observing the great celebration taking place. The result of his efforts was a drawing he submitted to his patron, the mayor (podestà) Giovanni Battista Da Persico. The contract was cancelled, however, after Hayez’s alliances in Milan with liberal, anti-Austrian figures were brought to Persico’s attention.53

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Later in Hayez’s career, in 1840, he completed a portrait of Ferdinand I of Austria, commissioned to commemorate the emperor’s 1838 visit to Milan and his recent consecration at the Duomo. The new monarch, who ascended the throne in 1835, at first appeared to revive the reformist and Enlightenment character of his eighteenth-century predecessor, Maria Theresa. This may have contributed to Hayez’s willingness to participate in the official commission, but likewise indicates the Habsburgs’ willingness to work with an artist known for his liberal, Romantic tendencies. During this visit, the Emperor also visited the Sala dei Cariatidi at the Palazzo Reale and saw Hayez’s recently completed vault fresco depicting the Triumph of the Reign of Fernando I d’Austria.54 In 1837, Hayez had travelled to Vienna to present his drawings to the court. While there, he was presented to Marshall Radetzky and Prince Metternich, among others. The 1840 portrait, therefore, was painted after direct interaction with the imperial government for over a decade. His official status as an artist notwithstanding, several scholars looking back have read an underlying satirical current in the portrait. It is notable that it was not perceived as disrespectful at the time of its completion, or during the monarch’s lifetime. Modern day reconsiderations by Mazzocca, however, see a far less flattering treatment. Mazzocca likens Hayez’s approach to Goya, and describes the portrait as a “psychological autopsy” lying somewhere between “compassion and cruelty.”55 The small scale—Hayez’s work was much smaller than official portraits by other artists, including one by Giuseppe Molteni in 1837—lent the painting an air of simplicity that when combined with the unusual cranial structure and a less than dynamic pose reveals the very essence of mediocrity and ordinariness. The derisive reading is easily explainable following the later manifestations of realism throughout Europe. Reading it in this way may allow for a complex understanding of Hayez and his political engagement, but also might result in a convenient revisionism. Whatever the case, at least one of Hayez’s contemporaries did not recognize any veiled condemnation or alternative reading in Hayez’s royal commissions. P. E. Nicoli, in a review of the 1850 Accademia di Brera Exhibition, went as far as accusing him of treason. He wrote: …Francesco Ayez … and his greed for gold, sold his brush to the executioner of his country, without remembering those who pulled him up from nothing, those who furnished him the occasion of study and glory, those who gave him riches and fortune. I am so disgusted by this cowardice that I will move from this figure without discussing him further.56 The year the portrait appeared, in 1850 at the Brera exhibition, Hayez showed four other paintings. One was his self-portrait at 57 years old, the one the artist later bequeathed to the Accademia di Brera. The second was a scene from the story of the thirteenth-century feudal Lord Ezzolino III da Romano, a character known for his extreme brutality and his alliance with the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II. Hayez focused on the moments before the horrific execution of the monarch’s brother, Alberico, when he stands surrounded by his family. To some, this subject might read as sympathetic to the monarchy. To others, it was an investigation into the character’s violent and devastating end, and the human cost of totalitarianism. By the time Nicoli wrote his review, in 1850, Hayez had exhibited several works where his anti-Austrian sympathies were on clear exhibit. Some were understated, as in 1842 when he showed his Ciociara, likely the “contadina,” or “peasant girl” that Nicoli mentions in his review. He fails, though, to acknowledge the red, green, and white costume of the young Roman peasant, a clear metaphor for Italy. In addition to these, Hayez introduced the theme of allegorical figures, which he would reprise frequently over the next decade. Among the best known of these figures were those he painted during the 1840s and 1850s, including his

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Meditation and Melacholia, female figures embodying the mood of struggle and frustration of the Milanese intellectual. Hayez’s Meditation painting done for the 1850 exhibition and one done the following year distinctly conveyed an anti-Austrian sentiment that Nicoli did not recognize. The version exhibited in 1850 depicts a melancholic woman with her non-descript garment falling from her shoulder, exposing her breast. It was completed for one of Hayez’s most loyal patrons, the Count Andrea Maffei (1798–1865). Maffei was a poet and translator, and was instrumental in aiding Hayez with Romantic source material, particularly in his translations of Byron’s Venetian dramas.57 In addition, until 1846 Maffei was married to Clara Spinelli Maffei, who oversaw a Milanese salon founded in 1834 known for gathering patriots and intellectuals, including Tommaso Grossi and Carlo Tenca. Hayez was a frequent visitor and close friend of both Clara and Andrea, and painted Clara’s portrait around 1845. More significantly, though, Maffei played the role of an intermediary between Hayez and patrons, and several subjects Hayez completed can be linked to Maffei’s translations. In the case of the Meditation, and similar to Hayez’s The Apostles Giacomo and Filippo, Hayez exhibited the work under one title, although another meaning was clearly discernible by viewers then and now. The young, disconsolate woman sits holding a book on the spine of which are inscribed the words “[STO] ria d’Italia,” making the nationalistic metaphor transparent. In fact, the 1875 Guida della città di Riva, the home of the Palazzo Maffei, lists the work as Italy in 1848. In the following year, Hayez painted his Meditation, where he modified the figure’s melancholic state to one more penetrating and brooding, one might say even seething (Figure 4.8). This figure likewise holds a book, but also a cross on which is inscribed “18.19.20.21.22 marzo / 1848,” the dates of the five heroic days in Milan where insurgents successfully stood against the Austrian oppressors. This latter version was commissioned by the Count Giacomo Franco, a member of the Maffei circle who had fought in both the Venetian and Roman revolts in 1848.58 Hayez did not exhibit this second version, and as such it was not subject to censorship. Both versions, the second one more openly than the first, expressed to an Italian viewer the struggle and resentment of an unrecognized nation. The Maffei salon (salotto) not only helped to define Hayez’s views towards unification, but also played a significant role in forging connections with patrons. He received many commissions from individuals he met at the salotto. The list reads like a who’s-who of the liberal Milanese community: Tommaso Grossi (1822), Alessandro Manzoni (1841), Massimo d’Azeglio (1864), and Gioacchino Rossini (1870). The works that acted directly to promote a nationalist sentiment were not these portraits of Risorgimento heroes, however, but a hybrid or modified form of history painting that combined portraiture, and even self-portraiture, with history painting. A compelling early example of Hayez’s democratic strategy for blending portraiture and history painting is his Portrait of the Count Arese of 1828 (Figure 4.9).59 Hayez began the portrait in 1827, a year after the sitter, Arese, returned from three years of imprisonment in the Austrian Spielberg Prison, located in modern day Brno in the Czech Republic. Arese was one of several members of the Milanese aristocracy and intelligentsia who ended up at the notorious prison following the 1821 Federati uprising. Most famously, the author Silvio Pellico spent eight years there for the same reason as Arese, “carbonarism.” Pellico’s 1832 memoir recounting his incarceration, Le Miei Prigioni, provided Italians throughout the peninsula with the motivation to rise up against the foreign oppressor. In the case of the Arese, he commissioned the portrait to commemorate his patriotic action and its personal toll.

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Figure 4.8 Francesco Hayez, Meditation, 1851, o/c, Verona, Galleria Civica d’Arte Moderna e Contemporaneo Source: © Alinari / De Agostini Picture Library / A. Orli.

Arese, a former colonel in the Napoleonic army, sits on a simple box in a somber prison setting where his dignity and resolve contrast with his dark setting and iron constraints. The effect of his steady gaze is pronounced, considering the circumstances of its completion and the fact the subject sat for the artist for less than an hour in his studio. Nevertheless, Hayez described in his Memorie his desire for authenticity.60 He sent to the civic tribunal for a set of the actual irons used to restrain Arese. When the worker arrived at Hayez’s studio to deliver the chains, he exclaimed on seeing the beginnings of the portrait. He recounted to Hayez Arese’s kindness to him, even while he was fastening the chains. Hayez captured that personality in the portrait, and in so doing created a new brand of heroic, one driven by the combination of the openness of his gaze, his upright posture, and the stark surroundings of the prison cell. Heroic and humble, resolute while literally imprisoned, the complexity of the portrait reflects a Romantic sensibility and through dramatic allusion blurs the edges between his early history painting and the genre of portraiture.

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Figure 4.9 Francesco Hayez, Portrait of the Count Arese, 1828, o/c, Private Collection Source: © akg-image / De Agostini Picture Library.

Arese was not a character in a drama, but Hayez presents him as one. He is not the Neoclassical hero, a Leonidas or Lycurgus. He is the Romantic hero, the flawed and impassioned. Rather than emphasize Arese’s nobility or erudition, Hayez shows his patriotism. The truth of the painting, though, was that it was completed when his patriotism was in question. Arese was criticized for the role he played after his arrest, when his forthrightness with the Austrian authorities worsened the circumstances of some of his Milanese compatriots. Mazzocca even suggests that his cooperation resulted in a milder treatment than the other patriots. By showing Arese in chains in a dank, dark prison cell, then, perhaps Hayez was defending Arese against the accusations of disloyalty in return for special treatment by the jailors. To those like the revolutionary Federico Confalonieri or Silvio Pellico, who by all accounts were treated much harsher, the chains would have appeared in poor taste.

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Regardless of the intention of the painting, the Arese portrait represents a long line of anti-heroes that figure prominently in Hayez’s historical subjects. From the Ciani portait in the 1820s to his Last Minutes of Marin’ Faliero at the end of his career, Hayez glorified the complex and flawed hero, one whose passionate expression outweighs the troubled circumstances of his situation. A reading of Arese the Romantic or even Byronic hero is an even more compelling interpretation in light of another work he acquired from Hayez four years later in 1832. The painting, Portrait of Carlo Prayer as Alp, shows an acquaintance of Hayez from his early years in Rome. Prayer died in 1832 while in custody, accused of treason by the oppressive government official of Francesco IV d’Este, the Habsburg Duke. The circumstances of his incarceration were suspicious, however, and suggest his death was caused by personal animosity by corrupt officials. When Hayez painted him, he showed Prayer in the character of Alp from Byron’s Siege of Corinth, a character who chose to fight with the infidel after he was betrayed by the Venetian government. His allegiance was to his love, Francesca, and, as Byron depicted him, his struggle was with the tyrant, the general Minotti, who drove Alp to his treason. The Siege of Corinth capitalized on philhellenic enthusiasm, first represented by Byron in 1816, followed by Gioachinno Rossini’s French opera Le Siége de Corinthe, which debuted in Paris in 1826 and Milan in 1828. The liberal, Romantic context informed by Byron and his reputation were the starting points for Hayez’s Carlo Prayer as Alp as well as his portrait of its eventual owner, Arese. What was allusion and reference in Hayez’s Ciani portrait, becomes a direct statement in the Arese. He reconstructs the setting as if it was a historical space, and Arese’s gaze is leveled to break the picture plane with a determination that speaks to his resolve, and, probably as intended, suggests his character. He may have been imprisoned for treason by the Austrians, but his actions suggest to the patriot his heroism, recorded in perpetuity in Hayez’s retelling. Along with Byron’s Alp and Hayez’s characterization of Prayer, Arese embodied the Romantic notion of a hero in a distinctly Byronic sense. In his Byron and Goethe of 1838, Mazzini recognized Byron’s role in creating a new brand of hero for the modern climate. He wrote, [Byron] took his types form amongst those privileged by strength, beauty, and individual power. They are grand, poetical, heroic, but solitary; they hold no communion with the world around them, unless it be to rule over it; they defy alike good and evil principles; they ‘will bend to neither … Each of them is the personification, slightly modified, or a single type, a single idea—the individual; free, but nothing more than free…’61 His words resonate with Hayez’s Prayer and Arese portraits. Both paintings defiantly challenge the authority of the age in their iconography and pictorial solutions, and as a result create a hero of the modern age. The anti-heroism of his Arese and Prayer figures expands to a large-scale, multifigure format in his mid-century history paintings, allowing Hayez to convey the collectivism of the Risorgimento age. Even with these compositions, Hayez would at times include portraits of prominent Milanese intellectuals. In two cases, his Pietro the Hermit (I Lombardi alla Prima Crociata, 1827–1829) or his Refugees of Parga (Profughi di Parga, 1826–1831), he even pictured himself. Not only did this allow him to shrewdly demonstrate political engagement without attracting censorship or political retribution, he engaged directly with the Milanese community to whom these would appeal. The

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Pietro the Hermit is the earliest example of his strategy (Figure 4.10). It is one of four paintings commissioned by Francesco Peloso, a wealthy Genovese merchant and ship-builder and a former Napoleonic official who supported the concept of an Italian republic. Included among the other works in Peloso’s collection were Hayez’s Fiesco Taking Leave of his Wife (Fiesco si congedo della moglier, 1826), and a Greek scene entitled Inhabitants of Parga Burning the Ashes of their Ancestors (Gli abitanti di Parga che prima della loro partenza abbruciano le ceneri del loro parenti, 1831). In these two particular works, though, the Pietro the Hermit and the Parga scene, Hayez reprised the theme of his Pietro Rossi by representing the call of duty at the expense of great personal sacrifice. The Parga scene in particular recasts this previous theme in light of the pan-European fascination with the Greek War of Independence. The Italian state of affairs aligned with the Greek cause directly, specifically in how the Greeks struggled to free themselves from the domination of the Ottoman Turks. In all, Peloso’s collection, then, appealed to an audience sympathetic to nationalist aims and its call for collective action. Although the Pietro the Hermit acts straightforwardly as a history painting, Hayez barely veiled the contemporary call for liberation. The subject comes from JosephFrançois Michaud’s Storia delle Crociate, which appeared in Italian between 1817– 1822, and more directly from Tommaso Grossi’s 1826 epic poem I Lombardi alla Prima Crociata. Hayez’s connection with Grossi, not to mention his awareness of the

Figure 4.10 Francesco Hayez, Pietro the Hermit Preaching to the Lombards of the First Crusade, 1827–1829, o/c, Milan, Private Collection Source: © Alinari / De Agostini Picture Library.

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popularity of the poem, confirms Hayez’s reading of the theme as more current than the medieval setting or the religious ideology. Although thematically aligned, the scene he chose to represent did not illustrate an episode from Grossi’s narrative, but envisioned a scene where Pietro, a devout hermit, gathers forces to liberate the holy land with his fiery words. Here, Hayez has placed him in an ambiguous northern European setting, in the act of spurring the people forward. “To arms! To arms ferocious youth. What will make you angry? Don’t you hear the sound of the heavenly trumpet that calls to you through the desire that courses in your blood.”62 It is not Pietro speaking here as much as Peloso, whose portrait Hayez clearly used to embody Pietro’s zeal. He does not stop there, though, and included his own self-portrait just under Pietro’s arm, answering the call and wearing the helmet and insignia of a crusader. Hayez’s inclusion in the scene, along with Peloso in the guise of Pietro, is direct and not at all nuanced. He is not merely a narrator of the story for the viewer, he participates in the crusade to free the holy land, a clear metaphor for freeing Italy from the Austrians. The collectivism is significant in this work, and contrasts with singularity of the Carlo Prayer portrait. The chorality of the subject was a frequent device for Hayez; he was not glorifying the hero, but links the figures in a cooperative alliance. The political implications of the collective over the hagiographic or glorified treatment of the individual speaks to the specific Italian historical situation. Verdi used a similar strategy by assigning the chorus a greater role in his I Lombardi alla Prima Crociata which debuted in 1842, followed by Nabucco in 1843. The former casts the subject in the collective space of the Crusades, and the second includes the chorus of Hebrew slaves singing “Va Pensiero,” which Italian patriots would later co-opt as a hymn to the fatherland.63 Both Sacchi and Mazzini recognized Hayez’s treatment of the subject as a means to coalesce the forces of liberation. Sacchi, writing in 1828 at the time of the work’s exhibition at the Brera, described the alpine setting as a means to emphasize “the rise of the Apostle’s voice as it spread throughout Europe.”64 Similarly, Mazzini characterized the people within the context and setting. Behind [Pietro], and on all sides, crowd a mass of all ages, sexes, and conditions … And through this vast body, of attitudes so various, of groups so distinct, are diffused and pourtrayed [sic] all the affections every tendency; and over it presides the only and true link of union, that feeling that impelled the whole, ‘God wills it. God wills it.’65 And amidst the “vast body” is Hayez himself, at once clearly visible and obscured behind Pietro, but boldly identifying himself among the others for the cause of the patria. His appearance speaks to an experienced passion, which Stendhal recognized and recounted in a letter to Alphonse Gossolin in 1828 after seeing the painting. “This painter teaches me something new about the passions he paints.”66 Over a decade after its exhibition, in 1844, Hayez’s painting still elicited a strong response. The scene was reproduced in the pages of Cosmorama Pittorico, where an anonymous critic described the groups of people gathered around it at its exhibition at the Brera in 1829. “The crowd of the curious who daily gathered around to contemplate it seemed to be part of the picture itself and were listening to Pietro Eremità who also addressed his words to them.”67 Hayez not only personally connected himself to the crusade, he connected the contemporary audience to it as well.

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Hayez similarly evoked a personal commitment and passion in his The Refugees of Parga from 1826–1831 (Figure 4.11). Although he also completed a version for Peloso, the one most often reproduced—and the one in which he included his own visage—was done for the Brescian Count Paolo Tosio. He completed four versions based on this subject, including several more related to the Greek War of Independence more generally. Philhellenism was a major literary and artistic trend throughout Europe, and Hayez’s contribution to the cause, dating as it did to the years of the conflict, on the surface is not unlike contemporary accounts from northern Europe. England and France both supported philhellenic organizations that raised funds through public events and private solicitation for the realization of Greek freedom. This work, though, appeared the year after the London Protocol in 1830 when Europe recognized Greece as its own nation independent of the Ottoman empire. On a deeper level then, and with consideration to Hayez’s self-portrait in the center of the main group, the Refugees of Parga indicates a relevance and impact stemming not from its statement of support for Greece, but for how it looks forward to Italian unification. Neither France nor England could identify with the yoke of foreign domination and the loss of an exalted heritage as much as Italy could. For that reason, Fabiana Viglione’s study on Parga as a subject in literature and painting places Italian philhellenism in a much different context than in the north. In France, philhellenic paintings tended to be earlier, and

Figure 4.11 Francesco Hayez, The Refugees of Parga, 1826–1831, o/c, Brescia, Musei Civici d’Arte e Storia Source: © Alinari / De Agostini Picture Library.

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were used to rally support for Greek independence, not to mention the defense of the Christian from the Turkish infidel.68 Between 1826 and 1831, when Hayez was at work on this painting, the republican spirit was far from widespread and was centered primarily in Milan. Even then, patriotic statements were limited to liberal aristocratic communities like the Maffei salotto, flying under the radar of Habsburg censorship. The resistance against the foreign tyrant in the Parga, for Hayez an immediate reference to Habsburg control, was meant to inspire the Italian patriot, spurring them into action. The first rumblings of the Risorgimento—uprisings in Milan, Naples, the Emilia Romagna, and Piedmont—coincided with the Greek struggle. Hayez would have had access to accounts of events in Greece through many sources. Individual battles, political maneuvers, and the roles of the major figures—including Lord Byron—were reported on a daily basis in Milan in the Gazzetta Priviligiata di Milano, later known as the Gazzetta di Milano.69 In addition, first-hand accounts were frequently published in Italy during the 1820s and 1830s in contemporary journals like Il Conciliatore and the Florentine Antologia.70 More thorough investigations into the conflict in Greece appeared in studies including Carlo Gherardini’s Storia della Suli e Parga (1819) and François Charles Hugh Laurent Pouqueville’s Voyage en Grèce (1819–1822). The former title appeared in the catalogue of the Biblioteca Accademia di Brera, which is the library founded by Bossi in 1803, a collection frequented by Hayez. The latter title was donated by Hayez to the same institution later in the century.71 Hayez focused primarily on the story of Parga because of its narration of the devastation wrought on a people due to foreign invasion. Romantic poet Giovanni Berchet first addressed the theme in I Profughi di Parga in 1819, the year of the siege, published only later in 1823 while he was in exile in France. In Part II, “Il Racconto,” one of Berchet’s rebels speaks, “No, by God! I will not serve a tyrant!”72 Undoubtedly, Hayez would also have been inspired for his Greek pictures by Lord Byron, who famously died in Greece at Missolonghi in 1824. Both artist and poet lived in Venice during the years 1817 to 1819, and it is plausible that Hayez would have the opportunity to come in close contact with the poet’s work and his largerthan-life reputation. It is also possible, although not confirmed, that Hayez could have met him at one of the Venetian literary salons. The most prominent salon during this period was led by the Venetian noblewoman Isabella Teotochi Albrizzi. Byron frequented the salon upon his arrival in Venice, yet later changed to the Benzoni salon and its more libertine atmosphere. Although Hayez does not mention the Albrizzi salon in his Memorie, both Cicognara and Canova counted Albrizzi as part of their circles. In 1817, Albrizzi wrote to Canova describing Byron, “I would be so happy if, in submission of my letter, I could introduce you to Lord Byron personally, whose name warrants praise.”73 Cicognara also described his friendship with Albrizzi in his memoirs. Given the relationships between Albrizzi, Lord Byron, Canova, and Cicognara—the latter two being Hayez’s fervent and earliest protectors—Hayez certainly would at least have known of Byron and his reputation. Even without a personal connection, Byron’s centrality to the topic of Italian nationalism was well known, and an inspiration for Risorgimento poets and painters alike.74 For Hayez, Byron’s influence extended beyond his association with the Greek War of Independence to Venetian history, a prevalent subject later in his career. Byron’s involvement with Ottocento politics resulted from three factors. First, beginning in the second decade of the nineteenth century, Byron’s poetry appeared in Italian, including translations of The Giaour, The Corsair, and Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. These narrated to the Italian public the ancient power of Greece, now overpowered by foreign tyranny. Second, Byron’s poetry spawned a genre of Italian poetry focusing on noble political ideals and non-

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traditional poetic structures. His work appeared in Italy as early as 1818 with Pellegrino Rossi’s translation of the Giaour. Here, his lines speak to the Italian condition. Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom’s home or Glory’s grave! Shrine of the might! Can it be, That this is all that remains of thee? … These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear…75 (Lines 103–20) The Italian reader would have easily recognized Byron’s call for a national resurrection, whichever form that would take, and the popularity of this message is verified by the profusion of translations that followed Rossi’s. Byron’s message also became a prominent subject in literary criticism, especially by authors promoting Romanticism. Numerous articles on his poetry and his life appeared in various journals, especially during the lead-up to the First Italian War of Independence in the 1820s and 1830s.76 Writing in the introduction to the Italian publication of Il Giaurro, Ludovico di Breme described him as “…a great painter who creates the most responsive scenes of the human soul;” as one who “drew a rich source of poetic beauty from the consideration and events of an antique and illustrious people, the Italians;” and as a poet who exhibited “the most noble qualities of the heart and the mind.”77 His life was an equally popular topic as his poetry. Cesare Cantù and Giuseppe Nicolini both published biographies in 1833 and 1835, respectively. Both focused on the nobler aspects of his personality and his dedication to democratic causes, describing in great detail his heroic deeds and his death at Missolonghi in 1824. The influence of his death is another way in which Byron affected the Italian nationalist discourse, and was memorialized in the collective imagination, best described by Giuseppe Melchiori. Much of [Byron’s] real influence dates from after his death in the cause of Greek freedom, when he became a kind of underground hero for those Italians who were hoping for and later fighting for national unity … The identification of the fates of Greece and Italy is the major result of the effect of Byron’s death at Missolonghi on Italian public opinion.78 Through his poetry, its reception, and the myth surrounding his death, he became the catalyst for philhellenism in Italy. Hayez would certainly have had access to ample resources on Byron. In addition, he was part of the same Milanese circle of authors strongly influenced by Byron, which also included Giovanni Berchet. In his Memorie, Hayez identified Berchet’s 1823 poem as the source for his Refugees of Parga.

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Francesco Hayez The scene describes the stories of Souli and Parga, and in this epoch everyone recognized the misfortunes of Greece and generally were sympathetic and indignant towards those that ceded it to the Pasha of Janina, against the laws of the people; and Giuseppe Berchet’s beautiful poetry served to popularize these events.79

Hayez responded to the poem by picturing the events described by Berchet, but with an added awareness of the historical accounts. Berchet recalled the 1817 events in the Greek city of Parga. Venice originally controlled the town, until it passed to the French under Napoleon. In its aim to better protect itself from encroaching Ottoman forces under the Ali Pasha Ioannina, Parga rebelled against the French by seeking the protection of British forces. Great Britain, angling for control of the region via the acquisition of the Ionian Islands, sold Parga to the Turks in 1817. Betrayed by their fellow Christians, the citizens of Parga feared the brutal repression of the Ali Pasha and fled north to Corfu. At the time of commission, Tosio left the subject for the commission open to Hayez after originally requesting a classical theme, something like a psyche. The painter, instead, chose to conceive of “a subject which represented patriotic sentiments suiting [the Italian] condition well, by showing through various groups differing passions.”80 He organized the painting into four registers, the foreground, two middle grounds, and a distant landscape/seascape. In the foreground, a female figure in modern Greek garb reclines over the bones of her ancestors as she looks through the picture plane, suggesting an allegorical nature separate from the actors behind her. This figure echoes Canova’s Reclining Magadalen of 1819–1822, and in turn prefigures Hayez’s 1833 depiction of the same subject. This figure holds an olive branch in her hand instead of the Magdalen’s cross, thereby shifting the context from spiritual contemplation to a patriotic and secular allegory. The skull placed before her references the remains from the civic tomb torched as a way to prevent their debasement by the encroaching invaders pictured in the upper left corner. Directly behind the reclining figure is another young woman kissing the trunk of an olive tree. Both indicate the love of the soil and its symbols. These two figures lead the viewer to the central group of a Greek family dressed in nineteenth-century Suliote costume. Hayez carefully researched the garb of contemporary Greeks for these pictures. He appealed first to Cicognara, who sent him a drawing based on Pouqueville’s Voyage dans la Grèce from 1825.81 The Accademia di Brera Library contains sources to aid in pictorial studies, but whether these were available at the time of Hayez’s preparatory studies remains undetermined. The male figure rests his arm on his wife’s shoulder as he looks back towards the city he left behind, directing the viewer to the Turkish soldiers who approach. His companion looks down, dejected and beaten, and the child she holds, although an infant, mimics her disconsolate expression. On the right side of the main group stands a Greek priest, dressed in black with his head bowed in either retrospection or prayer. This figure will become a recurring motif in Hayez’s subsequent philhellenic works. The priest towers over the backdrop of the Ionian Sea and the mass of figures fleeing into its waters as they carry their children and their swooning compatriots to a Christian and free soil. Behind the priest, Hayez includes a partially obscured self-portrait. His face hearkens back to the tradition of obfuscating self-portraits on a secondary plane or in the margins, as Raphael had in the Stanza della Segnatura in the Vatican. Just as Raphael had, he looks out to the viewer to act as interpreter, while simultaneously identifying with the Greek nationalist and to, as Mazzocca notes, “confirm the intensity of his pledge.”82 Like Byron, Hayez painted himself as a man of action, a dedication to the political pledge,

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and therefore to a Romantic ideology. In this context, Hayez’s self-portrait recalls Byron’s semi-autobiographical poetry, seen especially in his Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1812–18). Hayez’s “narrative” device, therefore, inserts a personal comment in the painting, namely a call for the Italian patriot to reject foreign tyranny in the same manner as the refugees from Parga. The critical reception of the painting after its exhibition in 1831 was overwhelmingly favorable, validating what Mazzini wrote in 1841 in his “Modern Italian Painters.” Hayez captured a spirit of the age and, according to Mazzini, became “the painter of the nation,” by painting the collective soul of the people while retaining the heroism of the individual. In this way, he introduced a Risorgimento ideology to a wider audience beyond the illuministi and earliest, most devout patriots. Furthermore, continued Mazzini, he used “analogies of situation that must present themselves to every Italian.”83 Both Ignazio Fumagalli and F. Ambrosoli, writing for Biblioteca Italiana and L’Eco, respectively, also praised its truth and emotional range.84 Fumagalli recognized Hayez’s ability to convey “…the sublime concept in his intention to reveal morality in the different ways each individual feels.” A. Meneghelli echoed this in his pamphlet on the painting published in 1831, stating that Hayez “…contributes with his painting to the inspiration of the most noble sentiments, and rouses the abhorrence of violence, crime, and oppression.”85 Parga allowed Hayez to address a modern context, one in which he appears to incite a passionate and personal dedication to the Italian cause. Hayez followed the Parga with similar treatments of other Greek subjects, with two other works focusing on Parga. Some, like a group of three boat scenes depicting Greek refugees fleeing the Turks, are more anecdotal in their appearance. None of his later Greek works captured the same heroic spirit of this larger version, not even A Scene from the Massacre of Patras, which occurred in April of 1822, from 1839.86 It is only the monumental Parga composition, the one exhibited in 1831, where Hayez constructed a myriad of allegories and allusions celebrating the heroic Greek character, which in turn directly expresses the patriotic spirit of the Risorgimento. Comparisons to northern European philhellenic statements—works by Delacroix, for example—contradict the autochthonous methodology suggested by Höhler and attempted here. Even so, assessing parallels and contradictions between Hayez and northern examples, if kept brief and not qualitative, may allow for a deeper understanding of the Italian philhellenic, and possibly even Romantic character. Works by Géricault and Delacroix parallel philhellenic depictions in Italy, including other artists not treated here, artists like Ludovico Lipparini. What distinguishes Hayez’s and his compatriots’ versions, though, is the metaphorical aspect of the imagery, and its continuation well into the century. Rather than project the historical events to incite sympathy and champion republican values, Hayez created cultural metaphors, allusions to the contemporary political struggle of his specific context all while misdirecting censors by depicting Christian subjects. His selfportrait in the Parga, as diminutive as it is, speaks volumes. It portrays his commitment and his agency in an era that spoke through allusion out of political necessity. A decade after the philhellenic paintings, Hayez found a way to allude to anti-Austrian content a little closer to home. In his 1846 work The Sicilian Vespers (Figure 4.12), Hayez reprised a subject matter that he first addressed in the 1822 for Marchesa Vittoria Visconti d’Aragona, and then again in an 1826–1827 version for the Conte Arese. Hayez does not connect himself in any of the versions through the use of self-portraiture. Perhaps he felt it unnecessary by this point of his career with his patriotic credibility wellestablished by Mazzini, Sacchi, and others; perhaps the allusion was too direct to risk his appearance, staged as it was on Italian soil; and perhaps the subject exhibited a clarity

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Figure 4.12 Francesco Hayez, The Sicilian Vespers, 1846, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Source: © Alinari Archives, Florence.

that only barely constituted allusion. Whatever the case, the work, which now hangs in Rome at the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna with pride of placement, helped establish Hayez as one of the most powerful voices of the Risorgimento. Hayez captured the same moment in the story depicted in his earlier versions. Just as with the Parga, the monumental scale of the last version resonated in its contemporary context, and in the range of emotions displayed in the figures. The scene, as with the other versions, expands outwards from the main group and shifts right of center. This main group is comprised of Ruggier Mastrangelo and his young wife, shown swooning after her molestation by the French soldier Drouet. Balancing the scene to the left of the central axis is the young woman’s brother, alternately identified by many as Mastrangelo; he retreats with his sword after mortally wounding Drouet. The similarity in physiognomy between the youth with the sword, the assaulted woman, and the child directly behind Drouet suggest a familial connection, and may justify the identity of the youth as the woman’s brother rather than husband. The central axis is occupied by a priest, whose red cloak creates the visual anchor from which the narrative unfolds. His clutched fist, which falls precisely at the center of the composition, echoes the Sicilian fisherman to his right, clutching a dagger as he calls for the overthrow of the French. Both the priest’s and the fisherman’s gesture recalls the historical narration of these events by Michele Amari, who in 1843 recorded an incendiary call for revolt: “Death. Death to the French.”87 The two characters communicate the injustice and defiance that spurred the revolt, which is at the verge of erupting in the background and margins of the painting.

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Just as crucial to the narrative as the figures is the landscape, which Hayez painted with a precise study of the topography. In a letter to his wife, Vincenza, from Naples, he wrote of his upcoming trip to Palermo, where he would study the features of the landscape in order to faithfully render the environment.88 In the distant background, Hayez depicted Mont Pellegrino. In the previous versions, Hayez placed the events within the city of Palermo. In the 1846 version, Hayez adhered more closely to the description of events by Amari, and placed the events on the planes near the Church of Santo Spirito. This differed from Sismondi’s description that informed his earlier versions. The depiction of the church architecture is more historically accurate, and avoids the anachronism of the Cathedral at Palermo, which, although readily identifiable with Palermo, would be at an early stage of construction in 1282 at the date of the uprising. The attention Hayez paid to accurately recreate the setting, the Italian setting, signals his intention to anchor the story in the particular rather than the more romanticized and picturesque. By doing so, he moved the nationalist allusion from the Greek narrative closer to home and Italian soil. The motivation for the patriotic connection in The Sicilian Vespers is borne out by the role of the patron, Vincenzo Ruffo di Motta e Bagnara, prince of Sant’Antimo, based in Naples. Ruffo was a liberal nobleman, and commissioned the subject to signal his own opposition to the Bourbon court.89 Only two years after Hayez completed the painting, in January 1848, the Bourbon court was driven from Sicily, and remained in exile until May 1849. Upon the king’s return, the Sicilian Vespers theme was so incendiary that any reference in art and literature would invite retribution. After Amari’s retelling of the events was officially banned in Sicily, he was summoned to testify in front of the court’s judicial body, causing him instead to flee to Naples. The Bourbon officials banned his book in Naples. Even his publisher also chose exile to avoid imprisonment. Hayez did not reinforce Ruffo’s anti-Bourbon outlook by picturing him as a character in the drama, like he did with Peloso in Pietro the Hermit, but he did include Ruffo’s wife, the English woman Sarah Louise Strachan, who appears in profile directly behind the main figure of Mastroangelo. Hayez simultaneously painted a half-length portrait of the principessa d’Antimo in 1844 while working on The Sicilian Vespers. The painting is notable for the luscious handling of its textures and the expressiveness, even apprehension of the sitter. The face that emerges from behind Mastrangelo in the Vespers recalls the fair features of the principessa, although this is not verified by contemporary correspondence. This mature incarnation of Hayez’s history painting has been the subject of controversy between those who recognize emotionalism and political engagement, and those who saw “false theatricality.” On one hand, Hayez’s strategy of using a centralized cluster of figures to convey the collectivity of action, also seen in The Refugees of Parga, echoes the concurrent operatic productions of Giuseppe Verdi, whose own Vespri Siciliani appeared in 1853. The theatrical nature of Hayez’s middle year compositions made an apt comparison to the Verdi productions, which were staged in Milan and throughout Italy. The association to the composer, not to mention the power of his music to stir the soul, served Hayez well. The painting’s power was not universally recognized, however. Giulio Carlo Argan described the painting as cold, lifeless, and lacking in pictorial innovation, which differs from Hayez’s passionate and personal commitment many recognize today. To Argan, “All is theater, all is incredibly false.” (“Tutto è teatro, tutto incrediblmente falso.”)90 Hayez did not deliver the progressive experimentalism defining Argan’s age. He also did not approximate the individualized and expressive brushstroke of the French Romantics. Hayez gave the patron and the viewer the Romanticism of Verdi, though. As such, The Sicilian Vespers constitutes Hayez’s impassioned petition for the simultaneously personal and collective patriotism.

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The operatic and nationalistic, ironically, is more apparent in Hayez’s The Sicilian Vespers than in the work he completed for the Sala delle Guardie del Corpo at Palazzo Reale in Turin for the House of Savoy, the first leaders of the Italian nation. In his Thirst of the First Crusaders Under Jerusalem (La Sete dei primi crociati sotto Gerusalemme, 1833–1850), he constructed a more ambiguous political statement (Figure 4.13). Based on an account from the Corriere delle Dame in 1833, Hayez began to conceive of the narrative and the monumental scale before he secured the commission in 1838 from Carlo Alberto.91 At its delivery, much later than Hayez anticipated initially, Carlo Alberto was no more, and it was received and installed under Vittorio Emanuele II. Then, at some point after its delivery, it was removed from the Sala delle Guardie, only to be discovered a century later, rolled up and forgotten. After its restoration in 1980 and its exhibition in the 1983, the painting was restored to its original location. Several factors separate this painting from the history paintings executed in previous decades. First, its significant delay in execution is rare for Hayez, and may indicate a cause other than the increasing demands of the artist. Perhaps the timing of the work was to blame, done at a time of shifting political circumstances. Secondly, its disappearance from the Guardia delle Robie may indicate the potential for a reading problematical to the monarchy. Its reception was not unequivocally positive. Finally, Hayez shifted away from the collective and cohesive compositions of the Parga and the Vespri meant to inspire patriotism and pictorialize a nationalist voice. His Sete, in contrast, shows discord, desperation, and the European crusaders at the brink, but not in possession of their ultimate goal of salvation. Sandra Pinto, in describing the negative critical reaction towards the painting by Hayez’s contemporaries, identifies how it “constitutes the primary key for the interpretation of

Figure 4.13 Francesco Hayez, Thirst of the First Crusaders under Jerusalem, 1832–1850, Turin, Musei Reali, Palazzo Reale Source: © Alinari / De Agostini Picture Library / F. Gallino.

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Italian Romanticism.”92 From the standpoint of a pictorial drama, the painting is clearly driven by frenzy, pain, abandon, and determination. To build on Pinto’s description, Hayez allowed the currents of melodrama to intersect with political reality and religious patrimony to characterize the nature of Italian Romanticism, one separate from the northern Romantic ideology. It is worth mentioning again that the distinction of the Italian approach resulted in its exclusion from the Romantic narrative. In his evaluation of Romantic Italian literature, Joseph Luzzi recognized three aspects that distinguish Italian Romanticism from elsewhere, namely its classicism, Catholicism, and nationalist-historical dimensions.93 Whereas these facets of Romanticism are not exclusive to Italy, their predominance in the Italian incarnation caused scholars to label it as academic conservativism. Nevertheless, Hayez’s Sete, with all its religious references and nationalistic allusions, is Romantic for the same reasons Alessandro Manzoni’s I Promessi Sposi is Romantic. In other words, the painting—and the novel—include Christian and nationalist imagery compatible to, not in conflict with, Romantic tendencies. As Manzoni wrote in his “Sul Romanticismo” of 1823, Catholic principles mostly paralleled those of Romanticism.94 In his interpretation, Hayez chose to reprise Grossi’s I Lombardi alla Primi Crociati. Between 1826 and 1827, Hayez had completed a series of lithographs illustrating the same Grossi narrative. This particular scene is found elsewhere, in the Histoire by Michaud consulted for the Pietro composition, as well as Tasso, who wrote his famous epic poem Gerusalemme Liberata in 1581. Here, Hayez depicted a scene from Grossi’s Canto 12, when the remaining crusaders arrive at the wall of Jerusalem having barely survived their arduous trek with few provisions and the constant threat of the Turks. In all, at over 12 by 19 feet, the painting is teeming with dozens of life-sized figures in various states of despair, suffering and concentration. Mazzocca suggests the scale is a response to a claim levied against Hayez in 1835 that he did not like to paint large-scaled figures.95 On the other hand, Hayez was increasingly occupied with private commissions, and the private setting would have naturally determined the scale of these commissions. Since the Sete was designated for the royal palace, Hayez could go bigger, so he distributed dozens of life-sized figures across the surface of the painting with a vast range of expressions. He showed some figures after their demise, others recognize salvation and clamber for relief. Others have found a water source, or protect a loved one from the desperation of the crowd. Hayez captured the confusion and chaos at the following point in Grossi’s text: But the closer it gets, the more confused Shouting for infinite multitude Distinguishes a sound of widespread pain And the curse of those who are angry with the sky On a thousand faces, the disappointed Desire reads, and a hopeful betrayed clearer voices to the nuncio and faith That does not even seep water.96 Amidst the profusion of action and reaction, Hayez provided little focus. On the rocky ledge in the upper right corner of the painting, Hayez subdued the intensity of color and lightened the tones behind the figure of Pietro. The monk is not the main focus, but provides the point in the narrative that explains the mass of crusaders below, when a cistern is first located to relieve their monumental thirst. The painting’s chilly critical reception after its installation in 1850 may have resulted from the very range of emotions

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and spreading mass of figures that sets it apart from Hayez’s earlier works. Few even bothered to comment on the achievement of the Thirst of the Crusaders, except for the harshly critical review in L’Opinione in 1850.97 Hayez’s other commissions alone do not explain the protracted delay in finishing the work; instead, as suggested earlier, the delay may have indicated his difficulty with the subject in the political climate of the day. In fact, in a letter from Hayez to his friend and fellow Venetian Ludovico Lipparini in 1834, Hayez indicated he intended to limit his activity to the one project. And even though it advanced over the next decade, especially by 1845 when Hayez was able to write to Turin with a description of the multi-figure composition, the events of 1848 and the First War of Independence interrupted its delivery. When exactly it was completed and what changes occurred between 1834 and 1849 when it was presented remains unknown, but politics may certainly have played a role. Popular opinion saw the Piedmontese involvement with the First War of Independence at first as heroic, but that sentiment eroded and in the end Carlo Alberto was judged ineffective and self-serving, causing the nationalist, republican cause to remain unfulfilled. Carlo Alberto’s involvement was non-committal, and, intentionally or not, Hayez captured the disorganization and the lack of a cohesive policy of the Savoy monarch towards Austria. Rather than support the republican cause that forced the Austrians from Lombardy after five historic days of rebellion, Carlo Alberto’s primary mission was to annex Lombardy to Piedmont and expand the borders of the Savoy Kingdom. Before the time his aristocratic and monarchist initiatives were complete, Austria had regained control and driven the monarch back to Piedmont. Giuseppe Rovani, writing in 1855, recognized Hayez’s composition allegorically as a reflection of Carlo Alberto’s policy, or lack thereof, towards unification. He saw the confused composition and the ambiguous action almost as an allegory for the political climate, and in relation to Carlo Alberto’s reign in particular, “…instead of unity, there is an absolute lack of a general concept.”98 He went on to describe the figures that neither identify the context or act in a logical, explicable manner. One could easily write off Hayez’s dispersed composition as an attempt to create a tour de force depiction of the human form in a variety of actions. Doing so, though, would be contrary with his customary compositional solutions. Throughout the 1830s and 1840s, Hayez completed many multi-figure, large-scale compositions—the Pietro the Hermit and the Sicilian Vespers being only two of many—that provided a visual arrangement that both elucidated the contemporary cultural climate while providing a digestible, cohesive composition in order to strengthen the impact. Granted, none of the previous large-scale works approached the colossal scale of the Sete, but Hayez was certainly accomplished at orchestrating form to carry the content, the true meaning, of the subject. Rather, the intentionality of this painting, which took 17 years to take from concept to completion, indicates the purposeful disunity and confusion recognized by Rovani in 1855. Seen in this light, the message is quite clear. A group of crusaders (or Italians) are at the very point of attaining their mission (or unification), but are halted just shy of their goal by conflict and disorganization (conflicting Risorgimento and political ideologies). The range of emotion and action, therefore, are emblematic of the Italian inconsistencies and failure to compromise. In the period between 1848–1850, the struggle was real; in the way Hayez pictured the figures struggling to fend off the desperate and beg for water, the path to salvation is far from clear. This lack of clarity, if it had been interpreted as such after its installment in the Palazzo Reale in 1850, may not have been the message the new monarch Vittorio Emanuele II

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wished to present to the world. The scale makes the painting and the message unavoidable. Either for this reason, or for the negative critical response the painting received by Hayez’s contemporaries, the painting was removed from its location, rolled up, and put into storage. Only after the resurgence of Hayez’s reputation at the centennial of his death was it located, restored to its original state and reinstalled, well after the monarchy and any negative allusions associated with its role in the Risorgimento were relevant. Instead of the official commission—the royal, official, palace commission—the lasting political allegory and most recognizable of Hayez’s paintings are the three versions of The Kiss (Il Bacio) (Figure 4.14). Of all Ottocento paintings, this series is frequently reproduced in Italy and, surprisingly, even outside it. Hayez painted the first image in 1859, just prior to unification; the second in 1861, during the political realization of unification; and the third in 1867, after unification and for the international stage at the World Exposition in Paris.99 The popularity of these paintings today mostly results from their status as a romantic emblem; one sees it on candles, greeting cards, and books of

Figure 4.14 Francesco Hayez, The Kiss, 1859, o/c, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera Source: © Fine Art Images / Alinari Archives, Florence.

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love poetry (and these are only some of the Hayez/Kiss objects I have purchased myself). Indication of their hold on the public imagination is the 2015 event in Milan promoting the opening of the most recent Hayez retrospective at the Gallerie d’Italia. Milanese actors dressed like the fictional characters were joined by crowds of onlookers. At a precise moment, all—costumed figures and members of the crowd alike—assumed the passionate pose of the painting. Film of the event was used to publicize the exhibit throughout the world. As scholars have noted since its first appearance, the passionate embrace comprises only one layer of meaning of this theme. What viewers often fail to see is how Hayez used this subject to operate as a symbol of unity, cross-border collaboration, and even disillusionment. To be sure, the embrace of the two youthful figures also embodied youthful love and passion. Hayez adopted the theme of the kiss early in his career on two occasions in his treatment of The Last Kiss of Romeo and Juliet, the first of which was exhibited at the Brera in 1823. But even in these early works, Sacchi read the image as a harbinger of civic painting (pittura civile), indicating evidence of a Romantic current on the peninsula. Whereas others described Hayez’s Romeo and Juliet as “anti-pictorial,” with Juliet as “too muscular” and Romeo as “cold,” Sacchi described the painting as a modern incarnation of beauty. This is precisely the beauty that Hayez means: his Juliet is certainly not a Venus and she is not an ancient woman or one of our times; she is beautiful, but beautiful in her love … Hayez, in this way, the talented painter that he is, departed from the servile in order to offer a historic and civic ideal that results from his choosing, gleaned from the study of centuries and nations.100 These works were completed at a time when Hayez was mining Shakespeare and Byron for Romantic subject matter. Later in the century when he painted his Kiss paintings, in a context dominated by the politics of nation building, Hayez separated from the literary precedent and retained his knowledge “of centuries and nations” to create a pictorial emblem of the Ottocento. Hayez joined the metaphor of unity with a theme consistent since his early days in Milan, that of the call of duty at personal sacrifice. His Pietro Rossi, his Carmagnola, and his Pietro the Hermit all show the sacrifice of the individual to a civic cause. In the Kiss compositions, the sacrifice is less overt than the pleading spouses and weeping children seen in the earlier compositions. The call of duty is not given a literary or historical origin, but is present nevertheless in each version in the way the young man, in medieval and military garb, places one foot on a stair in anticipation of his departure. Part of the success of the composition was the universal recognition of the theme, one that could be appreciated across regions, nations, ideologies, and, considering its continued popularity, ages. The first Kiss from 1859 reprised the kiss in a roundel format, depicting two figures in medieval garb similar to the Risorgimento compositions. This version lies somewhere between the Last Kiss and the Risorgimento Kiss paintings. The kiss is still the focus, as with Romeo and Juliet, but the intensity of the embrace, the merging of the two figures, does not occur as it does in the first of the sequence of three Kiss paintings painted that same year. The first and most recognizable Kiss was commissioned by Alfonso Maria Visconti, and was exhibited at the Brera three months after the triumphal entry of Vittorio Emanuele II into Milan in June of that year. After the patron’s death, he bequeathed it to the Accademia di Brera. The backdrop of this work is the politically

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charged moment of the reification of unity. Hayez’s necessary response constructed the kiss not as a Romantic (or romantic) demonstration, but as a demonstration of triumph and unity. This is not the kiss of Klimt or Rodin, one encompassing sensuality and intimacy. This is a kiss that predates Alfred Eisenstaedt’s iconic image from the V-J Celebration of 1945 for Life Magazine by nearly 100 years. This was readily identified by Hayez’s contemporary writers, like Dall’Ongaro, writing in 1872, but also by painters, like Gerolamo Induno.101 In his Sad Presentiment of 1862, Induno pays homage to Hayez and the theme of personal sacrifice and civic duty by picturing a young woman looking at the miniature portrait of her Garibaldini love, off fighting for the cause. The Risorgimento message is clear in the background imagery, which includes the bust of Garibaldi in a niche behind the bed, next to a print of The Kiss. The civic spirit with which the public recognized The Kiss waned as time stretched beyond the Risorgimento, and the immediacy of the message was obscured. Two years later, in 1861, Hayez completed another version of The Kiss for Federico Enrico Mylius, nephew of Enrico Mylius, and, like his uncle, a strong supporter of the arts. In the intervening two years, Hayez amended his statement by shifting the silk dress of the young woman from blue to white. This variation is the most distinct difference, and most scholars identify the change as a pointed comment by the artist on the Treaty of Villafranca of July 1859.102 The treaty ceded Venice to the Austrians in return for handing over Lombardy to the French, who in turn passed the territory to Piedmont. The insurrections in the following year, with the heroic march of Garibaldi north, established the Kingdom of Italy excluding the territories of Venice and Rome. The role the French played in denying Venice status as part of the new Italian state would have been a great disappointment to Hayez, himself a Venetian. The absence of the blue in the revised composition dampens the effect, as does his signature, “Franc.sco Hayez veneziano fece 1861 di Anni Settanta.” Hayez identified personally as a Venetian, not as an Italian. In a sense, this painting acts as the first statement of disillusionment the artist was to make, and hints at the moment where he moved from nationalist to regionalist. Six years after the second version, then, in 1867, Hayez completed another work for the world stage at the Universal Exposition in Paris. Again, and significantly, the slight modification Hayez made in costume held a political significance. This work was done the year following the annexation of Venice to Italy, after the defeat of the Austrians and the Treaty of Vienna. Venice was now part of Italy, and Hayez commemorated the geographic resolution by creating a painting based not just on unity, as in 1859, but on the collaborative role of France in ending Austrian dominance. On the steps, where the youth places his foot before his ascent, Hayez placed the white shawl of the young woman. The syntax of the composition allows for chords of both red, white, and green, and blue, white and red, the colors of both nations’ standards, thereby commemorating the French and Italian alliance. Again, Hayez’s signature, “Fran.co Hayez, Veneziano” reminds the viewer of the significance this collaboration held for him, as a Venetian.

After Unification: “Hayez da Venezia” In his Kiss paintings, Hayez brought to a close his investigation of Risorgimento painting and the most prolific period of his career. Ostensibly, the realization of the Italian state would in part explain his shift in focus. Few of his later paintings speak with a universal, collective voice at all. Instead, as he entered the last phase of his career, he painted the most intensely personal work of his career, the Venetian subject The Last Moments of Doge Marin’ Faliero of 1867.

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As early as the late 1830s, Hayez chose Venetian subjects quite frequently. That said, after unification he increasingly focused on his Venetian identity specifically and his artistic legacy more generally through his self-portraits, his memoirs, and even his signature. Venetian subjects were prominent in his earlier career as well, but before unification his choice of Venetian subjects, where they may have indicated a predilection for region over nation, did not preclude a broader nationalist or anti-authoritarian message. With Hayez, as with other artists working within regional contexts, nationalism and regionalism were not mutually exclusive. Besides the recurring subject of the Two Foscari, of which Hayez painted eight versions from 1827 to 1859, and the aforementioned Marin’ Faliero, Hayez created a wide repertoire of Venetian subjects. Some of these images referred to the Venetian artistic tradition, as with his Carlo V che raccoglie da terra un pennello caduto a Tiziano (1832) and Gentile Bellini nell’atto di presentare a Maometto II il suo quadro (1834); some addressed literary themes, as with the series of three paintings based on the poems Le Veneziane or La Vendetta (1847–1853) by Andrea Maffei. In other historical subjects, he continued his concentration on the conflict between duty and family, as with those dedicated to the story of Valenza Gradenigo (1832, 1835, and 1845); others focused on redemption, like the compositions featuring the fourteenth-century admiral Vittore Pisani (1840, two from 1853, and two from 1867). Finally, he also depicted Venetian women who through their family (Portrait of Caterina Cornaro, 1835 and 1857) or marriage (Portrait of Bianca Cappello, 1861 and 1870) extended the influence of Venice beyond the Veneto. Finally, two notable self-portraits show Hayez in the guise of the Venetian Doge Gritti, in 1842 and 1870. Two Venetian subjects stand apart from the others, though, for a couple of reasons. First, both related directly to Romantic currents arising out of Lord Byron’s influence, The Two Foscari and Doge Marin’ Faliero. Secondly, the frequency of the first subject and the personal investment of the second go beyond a mere predilection for depicting Venetian subjects and instead suggest a distinctive address of principles inherent in the story. In relation to Romanticism and Lord Byron, Venice factored prominently in the poet’s imagery; to him Venice represented timeless mystery and past glory. In Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Byron called Venice “The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!,” while in “Ode on Venice” he lamented her bondage to northern tyrants. His two Venetian dramas, Marino Faliero. Doge of Venice. An Historical Tragedy in Five Acts and The Two Foscari. An Historical Tragedy, written between 1817–1820 and 1821 respectively, more directly provided the themes that paralleled Hayez’s own investigations. As a Venetian, Hayez would naturally have been drawn to these subjects, and created interpretations off Byron’s studies of the conflict between familial loyalties and civic responsibility. Hayez became aware of Lord Byron’s Venetian tragedies through his friendship with Maffei. The plays were not performed, as Byron conceived of them as “mental theater,” written for the reader rather than the stage.103 Regardless, both plays were produced in London, followed by continental productions. In Italy, they appeared only in derivative versions, and no mention of these are made in Hayez’s correspondence. The subjects were translated to the operatic stage, which was a more likely source for Hayez’s exposure, indirectly via the librettos. Gaetano Donizetti debuted his Marino Faliero, with a libretto by Emanuele Bidèra, in Paris in 1835, and productions followed through the century in Florence, Rome, Naples, and Milan.104 Verdi’s I Due Foscari, with a libretto by Francesco Maria Piave, appeared in Rome in 1844, and at La Scala in Milan in 1845.

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The librettos in both cases submerged the political context of Byron’s original dramas, which makes an argument for the likelihood of a direct source. Hayez never explicitly acknowledged Byron as a source for his Venetian subjects, but two sources help establish Byron as the impetus for the paintings. First, Maffei was a close friend of Hayez’s since the 1830s, and published an anthology of Byron’s dramas in 1862 that included both the Venetian dramas. Maffei sent a passage to Hayez, perhaps while translating Byron’s Foscari, which appears as an undated and untitled passage in the Hayez archives in Milan.105 In addition, after Hayez painted his fourth Foscari subject, Maffei composed a poem dedicated to Hayez’s interpretation of the image, clearly demonstrating the valuable role he played in Hayez’s interpretation of the subject. Secondly, the catalogue of the library at the Accademia di Brera includes a volume with Byron’s dramas published in 1842. Hayez’s donation to the same library does not include any works from Byron, and the library does not document when it acquired the 1842 edition. The book was donated by Camillo Boito (1836–1914), so it is unlikely Hayez had access to this version by the time of his first versions of the subject in the late 1830s and 1840s; he may have had access for the later version of the 1850s, or even the 1867 Marin’ Faliero painting. Hayez’s series of eight paintings based on The Two Foscari range from his early nationalist inclinations to a more personal and introspective treatment later in his career. The iconography centers around the political struggle of Francesco Foscari, Doge from 1423 to 1457. Historians’ accounts focus on a power struggle between the Doge and the Council of Ten, suggesting there were “cankers in the state” that wanted to usurp the Doge’s power. Foscari, a man described as fair, with a strong will, became embroiled in a scandal involving his only remaining son, Jacopo, described in these texts as “empty” and “given to trifle.” Without adequate proof of his part in the 1450 conspiracy against the government, the Council sentenced Jacopo to exile in Crete. In an attempt to find reprieve from his exile, Jacopo sent a letter in 1456 to Francesco I Sforza, Duke of Milan and adversary of Venice. This imprudent move forced his return to Venice to stand trial for treason. In contrast to historical accounts, the Byronic text describes Jacopo’s desperate desire to be returned to Venice, his homeland. The trial, in which he was tortured by his own countrymen, ended with the lifetime sentence of exile. Byron described the trial as unjustly manipulated by a Foscari enemy, Giacomo Loredano, compelled by his suspicion of the Doge’s role in the deaths of his father and uncle years before. Meanwhile, the Doge, in an attempt to deny favoritism towards his son and act instead as a fair and honest ruler, did not intervene. He refused to break his oath of loyalty as statesman, but even this did not protect the him from Loredano’s vendetta. The Council decided to force his resignation, and the Doge was ordered to leave the ducal palace in three days. Sismondi described how before he was able to vacate the palace the Doge succumbed to a burst blood vessel and died, “as he heard the bells announcing the accession of the new Doge.”106 In Hayez’s first two versions of this subject, which appear in an inventory published by Giulio Carotti in the 1890 publication of Hayez’s Memorie, he focused on the separation of Jacopo from his homeland. The first, done in 1827 for Sacchi, is now lost. The title listed by Carotti is The Last Farewell of Jacopo to the Doge (his father) and his Family (L’ultimo addio del figlio del doge Foscari alla sua famiglia). The 1832 version, commissioned by Luigi Taccioli, depicts the same scene under a different title, as do versions from 1838–1840, 1852–1854, and 1859 (Figure 4.15). The 1852–1854 version distinctly relates to Byron’s narrative over the historical accounts, and centers on Venice as homeland and Jacopo’s desolation in the face of exile. The character’s passion for Venice becomes a driving force of the plot. Directly after Loredano’s confession of corruption, as early as Act I, scene I, Jacopo exclaims,

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Figure 4.15 Francesco Hayez, The Last Appeal of Jacopo Foscari, 1852–1854, o/c, Florence, Galleria d’Arte Moderna di Palazzo Pitti Source: © Finsiel / Alinari Archives.

My only Venice-this is breath! Thy breeze, Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face! Thy very winds feel native to my veins, And cool them into calmness! How unlike The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades Which howled about my Candiote dungeon, and Made my heart sick!107 The versions that predate 1838 and 1844 are more difficult to link directly to Byron, and center around the “last appeal” or “last farewell” theme. Only the 1852 composition and the lost one from 1859 date to a period in which it is fairly certain that Hayez was familiar with Byron’s drama through Italian translations and Verdi’s 1844 opera. In these later works, Byron’s Jacopo becomes the basis for Hayez’s Jacopo. His focus shifts from the political intrigue of previous accounts to the sincerest form of patriotism and dedication. In the 1852 version, Hayez depicted Jacopo kneeling in supplication to his father, facing the Venetian waterscape and the columns of San Marco and San Teodoro, as well as the campanile of San Giorgio in the distance. In the Byronic treatment, this confrontation between father and son occurs in the palace dungeons after Jacopo was subjected to torture. Alternatively, Hayez has depicted the scene on the loggia of the palazzo, to place Jacopo in front of the vista of Venice. The city plays a prominent role—Hayez’s home as well as Jacopo’s—and dominates the pictorial narrative.

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Not only is the painting Venetian in setting, it also accesses Venetian stylistic traditions, the coloristic and atmospheric style evoking the velatura of Titian. Hayez’s identification with the Renaissance Venetian master is exhibited throughout his correspondence, including in a note from the Milanese nobleman Filippo Villani, who refered to him as “The Modern Titian of Italy.”108 The horizon is bathed in mist, and glows with a light reminiscent of Canaletto or Marco Ricci. As early as 1832 Ambrosoli wrote, in relation to one of the early and now lost versions, how Hayez’s scenes were recognizable to anyone who has visited that city, the same places where these events occurred; on this canvas one sees and recognizes characters of these heads, of those characters painted by Titian, by Giorgione, by Paolo Caliari (Veronese), by Tintoretto…109 By shifting Byron’s mis en scène from dungeons or throne rooms to loggias or in front of windows, Hayez incorporates the Venetian pictorial traditions via the inclusion of landscape. The particularity of the monuments and the atmosphere evoke Byron’s poetic musings on the allure of Venice, which he called “the greenest island of my imagination;” Venice becomes a character, then, in the drama. The impetus for the 1852 version was Maffei, who commissioned it to promote his translation of the Foscari and Faliero tragedies as part of his Byronic anthology, published in 1862. Hayez would have certainly had access to Maffei’s translations well before its publication, likely as early as the 1840s when Maffei was collaborating with Francesco Maria Piave for Verdi’s 1844 production of the same subject.110 A translated, handwritten passage from Act IV, scene i, the very scene pictured in the Maffei commission, appears in the Hayez archives undated and unsigned. Likely, this is the passage sent to Hayez by Maffei as the basis for the commission. The original Byronic text reads: Ah, father! Though I must and will depart, Yet-yet-I pray you to obtain for me That I once more return unto my home Howe’er remote the period. Let there be A point of time, as beacon to my heart With any penalty annex’d they please, But let me still return. FOSCARI: Son Jacopo, Go and obey our country’s will: ’tis not For us to look beyond.111 JACOPO:

In composition, Hayez does not diverge dramatically from his earlier extant versions. As with the 1838 version, the focus is the confrontation between father and son, between the state and the individual. In the 1852 version, though, Jacopo faces not only his father the Doge, but the vista of the Grand Canal beyond. The focus is still on the Doge, but this later version illustrates a lesser resolve, and a greater internal struggle. Where earlier Hayez described the Doge’s defiance at his son’s treason, the latter version emphasizes the pain of the decisions as the Doge weighs two sides of the conflict on opposing sides of the composition. Over two decades after unification, Hayez recreated the dejection and powerlessness of Francesco in the Venetian historical figure of Marin’ Faliero, but did so for different reasons. The nationalist aspirations and regionalist identities from earlier give way to

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the most personal and individual treatment of his entire career. The Last Moments of Doge Marin’ Faliero is a multi-layered treatment that encompasses the waning years of Hayez’s career, while also referring to the compromised progress of the Risorgimento after the ideal of Italy as a republic adapted to the conception of a united territory, and then again to an annexed region (Figure 4.16). Even more generally, the execution of Faliero embodies the death of the republican ideals prevalent earlier in the century. Hayez, by including his own image, has personalized and individualized a very public and political subject. The loss of power has intense personal implications, and corresponds to the final years of his career at a time when the interest in Romanticism gave way to positivism and realism. The Marin’ Faliero, like the Foscari series, was based on Byron’s 1821 drama, and also, like the Foscari, it inspired many interpretations in opera lirica, painting, and historical narratives. Byron based his account on Marin Sanuto, writing in the sixteenth century,

Figure 4.16 Francesco Hayez, Last Moments of Doge Marin’ Faliero, 1867, o/c, Milan, Pinacoteca di Brera Source: © De Agostini Picture Library, licensed by Alinari.

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but both Pierre Darù and Sismondi treated the subject in their nineteenth-century accounts. The Doge Faliero was elected to the throne in 1354 while acting as diplomat to the papal court in Rome. His absence allowed the Council of Ten to consolidate power away from the Duchy. When he returned to Venice, a great banquet was held in his honor. A young patrician, Michele Steno, attended, acted brashly, and was ejected from the banquet. Steno’s humiliation incited him to reenter the Palace and inscribe on the ducal throne “Marino Faliero with the beautiful wife, others praise her while he keeps her.” The phrase was meant to scandalize the Doge by referencing the disparity in age between him and his wife. Enraged by the incident, Faliero demanded justice. After Steno confessed, however, the Council of Ten sentenced him with only a token punishment. Betrayed by the Council, Faliero declaimed the corruption and tyranny of the state and joined a plebian conspiracy targeting his peers. One of the conspirators, Beltramo Bergamasco, feared the extent of the bloodshed and unveiled the plot. Faliero’s part was revealed and he was sentenced to death on April 17th, 1355. Hayez paints the moments directly before the execution. The Doge is surrounded by the Council of Ten. The red robes of the council contrast with the somber tonality of the defrocked Doge, and the veil draped over the executioner’s block. The foreboding of death is further indicated by the repoussoir placement of the executioner brandishing his ax in the lower right-hand corner. This figure sets up the strong diagonal of the painting, and points towards the figures on the stairway who carry the ducal robes, signifying the loss of power. Faliero does not address any character, but instead engages the viewer, backed by the open foreground plane. The visual accessibility is emphasized by the staircase, which separates the execution scene from the upper register of the painting with the Doge’s wife and the members of the council. Earlier in his career, in 1844, Hayez painted a very different interpretation of the Faliero story. This one was not related to the Byronic drama, clearly the impetus for the later version. Instead, he illustrated an action not present in the Byronic treatment, when Faliero confronts Steno regarding the crime. The scene is trivialized, focusing on the particular narrative without the dramatic moment emblematic of political disappointment. Later, though, the public character Hayez embodied in the single figure of the Doge goes beyond his personal struggles with mortality and legacy to address the image of death in Venice, its Republic, and its hope for nationalist solidarity. This end is unavoidable for the viewer. Faliero is staged to directly confront the viewer, as if performing a theatrical monologue, coming forward from the action to make a rousing and persuasive statement. In reference to Silvio Pellico’s play Francesca di Rimini of 1815, Morse Peckham wrote, “The incoherence within the social structure is subtly emphasized by Paolo’s patriotic speech, one which became a necessary ingredient in subsequent historical literature and opera, and was often present by implication in painting.”112 Faliero addresses the audience in a similar way as Pellico, gesturing to the execution block not to merely reference his end, but the end of the idea of cultural unity. At the time it was painted, seven years after unification and only one year after Venice was annexed to the new state, Italy faced economic setbacks and resistance to Piedmont interests. Mazzini, whose idea of a democratic republic was shattered when Italy was unified under the Piedmont monarch Vittorio Emanuele II, summed up the post-Risorgimento era of disillusionment in 1871 when he wrote, “The alliance with the people has been betrayed, and our relations with Europe have thrown morality overboard just as in the worst centuries of decline.”113 Hayez, from a public perspective, chose Faliero to comment on the failures of the Risorgimento. Like Italian advocates of all stripes, Doge Faliero sought to renew the democratic impulses in government, and was punished for his aims.

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The political statement is made even more assertive when one realizes that Faliero is Hayez himself. He painted his self-portrait in the character of the Doge, in his penultimate moments. In so doing, he shifts the subject from the political and the public to one individualized and intimate. Byron’s interpretation, likewise, addressed the personal characteristics of the Doge, his motivations and his humanity. By casting himself as Doge, Hayez emphasizes the personal toll of not only the Risorgimento, but his own professional struggles at the Accademia di Brera. He appears in the center, the somber tone of his robes contrasting with the surrounding dignitaries and pages, isolating him within the composition and linking him to the executioner’s block. The black cloth over the block provides a visual parallel to the black veil painted over Faliero’s actual portrait in the Ducal Palace, effecting the damnatio memoriae. Hayez saw himself in the following period, after his successes with Romanticismo Storico, as declining in influence, which led him to seek alternative strategies to establish his legacy. For Hayez at this point, his professional stature in the Milanese art community was shifting to the next generation, embodied by Giuseppe Bertini (1825–1898). Bertini, a pupil of Hayez at the Brera, continued his professor’s lesson of finding the truth in history, not the illustration of the literary account. His Dante Meeting Fra Ilario of 1845 deemphasizes the dramatic moment, and recreates the light, the material, and the materiality of the setting. Less emotionalized, less dramatic, his translation of history painting reached for empiricism, like Hayez, but found a more subdued, descriptive solution beyond the Romantic emblem or orchestrated moment. Bertini presented an alternative to theatricality in his recreation of reality. When the academy was reorganized in 1860, two chairs of paintings were established. Hayez resumed his role in one, and Bertini held the other. Perhaps the shift in the academy explains Hayez’s attempts in the 1860s and 1870s to establish his legacy. The Faliero was one of many compositions Hayez bequeathed to artistic institutions, beginning with the Accademia di Brera. In 1860, he donated the contents of his library to the academy, then followed with the 1867 donation of the Faliero along with his Self-portrait.114 This follows his 1862 donation of self-portraits to the Florentine and Venetian academies (Figure 1.2). Notably, in these works, those completed for academic collections, Hayez’s signature specifically addressed his regional identity. The Faliero was signed Francesco Hayez da Venezia, dipinse dell’età di 77 anni, in Milano, 1867. The other donations similarly identified his Venetian heritage, and his advanced age. In addition, it was during these years that Hayez was dictating his memoirs to Giulio Carotti for his autobiography, which was posthumously published in 1890. He clearly felt his pictorial influence had waned, as he wrote in 1873 to Carlo Barbiano di Belgiojoso, President of the Accademia di Brera, 15 years before his death. “Since I have already ended my artistic career, I will be left to privately encourage those young artists that will bring honor.”115 During his remaining years, Hayez stayed active, but his compositions were mostly done for his closest circle.

Conclusion: Last Testaments in a New Age In the Marin’ Faliero, Hayez spoke to the Brera community in the guise of Byron’s doge, nobly accepting defeat in front of pictorial innovations of a younger generation. At the same time, he signaled the decline of liberal ideals in post-unification Italy. Byron provided him with a prototype for the complex hero, yet he individualized it with his own experience. Both monumental and intimate, Hayez’s Faliero was the last testimonial of the Italian Romantic painter.

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Hayez’s late years saw a decline in artistic output, certainly understandable considering his advanced age at the time of his death. Although he was still somewhat active, even holding periodic and interim positions at the academy, his artistic production ebbed. In the late 1870s and 1880s, his catalogue is dominated by small figure studies, religious figures, and self-portraits. Like both Minardi and Toma, Hayez was childless. His wife, Vincenza, died years earlier, in 1869. His archives in the Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense include many letters describing his close relationships with his Venetian family, especially his sister’s children. The archives also contain a set of interesting documents that describes his adoption of his wife’s caretaker, the 45-year-old Angiolina Rossi.116 Hayez was without heirs, and Angiolina was unmarried and without parents; they constituted an unusual family, but one that he indicated brought him great comfort in his later years. The Romanticism that spurred the Risorgimento, that envisioned its heroes and provided its soundtrack, gave way after unification to new concerns for the Lombard region. Milan, specifically, occupied a central place in the development of industry in the late century and into the next, with the added benefit of proximity to northern Europe. Turin was the center of the kingdom, Rome was the capital of Christendom, so Milan was careful to keep apace with northern Europe to increase its own power, centrality, and economic advantage. For the arts, this meant a stronger connection with an international community, to maintain its status as a European and cosmopolitan center rather than a regional one. For painting, this meant a similar shift to the Modernism that introduced the Scapigliatura—a manifestation of Symbolism in southern Europe—and even the first Italian Modernist expressions at the turn of the century with Divisionism and eventually Futurism. The quaintness, the tradition, the very essences of italianità were replaced with the desire for international recognition. Milanese painters, like those in the north, increasingly sought accomplishment outside the academy. Giovanni Segantini studied briefly at the Brera, but his divisionist style developed independently in the company of fellow Scapigliatura artists, like Vittore Grubicy de Dragon, who was also entirely self-taught. Both artists travelled and lived extensively in the northern Europe. The lure of poetry far outweighed the nationalistic mission of a previous generation, Hayez’s generation. In this context, Hayez’s work represented another age. In this new world and in the new nation, the work Hayez did produce was distinct from his early years with all of its optimism and civic commitment. Mid-century Hayez sought a civic purpose in an effort to disseminate a liberal outlook to an engaged populace. His paintings were anthems, and were meant to resonate within the Italian heart. His Kiss or Sicilian Vespers were theatrical, they were operatic, but their stage was meant to reach outwards to stir the public. Late-century Hayez, living at a time when painting became more personal, largely retreated from public exhibition. The bulk of Hayez’s work after 1870 is represented by portraits and self-portraits, with few exceptions. These works, including a notable second version of the portrait of Alessandro Manzoni that he had completed over 30 years prior, exhibit his acute eye for character description, and psychological characterization. The looseness that marks his portrait of Angiolina (Bust of a Woman with Loosened Hair, 1874) may be a nod to the Scapigliati unravelling stroke, as Mazzocca suggests, or may be a loosening of his discipline with a very personal subject at the very close of his career. In either case, the long arc of Hayez’s career spanned the entirety of the Risorgimento era. From the early statements of Italian cultural identity (Pietro Rossi) to his more personal and regionally inspired statements (Marin’ Faliero), Hayez supported the nationalist cause while never denying his Venetian past or his Milanese ambit.

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Notes 1 Mazzocca (1995) 82–3. 2 For an early description of this portrait, see Nicodemi 101–4. As a testament to Grossi’s relationship with Hayez, the poet penned a toast (1824) to commemorate the painter’s recovery from a serious illness in 1824. The poem also mentions Molteni, and is located in the Hayez Archives, IIB, 101. 3 Mazzocca (2015) 148–49 and (1994) 186. 4 Mazzocca (2018) 15. 5 See Necker 9–18, and a useful discussion in Bellorini 61ff. 6 See essays by di Breme (95–114) and Berchet (1951) 423–86: Ora la poesia moderna, che altri chiama Romantica, siegue ( [sic] con predilezione questo Sistema vitale da me finor contrapposto al mitologico; e perciò io parla tantosto di idee poeticamente analoghe: perché questa ragione poetica si compone di tutte sue analogie, che non sono già quelle né della metafisica rigorosa, né della storia naturale, né delle scienze matematiche…Mirabile a ivi leggersi lo svolgimento delle varie ragioni poetiche, analoghe sempre alle varie ragioni dei tempi, dei costume e dei luoghi: e iò appunto in proposito della poesia di Lord Byron. 7 8 9 10 11

Visconti 436. On Hayez’s early days in Milan, see Hayez (1992) 117–23. On Bossi, see Poppi 43ff and Mazzocca (1992) 87ff. Mazzocca (2015) 15ff. For a discussion of Sacchi’s writing and reprints of his essays, including “Visito allo Studio di F.H.” Farfalla (1829), see Zatti 263–80: Quanto a me io credo che le opera degli artisti, sieno prodotti nazionali e che bisogna parlarne, non per riguardo individuale di chi le fece, anche se ne mostra disprezzo, ma per merito del paese: parmi inoltre che finché gli artisti non si porranno a scrivere gli annali della propria arte converra pure che vi pensino o bene o male alcuni lui preme la Gloria della patria.

12 See Pinto (1974) for a description and distinct characteristics of the term “Romanticismo Storico” The exhibition and its corresponding catalogue by Pinto organized history painting by theme and region to indicate regional and nationalist iconography. 13 For the most recent discussion of this early portrait, see Mazzocca (2015) 76ff. 14 Hayez’s father is described by Mazzocca (Hayez, 195, 27) as a fishmonger, and Nicodemi writes, “Egli nacque da Giovanni, un francese di Valenciennes, stilitosi a Venezia per compiervi piccolo negozii…” (52). Both sources provide a complete picture of Hayez’s early biography. G. Carotti originally published Hayez’s Le Mie Memorie in 1890, but the 1995 edition edited by Mazzocca includes passages originally omitted by Carotti. 15 Hayez (1995) 48: “In quanto al colore, il Benvenuti era piuttosto imitatore della scuola francese di allora, la quale era dura, falsa e esagerata.” 16 On Canova’s anti-French stance, see Johns 39ff. 17 Susinno (1991) 399: Rome svolge nello stesso tempo le funzioni di maggiore ‘università’ europea per l’apprendimento qualificato della professione artistica, di mercato dell’arte in contiua evoluzione per le diverse tendenze della moda e del gusto e di vasto cantieire per il soddisfacimento delle esigenze non solo locali di pittura monumentale. 18 From the “Commission of the Academy of Fine Arts in Milan, 12th July 1812,” reprinted in Hayez (1994) 108–9. 19 See Mazzocca (1994) 124 (2015) 82–3, and Gozzoli and Mazzocca 124. At this point in the two artists’ careers, it is unclear if the portrait was done to credit his fellow student at the Accademia del Regno Italico, or rather did Hayez merely take advantage of a willing model? And if the latter is the case, whose face might be found among the other figures? Demin’s?

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20 For a discussion of the Murat commissions, Poppi 55–7 (“…intendeva dare continuità a quell anche sarebbe stata la collezione più rappresentiva del neoclassicismo eroico italiano”), and Mazzocca writing in Clarelli (2008), 31. 21 On the career and official commissions of Camuccini, see Hiesinger 299–300. 22 For the correspondence between Canova and Cicognara, including the letter from June 18th, 1814, see Malamani (1890) 84: Gradisco infinitamente la notizia della partenza per Roma dello zio di Hayez: la sua venuta e dimora a fianco del nipote è necessaria, altrimenti lo trovo in pericolo certo di perdere un tempo prezioso, e di corrompere il suo genio con occupazioni straniere all’arte, e fatali allo studio. 23 On the discovery and early republication, see Milanesi 43 and his discussion of Tambroni’s discovery and dissemination of the recovered text. 24 On the mission of Canova and Cicognara to restore the reputation of glory to Italian art, see Mazzocca writing in Marini (2017) 170–73, and Mazzocca (2017) 37–8. 25 Hiesinger 662. 26 For a detailed account of the commission, see Hiesinger (1978) 655–65, Mazzocca writing in Clarelli (2008) 33, Susinno (1983) 47ff, and Johns 171–94. 27 On Casa Bartholdy, frescoes now in Berlin see McVaugh (1981 and 1984). 28 Malamani (1890) 134: Sento con piacere che Hayez abbia fatto un quadro bellissimo. Me ne console con voi, e con lui, dal quale desidero che ritornando a Roma provvegga all’onor suo, dipingendo qualche altra lunette in Vaticano, di milgiore effetto, e gusto, e sapore della seconda a della terza che sono veramente cattive, e distanti a mille miglia dalla prima. 29 Mazzocca (2015) 23. 30 See Hayez (1890) 43ff. 31 The Palazzo Ducale frescoes were detached in 1962 and restored for the 2015 retrospective at the Galleria d’Italia (2015) 98–103. 32 On Stendhal’s response to the frescoes in Venice see Stendhal (1828) Viaggio in Italia, and on his esteem for Hayez more generally, see his Souvenirs d’égotisme (1832). 33 Hayez (1890) 45: Mi fermai tre anni a Venezia avendo sempre continue commissioni e lavorando da mattina a sera, però quell lavoro era tale da non rendermi contento perché essendo di sola decorazione non potevo fare quegli studi necessari per avanzare nell’arte nella quale sentivo di non essere abbastanza provetto. 34 Visconti 603: “…generalmente tutte quelle opinioni, e tutti que gradi e tinte di passioni che non si svilupparono negli animi de’ Greci e Romani.” 35 The full title of the painting at its exhibition is: Pietro Rossi, signore di Parma, spogliato dei suo domini dagli Scaligeri, signori di Verona, mentre è inviato nel castello di Pontremoli, di cui stava a difensore, ad assumere il commando dell’esercito Veneto, il quale doveva muoversi contro i di lui propri nemici, viene scongiurato con lagrime dalla moglie e da due figlie a non accettare l’impresa. Mazzocca (1994) 137–38. 36 Hayez (199) 113. “E per continuare quegli studi per cui avevo tanta inclinazione cominciai un quadro di mezza dimensione del quale mi occupava nelle ore che potevo essere libero.” 37 Hayez (199) 119: Intanto alle esposizioni il mio quadro aveva riscosso applausì, forse più di quello che meritava: pensandovi poi dal modo per cui me ne facevano elogi, venni a capire che io avevo come incarnate l’idea dominante in quel momento, e che rendeva così viva la polemica tra i più distinti letterati, cioè il predominio del Romanticismo sul Classicisimo.

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38 Hayez to Canova, in Bassano del Grappa, Museo Civico, Epis. Scelto Canova II.83.1571, reprinted in Hayez (1994) 138. 39 Mazzini (1841) 363–90. The quote here appears on p. 378. 40 Ibid. 379. 41 Hayez (1994) 116: Nell’eseguire quest tela mi abbandonai affatto al vero, forse un po’ troppo, e ciò per togliermi da quella specie di cifra convenzionale in cui era caduto io pure lavorando di maniera come io già accennai, e che per fortuna fui a tempo avvertito da chi teneva gli occhi paternamente su di me. 42 See Cranston 104. 43 Commissions listed in his Memorie (1994, 120) also include Consule Castillia (Cadmor che s’arresta alla vista di Sulmalla addormentata) who commissioned an Ossian, Sig. Brambilla and Sign. Caronni, two small commissions. 44 The Italian tricolore, the current Italian standard, was first used in 1796 in Reggio Emilia to represent the Cispadana Republic formed with Napoleon’s first arrival on the peninsula. 45 On the subject of censorship in Italy, see Davis 81–124; Negri and Sironi 191–219; and Phillips-Matz, who covers the constant nuisance of censorship in Giuseppe Verdi’s productions. 46 Goldstein 88. 47 On the role of both painting and opera lirica in the foundation of Risorgimento narratives, see Braun 205–9, Smart 160 and Lyttleton 37–55. 48 Smart 160. 49 Davis 94. 50 Hayez (1994) 140. 51 Gozzoli and Mazzocca 200. 52 Phillips-Matz 337 and 346. 53 For the drawing that came out of his visit to Vienna, and a discussion of the commission, see Mazzocca (199) 154; and Hayez (1890) 58–9. 54 On the Sala dei Cariatidi commission, see Mazzocca (1994) 178–79, and Gozzoli and Mazzocca 200–12. The vault collapsed in 1943 and the fresco was lost. 55 Mazzocca (1994) 263; Gozzoli and Mazzocca 211–12. 56 Nicoli 567–68: Tra i quadri descritti teste, primeggia una figura d’idillio, una tela per gola dell’oro vende il pennello ai carnefici della sua patria, senza rammentare quanto dovesse a color che lo trassero dal nulla, che gli fornirono occasione di studio e di Gloria, che gli diedero ricchezza e fortuna. Nauseati a tanta viltà, ci allontanammo da questa figura senza esaminarlo… 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65

66 67

For Hayez’s Byronic content and his relationship with Andrea Maffei, see Watts (1999). Solinas 196. For this portrait, see Mazzocca (2015) 150, (2011) 114, and (1987) 80–90. Hayez (1890) 60. “Byron and Goethe,” in Mazzini, Essays Selected from the Writings, Literary, Political and Religious of Joseph Mazzini 89. Grossi (1826) 33; Mazzini (1841) 381. Parakilas 118–22. For a reprint of Sacchi’s 1828 article “Le Belle Arti in Milano nell’anno 1828,” see Mazzocca (1994) 197. Mazzini (1841) 381. “Dio lo vuole” (in Latin Deus vult) was credited to Pietro l’Eremità in his efforts to recruit crusaders for Pope Urban II (Michaud 43–8). It was revived in 1848 when it was emblazoned on tricolori that flew over the Roman Republic, and again after 1861 when Garibaldini forces march to claim Rome as the new state’s capital (Riall 92). Stendhal (1892) 319: “Ce peintre m’apprend quelque chose de nouveau sur les passions qu’il peint.” Mazzocca (1994) 196–99 and (2015) 158–61.

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68 On the difference between Italian and northern European philhellenism, see Viglione 221ff and Athanassoglou-Kallmyer 130–34. 69 In addition to the official and somewhat conservative reports in the Gazzetta di Milano, alternative newspapers like Telegrafo Greco and the Giornale Missolonghi informed the Milanese. Popular journals like the Corriere delle Dame also carried reports. 70 Spetsieri-Beschi 438. In the last issue of Il Conciliatore, Porro Lambertenghi recalled the Pargiot incident, “Degli interessi attuali dell’Europa. Discorso di un Milanese che non ha trent’anni,” in Branca 458–61. 71 A VIII 115, Schedario storico, Biblioteca della Accademia di Brera. “Dono del Sig. Prof. Cav. Francesco Hayez alla R. Accademia di Belle Arti di Milano.” 72 Berchet (1972) 61: “No, per Dio! Non si serva al tiranno.” 73 Malamani (1882) 115: “Quanto non sarei io lieta se, sostituendomi a questa mia letterina, presentargli potessi personalment a Milord Byron.” 74 For discussions on Byron’s effect on Italian nationalism in particular, see Muoni (1903) and (1907). 75 Translation from Byron Il Giaurro: frammento di novella turca (1818) 27. Region d’eroi di eterna fama! Un solo/ Angol non havvi del tuo suol, che albergo / Di Libertà non fosse, o un monumento / Non v’ergesse la Gloria. O de’ possenti / Santuario! Di te dunque è pur vero/ Ch’altro non debba a noi restar? (…) / A te pur le dipinge/La fida Istoria—Or sorgi dunque, e i tuoi/ Diritti ripigli. Ripigliate il fuoco/ Onde il cener de’ padri è caldo ancora. / Su, v’infiammate; e que ch’entro la pugna / Cadrà primiero ai nomi lor tremendo / Un nome aggiungerà, ch'alto spavento / Sonerà pe’ tiranni e à figli suoi/Tal con la speme ei lascerà una fama, / Che pria morir che la macchiar vorranno. 76 Articles on Byron appeared in L’Eco (“Il Cielo e la Terra. Mistero di Lord Byron,” 41, 107, 1829, 428; “Aneddoto di Lord Byron,” 24, 1829, 145; “Il Conforto. Poesia di Lord Byron,” 108, 1829, 432; “Review of Letters and Journals of Lord Byron with notices of his Life by Thomas Moore, 31 and 94, 1830, 373–74 and 300–2; “Rousseau e Byron,” 26, 1831, 103; “Review of Lettere del Capitano Medwin su Lord Byron” 62, 1832, 209–10; “Poesia,” 64, 1832, 256; “Review of Manfredo. Poema drammatico di Lord Byron. Traduzione in versi di Marcello Mazzoni, Milan” 88, 1832, 351; “Schizzi sulle conversazioni di Lady Blessington con Lord Byron,” 5, 1833, 17–18; “La botte di Lord Byron,” 29, 1834, 116; “Il Cane di Lord Byron,” 65, 1834, 259; “Un Visita in Grecia con Lord Byron”, 125, 1834, 537–39), Il Ricoglitore Italiano e Straniero (L. B****, “Review of Conversazioni del Lord Byron colla Contessa Blessington”, 1834, 198–99; “Review of Poemi di Giorgio Lord Byron recati in italiano da Giuseppe Nicolini”, 1834, 282–85; and G. Pagani, “Review of Vita di Giorgio Lord Byron by Giuseppe Nicolini, 1835, 898–902), and from Biblioteca Italiana (“Review of Manfredo, poema drammatico di Lord Byron, traduzione in versi di Marcello Mazzoni, Milan, 1832” 66, 1832, 371–73; “Review of Poemi di Giorgio Byron recati in italiano da Marcello Mazzoni, Milan, 1838” 91, 1838, 46–55). 77 Byron (1818) 193 and 255. “…gran pittore delle più riposte scene dell’animo.” S. Pellico, “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,” II.6. “Ma noi terminiamo il nostro articolo bastandoci d’avere indicato qual ricca fonte di bellezze poetiche lor Byron abbia Saputo trarre dalla considerazione delle vicende d’un antico ed illustre popolo qual è l’italiano.” Idem., “Il Corsaro. Novella di Lord Byron,” II: 493: Il concerto filosofico con cui è stato ideato questo poema si è quello di dimostrare come talora le più nobili qualità del cuore o della mente, quelle che in circostanze favorevoli arebbero fatto dell’uomo un eroe, si trovano talora raccolte in un individuo spinto dale sue colpe o dale altrui in alcuna delle condizioni che sono fra noi maggiormente in orrore. 78 Melchiori 67–78. 79 Hayez discussed his influences of the Parga theme (1995) 168: La scene descritta nella storia di Suli e di Parga, ognuno la consoce ché in quell’epoca le sventure della Grecia destavano la simpatia generale e l’indignazione per chi l’aveva

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Francesco Hayez ceduta al famigerato Bascià di Janina, contro il diritto delle genti: e a rendere popolari questi fatti servì non poco la bella poesia di Berchet.

80 81 82 83 84

However, he does not mention Ugo Foscolo, the Greek-born Italian patriot who published an article on the siege directly after it occurred in the Edinburgh Review, which undoubtedly would have been translated and circulated in the Italy. Hayez (1994) 145. Ibid. Gozzoli and Mazzocca 352. Mazzini (1841) 380. Fumagalli 261–68: Un sacerdote sol in aria grave e dignitosa, cogli sguardi a terra, separato dalla comitava è l’unico che concentrato comprima lo sfogo del dolore di cui lo vedi penetrato: sublime concetto con cui l’illustre autore intese a manifestare la parte morale, ed il differente modo di sentire di ciascun individuo.

See also Ambrosoli 441–42. 85 Meneghelli 6: “…contribuirà co suoi lavori ad ispirare i più nobili sentimenti, ad accrescere l’aborrimento alla violenza, al delitto, all’oppressione.” 86 Watts (1999) 54–66. Hayez also completed a large scale work dedicated to The Sortie of the Defenders of Missolonghi in 1834, which is now lost. 87 Amari 117: “Morte ai Francesi, morete a chi li vuole.” 88 Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense, Fondo Hayez II A, 22. 89 See Boime 26–8. Other anti-French statements include: Ventura Fenaroli arrestato nella Chiesa del Carmine di Brescia da Francesi. 90 Argan 196. 91 Gozzoli and Mazzocca 157, and (1994) 157. 92 Pinto (1983) 1010: L’Hayez impiegherà dodici anni (1838–1850) per portare a termine la Sete dei Crociati, dal poema del Grossi; a causa sia del committente, nel frattempo venuto a morte, sia dell’artista ormai compromesso da troppi incarichi ufficiali da parte della casa d’Austria, l’opera, la cui superba melodrammaticità torna oggi a commuoverci e a costituire chiave primaria per l’interpretazione del romanticismo italiano, fu invece per i contemporanei poco credible e poco amata. 93 94 95 96

Luzzi 34ff. Manzoni 873. Mazzocca (1994) 300–3. Grossi 57: Ma quanto più s’appressa, tra il confuse /Gridare di moltitudine infinita/Distingue un suono di dolor diffuso /E l’imprecar di chi col ciel s’irrita /Su mille volti palidi il deluso / Desire legge, e una speme ormai tradita / Più chiare voci alfin dan nunzio e fede / Che non anco sgrogar l’acqua si vede.

97 Nicoli 567–68. 98 Rovani 182: “…in luogo della freddezza c’è confusione, invece dell’unità c’è mancanza assoluta di un concetto generale.” 99 Mazzocca (2015) 292–99. In addition to the 1859 version at the Accademia di Brera, there are two versions from 1860 and 1867, in private collections, and an earlier roundel version with a slightly different and more traditional focus. 100 Sacchi 175: Questo è il bello che appunto intese l’Hayez: la sua Gulietta non è certamente la Venere, non è la donna antica o de’ tempi nostri; è bella, ma bella nell’amore suo … Per tal modo

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questo valente dipintore nelle sue tele seppe dipartirsi dal servile, e offrire con varietà quell’ideale storico e civile che risulta dal trascelto, desunto sullo studio de’ secoli e delle nazioni. 101 For more on the Sad Presentiment, see Boime 62, and for more on the early reception of the series, see Dall’Ongaro (1873) 25. 102 Mazzocca (2015) 292–99. 103 Byron to Murray, August 23rd, 1821 (Byron 8:187); and Byron to Lady Byron (8:211). Gaull writes that closet drama had been developing since the seventeenth century due to restrictions of content in the theaters (105). “Drama, then, far from being in decline, acquired a double life in the Romantic period, as performance and as publication.” 104 For more on the productions of Marin’ Faliero in Florence (1836), Rome (1837), Naples (1848), and Milan (1837, 1840, 1844, 1856) see Ashbrook 88–91; and for more on the productions of I Due Foscari in Rome (1845) and Venice (1846), see Phillips-Matz 169–70. 105 Correspondence regarding Maffei’s translation I Due Foscari between Hayez and Maffei is found in the BNB, Fondo Hayez, IIB, 140–52; see also Botteri, Cinelli, and Mazzocca 96–129. 106 De Sismondi 546; Darù and Viennet state that the Doge died the day after leaving the Ducal Palace (418). 107 The Byron text donated by Camillo Boito to the Biblioteca della Accademia di Brera is Opere complete di Lord Byron voltate dall’originale inglese in prosa italiana. 108 BNB, Fondo Hayez, IIB, 231: “Il moderno Tiziano d’Italia.” 109 Mazzocca (1994) 223: … ricordando ad ognuno, che abbia visitato quella città, i luoghi stessi ove seguirono gli enunciate fatti su queste tele egli vede e riconocsce i caratteri di quelle teste, e dei personaggi dipinti dal Tiziano, dal Giorgione, da Paolo Caliari, dal Tintoretto, ecc… 110 Tonelli, “La vocazione del traduttore” in Botteri, Cinelli, and Mazzocca 32–5. 111 Fondo Hayez, Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense, n. d., IIB 152. For the corresponding passage in English, see Byron (1842) lines 99–106. The unpublished, translated passage reads: Padro! E forza m’io parta, e rapegnato,/Senza in lamenta, partire. Ma voi m’ottenete il/ favor di’ io papa un giorno/Riveder la mia patria. Ancor che sia/Di questa esilio il termina lontano,/Prefiggetere il tempo a cui si volga,/ Il cor mio come un faro. A grado Vostro/La condannate inaspite: oh, ma la punta/ Non in truncate del ritorno./Foscari: Figlio/Ti sommetti al voler di che ne regge/Guardar alter non dice… 112 113 114 115 116

Peckham 62. Mazzini to G. Ferretti, August 25th, 1871, reprinted in Mack Smith (1959) 353. For an inventory of his library donated to the Accademia di Brera, see Hayez (1890) 85–90. BNB, Hayez Archivi, Fondo A:4. BNB, Hayez Archivi, Fondo IV.

5

Gioacchino Toma, Neapolitan Realism, and the Aftermath of Unification

Frame: 18551 What a situation to be in! Toma had overcome so much in his early years—the death of his parents, the poverty of his circumstances, the hostility and even violence of his guardians. Regardless, he was not sure how to get himself out of this present, very compromising position. Until this moment, he had seen his fortune looking up, and he would soon be able to accept commissions and be recognized as a peer of working artists. It had all looked so bleak a few months ago when he finally gained the strength to walk out of his grandmother’s home for the last time. The smashed dish that signaled his departure underscored his own desire to sever ties, to break free and start a life elsewhere. So, with only six ducati in his pocket, he headed for Naples and put his troubled beginnings behind him. No family or protector, no money, no official training, but the desire to break free and break through. And he had done so. When he arrived in Naples, he had nothing to lose and no one to hold him back. With the courage that grows out of despair, he did the only thing he could think to do: head towards people who made art. While walking towards the Pinacoteca, Toma noticed the open door of an artist, swallowed his fear, and knocked. Luck prevailed and he was put face to face with Gennaro Guglielmi, who not only politely and sympathetically listened to his plight, but offered a glimmer of hope. Signore Guglielmi recognized his aspirations and set about supporting them; he was the one who directed him to Alessandro Fergola, who found a place for him doing decorative work at the royal villa, the Favorita in Ercolano. That’s how Toma found himself on this day, painting the red ironwork of the amusement park on the villa’s grounds. He still felt a pang every time he thought of his younger brother and sister left behind, but now he knew his move to Naples was justified. Besides, he could only help them if his own situation improved. Toma reveled in the work at La Favorita, even though it was less challenging than even the early commissions in Puglia had been. The more sophisticated illusionistic paintings on the grounds were completed by a troupe of other young artists that were not only accepting of him, but encouraging, sharing their knowledge so that he was able to advance his craft. The situation was so exhilarating, he spent no time away from art, either done in the service of Maestro Fergola, or for the purposes of his own study. Yet, with all the fortune that Naples and the Villa Favorita had provided, today he fell victim to bad timing. Extraordinarily bad timing. While on the scaffolding, he felt the call of nature; unable to ignore it, he descended to relieve himself behind the bushes. As he

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crouched under the brush, he realized he could not have picked a worse time. In the middle of answering his physical need, he heard the clatter of hooves and realized that not only did a carriage approach, but it was the royal carriage carrying the king and queen of Naples. So, this was his position: crouch lower and avoid detection, but then miss his possibly one and only chance to see Ferdinand II and Maria Theresa; or, he could stand and reveal his current condition. In a flash, he gave in to his impulse, hastily dressed, and headed up the ladder to the scaffolding to catch sight of the monarchs. He didn’t make it to the scaffold landing, however. Instead, he was caught only halfway up the ladder when the king came into view. Now, he was in the presence of the royal figures, and could not appear disrespectful by presenting his back. Desperately and precariously, Toma tried to arrange himself so that his shoulders faced forward, towards the monarch, while still climbing towards the landing and partly deshabillé. The ladder began to sway, and Toma had no way of securing himself. The situation was absurd, and it did not go unnoticed by the king. As his carriage passed by, Ferdinand II, King of the Two Sicilies, hollered up to him, “Watch out! Don’t fall!” And so, Toma had his first royal audience.

From Napoleonic Neoclassicism to Neapolitan Realism The preceding chapters on Minardi and Hayez opened with youthful self-portraits. Although a record of an early portrait does exist for a young Toma, albeit now lost, his career is perhaps best introduced by some arguably autobiographical works he completed later in his career than the other artists’ self-portraits. The two works in question, his Foundling Wheel of 1877 and Roma o Morte! from 1863, both introduce not only Toma but the distinctive artistic climate of Naples and its academy, while demonstrating the city’s relationship to the Risorgimento (Figure 5.1). The first, The Foundling Wheel of Santa Maria dell’Annunziata of 1877, although done in the artist’s mature years, speaks to his youth when by the time he was ten years old he was left without parents. On one side of the composition are custodians there to collect the abandoned babies left behind anonymously by the desperate or the impoverished. The exhaustion of the two sentinel figures has left them indifferent to the abandoned infant swaddled and placed as far away from them as Toma’s composition will allow. The dimmed interior betrays an authentic realist approach in its analysis of light and its irregular, nocturnal illuminations, but the subject matter goes further to emphasize the struggles of the poorer class. Toma evokes empathy and compassion, attributes also found in the northern realism of Jean-François Millet or Honoré Daumier. In contrast to the French artists, though, the condition—that of abandonment and isolation—was experienced by Toma, not just observed. It is not too much of a stretch to imagine Toma’s sense of loss, or draw a connection between the frustrated cry of the infant and Toma’s neglect and mistreatment by his own surrogates.2 Whereas many of the region’s realists refrained from such socially-minded comment by focusing exclusively on light and direct observation, a group of artists in Naples who came from precarious beginnings, which also included Vincenzo Gemito and Antonio Mancini, reflected the effects of poverty in their work with a manner of verism that went a step beyond mere empiricism by demonstrating experience. In a broader context, Toma’s Foundling Wheel reflected a fragment of Neapolitan life that differed dramatically from the dominance of the Neapolitan landscape tradition, and even more from the figurative painting in the northern Italy. Done in 1877, more than 15 years

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Figure 5.1 Gioacchino Toma, The Foundling Wheel of Santa Maria dell’Annunziata, 1877, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library, A. Dagli Orti.

after unification, its straightforward depiction of abandonment is not out of line with general Neapolitan sentiment in the decades after unification, when the social condition of Naples floundered and struggled to fill the void of power left behind after the departure of the Bourbon monarch. According to Paolo Macry, “An important element that characterizes Naples and the way of feeling of those who live there, in the aftermath of the national unification, is the loss of functions and privileges linked to their status as capital.”3 As discussed in Chapter Two, Naples was far from Piedmont and the Savoy court, and was often lagging behind the progress occurring in the northern regions. Prior to the Second War of Independence in 1860, most of the lower classes favored the protection of a monarch, their monarch. Many artists and intellectuals, on the other hand, hoped for a more reformed and enlightened state, and saw the Bourbons as restrictive and repressive. In this sense, Neapolitan painting entered the nationalist discourse much differently, and later than the regional expressions by artists in Rome and the north. The second painting, Roma o Morte! from 1863 (Figure 5.2), records on some level Toma’s personal experience, like The Foundling Wheel, but also the experience of many young men during the Risorgimento years. Working in an earlier style than The Foundling Wheel, he painted four soldiers incarcerated following the Battle of Aspromonte where Garibaldi’s soldiers were halted by the Italian army on their march to liberate Rome from the pope’s secular control. Toma’s time as a Garibaldini, wearing such a red shirt, lends this painting a level of authenticity, even if his early style here falls short of a realist authenticity. Two years before, when Garibaldi sailed to Naples from Sicily in 1860, Toma had followed him into battle. He participated in three major battles during this

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Figure 5.2 Gioacchino Toma, Roma o Morte!, 1863, o/c, Lecce, Castello di Carlo V Source: Per gentile concessione dell’Amministrazione Communale di Lecce / Stefano Cacciatore.

period, and was captured at the battle of Pettorano and jailed in Isernia before being liberated by other Garibaldini. From this perspective, this work may be as autobiographical as any. The patriotic tone Toma took with this painting is pointed and particular to the immediate response to unification in Naples. The inscription on the wall places the subject after the imprisonment of the Garibaldini following the 1862 Battle of Aspromonte. The Garibaldini were imprisoned—just like Toma the year before—from the day of the battle, August 29th to October 5th. Less a painting about Italian unification, this is a painting about an alternative form of patriotism. It indicates the division between the republicans and the state, but also the division between the north, represented by the House of Savoy, and the south, represented by Garibaldi and his troops. The heroes of this painting, therefore, are the southern people, and not the unifying government who here acted as jailers.

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Paintings like The Foundling Wheel and Roma o Morte! reflect the context of mid-century events surrounding the Risorgimento. During the first half of the century, however, Neapolitan painting reflected a much different environment, largely under the direction of the Real Istituto del Disegno in 1752, which became the Reale Istituto di Belle Arti in 1822. The academy was realized at the end of the eighteenth century, but closed during the Parthenopean Republic, not reopening until 1803. In 1806, when the Bourbon Ferdinand IV of Naples was driven out by Napoleonic forces, the academy began a period of reform initially under Joseph Bonaparte, then Joachim Murat. Under Joseph Bonaparte, the academy began a shift to the French-inspired Neoclassical school epitomized by Jacques-Louis David. David’s pupil, JeanBaptiste Wicar (1762–1834), became Director until 1809, which began a period where the academy’s organization and instruction began to resemble a French ideology more and more. Neoclassical artists in Naples, like in Rome, merged with a late Baroque style, as seen in the work of Domenico Mondo (1723–1806) or Pietro Saja (1779–1833). Both of these artists contributed to the monarch’s primary residence, the Palazzo Reale in Caserta, where examples of many late seventeenth and early eighteenth-century commissions reside.4 At Caserta, members of the academy, both foreign and Neapolitan, contributed decorative projects in the salons, or to the Royal collection housed there. In addition to the two artists already listed, Jacques Berger (1754–1822), the Chair of History Painting from 1806 until his death of 1822, contributed his Triumph of Astrea in 1815, and Giuseppe Cammarano (1766–1850), appointed vice-director by Joseph Bonaparte in 1806 and as a professor thereafter, painted his Minerva awarding the prizes of arts and sciences in 1814.5 Concurrent with the development of Neoclassical painting away from a late Baroque decorative flourish, Neopolitan landscape painting increased its status among the academic genres and evolved towards an increasingly realist and interpretive approach. Naples had been a center for landscape painting for decades, and drew artists to its picturesque bay to experience its dramatic features—Vesuvius was active until 1822—and send their views (vedute) back to Northern Europe, especially England and France. Many foreign artists were responsible for this market demand, including Jacob Philipp Hackert (1737–1807). Hackert represents the monumental and picturesque vista, meticulously described with vivid, translucent color forming idealized compositions. The high esteem of the artist was described by Goethe in his Italian Journey, where he described his friendship with the artist, and the artist’s expansive studio in the Palazzo Reale in Naples, which he referred to as the “old Palace” after the Bourbon monarchs shifted their court to Caserta. Goethe described Hackert as “a master at copying Nature and has such a sure hand that he never has to correct a drawing.”6 Hackert’s tradition was essentially the end of the Settecento style, and reflected its typically idealized color and composition. A shift in landscape painting occurred at the opening of the Ottocento due to another foreigner, the Netherlandish artist Anton Smink Pitloo (1790–1837). Pitloo arrived in Naples from Rome in 1815 to work for the Count Orlov after his Napoleonic funding had ended his study. (He added an “o” to Pitlo to distinguish himself from the Italians.) In Rome, Pitloo studied among an older generation of Dutch landscape artists, including Abraham Teerlink, Martin Verstappen, and Hendrik Voogd.7 On arriving to Naples in 1815, he founded the Scuola di Posillipo near his home in the Neapolitan suburb of Chiaia. The remainder of his short life was spent there, introducing others to an all’aperta approach, working directly from nature. Open air painting was not new, but Pitloo worked in oil on paper and later transferred to canvas (Figure 5.3). His focus, which became the standard for Neapolitan vedutisti painting, went beyond the vista to include the atmosphere and sensation of nature. He attracted a group of young Italian artists around him to practice his approach,

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Figure 5.3 Anton Smink Pitloo, Cape Posillipo, c. 1820, o/c, Private Collection Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library / L. Romano.

including Giacinto Gigante, Alessandro Fergola, and Gabriele Smargiassi. Often, they captured the view from the Posillipo hill, which forms one side of the crescent that rings the Bay of Naples and looks out over the city towards Vesuvius on the opposite side. From this setting, the group centered around Pitloo became known as the Scuola di Posillipo. Landscapes by artists associated with Scuola di Posillipo recall the Dutch seventeenth-century landscape tradition, its subdued palettes, loose brushwork, and empirical luminism. Before the French Barbizon painters and well before the French Impressionists, the Scuola di Posillipo integrated individualized sensations to their careful observations. International visitors, many of whom were artists drawn to Naples to complete their artistic education, recognized and supported intimate and romanticized views of nature.8 Joseph Mallord William Turner ventured south of Rome in 1819 for the first time, painting and drawing around the Bay of Naples.9 JeanBaptiste-Camille Corot, like most, was also centered in Rome during his southern sojourn, but towards the end of his first sojourn in Italy, in 1828, he completed compositions including his Bay of Naples with Castel D’Ovo.10 Both artists, each known for their personalized depictions of nature, arrived in Italy only after the beginnings of the Scuola di Posillipo, which predates by over a decade the better known Barbizon School in France. The effect of an emerging school of landscape, with its focus on the naturalistic fluidity of light and an atmospheric, sometimes even psychological presence, introduced a revised approach to nature. Arguably more so than the Neoclassicism imported by the French with Joseph Bonaparte, the Scuola di Posillipo represents the local pictorial dialect, and

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was driven by a market demand for the picturesque landscape well-established in Naples. In the same way irony factors into the nationalist solutions of Hayez’s Risorgimento painting—based as it was on his regional, Venetian artistic roots—an irony appears in the nationalist expressions of southern Italian landscape paintings. While championing the views of what Chateaubriand described as “inconceivable grandeur” in his Voyage en Italie, the Scuola di Posillipo grew out of the ex-patriot presence in Naples, especially Pitloo’s dedication to open air painting. Pitloo and the other Posillipo painters benefitted from a period of reform in the academy. After the Napoleonic decade and Ferdinando I’s return to Naples, the reformist mindset of the French artists initially continued, along with the exhibitions, the pensionata, and, to some extent, even the new divisions in pictorial discipline.11 The heightened role landscape painting played in the Neapolitan artistic identity led to the formation of Chair of Landscape Painting at the academy in 1824, and Pitloo was selected to fill the spot. His early death during a cholera outbreak in 1837 ended his direct influence over artists, but the effects of his reforms, which included a breakdown of the academic prejudices against landscape painting, persisted under his replacement, the Posillipo artist Gabriele Smargiassi. For a few years, the group was led by anti-academic Giacinto Gigante, an artist who increasingly adopted a more spontaneous and fleeting effect, especially after the Neapolitan sojourn of Turner.12 All’aperta and observational landscape painting persisted in Naples until late century, when it increasingly became associated with the French Barbizon and Impressionist painters, as we see with the late century compositions—done in both France and Italy—of Filippo Palizzi (Figure 5.4).

Figure 5.4 Filippo Palizzi, The Forest at Fontainebleau, 1874, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Source: ©Alinari Archives-Anderson Archive, Florence.

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The Scuola di Posillipo is an apt transition between the academic language of earlycentury Neoclassicism and the post-unification shift towards realism. The naturalism of Pitloo’s light and atmosphere indicated careful observation, even a sensory impact; but artists adopted new directives with the political ideology that appeared after the 1848 insurrections, an approach Corrado Maltese defined as realismo integrale.13 The more socially minded brand of artist required a figurative subject, turning from nature to humanity and the effects of the Risorgimento on Neapolitan culture. The artists born in the nineteenth century, who came of age in the 1830s and 1840s, often had first-hand experiences with the political conflicts of the era. Domenico Morelli (1826–1901) is an early example of the radicalized artist. While in exile after the 1848 actions in Naples, Morelli met the Florentine Macchiaioli and subsequently became a bridge between them and the other Neapolitan Realists.14 His presence in Paris at the 1855 Exposition Universelle brought him in direct contact with Courbet and French Realism as well. Morelli, therefore, took stylistic direction from Milan and Hayez with his restaged historical subjects, the Florentine Macchia, the French Realists, and even Roman religious painting, which he saw after receiving the academy’s Roman pensionata. For this reason and for this study, Toma represents Neapolitan painting rather than Morelli, as Toma works from a primarily Neapolitan, regionalist perspective. Morelli, as will be demonstrated throughout this chapter, is far better known and has a much broader exhibition profile, yet Toma speaks more of Naples. Toma does this by weaving his own experiences in the southern capital with the stylistic tendencies developed earlier in the century by the careful observations of Pitloo and his followers. Toma acts like Minardi, who similarly integrated Roman and papal interests with Neoclassical, traditionalist interests; and like Hayez, who merged anti-Austrian and republican sympathies with the proto-Romantic approach present in Milan. Toma’s empiricism, which occurs within the divergent economic and political climate in the south following unification, speaks to a time and a place in the way that both Minardi’s Catholicism and Hayez’s liberalism. His interpretations of his surroundings, apparent The Foundling Wheel and Roma o Morte!, introduce the Neapolitan characteristic of social understanding, empathy, and the psychological acuity, and, in a sense, challenges the heroic ideal and moral righteousness of his northern precursors.

Toma’s Road to Naples In stark contrast to the other two artists studied in these chapters, Toma’s path to artistic expression was rough, and he relied exclusively on his own motivation. He had no early mentor to support his interests, or guide him in developing his talents. He had no Zauli, no Canova, no Cicognara. Instead, he began his studies on his own, and relied on kindness and luck for the few opportunities he had. The title of his autobiography is aptly and humbly titled Memories of an Orphan (Ricordi di un orfano). In its 1886 introduction, Aldo Vallone summed up the effect his early experiences had on his work. “The experience of misfortune and human misery remained profoundly in his spirit, because he had drunk deeply from both.”15 By the time he was ten years old, he was effectively alone. He was born in 1836 in the region of Apulia in the town of Galatina on Italy’s east coast. His father died when he was eight years old, his mother when he was only ten. While he remembered his parents, he most pointedly remembered their deaths and the sorrow they brought. His memory of his mother included her concern for his and his two younger siblings’ education, which led her to place him under a Franciscan tutor for study. Even at this early point, he recalled drawing in the margins of books; rather than receive encouragement, though, he

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was punished. Only years later, in 1850, did he briefly study drawing at an art studio run by Nicola Riccardi for poor and orphaned children. Although he mentions works in his autobiography, nothing survives from this period.16 After the age of ten, he was a ward of his paternal grandmother and uncle in Tricase, about 40 kilometers south of Galatina. According to Toma, he was mostly on his own. He recalled his mischievous nature, stealing from his grandmother in order to outfit his own troop of misfit child soldiers during the 1848 demonstrations. He received little education during his time with the Capuchin monks, and he recalled how his grandmother did not pay enough for him to receive instruction along with his board. He admitted to being wild, without any sign of education. At one point, illness caused him to be sent back to his guardians in Tricase, but unwilling to let him stay, his grandmother placed him in the poorhouse (ospizio del poveri) in Giovinazzo, near Bari. After his health improved, he took charge of his own living arrangements, and he divided his time between Galatina and Tricase, where his older brothers lived with their wives.17 Toma’s artistic education began in earnest only after his flight to Naples in 1856 at the age of 20. He described the eight harrowing days of travel, with scant resources but with a determination to forge a more promising future. Upon arriving, he sought an artistic community to complete his artistic education, and his plan paid off. Through the kindness of Gennaro Guglielmi, he identified not only his next master, but his artistic practice and his first commission. While working for an unidentified decorative artist, he honed his skills in perspective and ornamental programs, which led to a period of employment under Alessandro Fergola at the Royal Palace at Caserta. Called La Favorita or “The Favorite,” the palace was the central residence of the Bourbon monarchy during this era, and a thriving center of artistic production. If Toma’s account of his time working for Fergola is accurate, he spent the next several months studying to make up for lost time. While working at La Favorita in 1857, he completed several pattern books of ornamentation, and reached a level of expertise with perspectival drawing (“I studied perspective with great passion.”), even helping his fellow assistants in their study. Although he never lacked for work, the drama in his life was far from over. After arguing with Fergola over payment, he sought employment with another artist in a café near the Capodimonte. His arrival at the meeting coincided with the arrival of the Royal Guard, and Toma was rounded up with other young men gathering at the café and accused of conspiracy. For the next two months, Toma remained imprisoned, and, in turn, began to be radicalized against the Bourbon monarchy. In his Ricordi he described meeting an old man, also imprisoned, who told Toma his story and then entreated him to “find the courage” to fight tyranny.18 Only after the intervention of the conte Filo, who he met through other contacts, was he able to find someone to vouch for his release. Even so, he was advised by the count to leave Naples, or risk deportation back to Galatina. Toma left immediately for a small agricultural village, Piedimonte d’Alife, about 50 miles north of Naples, where the conte Filo said he would have a better chance at making a living.19 His first occupation was two small paintings, now lost, of St. Peter and St. Paul (1858), with which he raised enough money to pay for his food and lodging. He spent his first days working on the paintings, and other drawings, in order to sell them to local townspeople to raise money. He successfully raffled off the paintings with the help of a sympathetic stranger, Beniamino Caso. Fortuitously, this resulted in other commissions, and Toma was able to move forward with a new purpose and the artistic means to demonstrate his commitment to the Italian cause. Back in Naples, after the intervention of the conte Laurenzana allowed Toma to safely return in 1859, he was just in time to complete a work for the Exhibition at the Royal

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Institute of Fine Arts. His contribution was an Erminia del Tasso, still in the collection of the Palazzo Reale in Naples, which draws from a source commonly chosen by history painters, Gerusalemme Liberata (Jerusalem Delivered) by Torquato Tasso (1581). Toma pictured Erminia, Princess from Antioch, full-length, sitting in the woods, being cared for by shepherds while writing the name of her unrequited Tancredo, into the ground. Tasso’s epic poem was often chosen by mid-century history painters to depict the conflict between public duty and personal passion, in the way Hayez did in his Pietro Rossi and The Kiss. Like Hayez’s much earlier direct interpretation of Tasso’s saga Rinaldo and Armida from 1813, Toma’s Erminia displays the sentimentalism often ascribed to him by early twentieth-century scholars, seemingly without any sense of civic virtue.20 Nevertheless, this was Toma’s first great success. It delivered him a silver medal at the exhibition, and an award of 100 ducati. The money, according to Toma, went to support the forces fighting for liberation from Bourbon rule. By now very much in line with the republican aims brewing south in Sicily under Garibaldi, Toma was swept up in the swell of nationalist enthusiasm. It is unclear, though, if his concern was freedom for Naples and the unification of the peninsula, or if the police harassment following his arrest became too difficult to abide. Regardless, when Garibaldi’s forces arrived in Naples in early September 1860, Toma jumped on board. He entered service against the royal army at Avellino where he reached the rank of lieutenant in Garibaldi’s forces. Over the next few months, through October 1860, he fought at Santa Maria Capua Vetere, Caserta, and Pettoranello, where he was captured, marched to Isernia, and again imprisoned.21 In his Ricordi, Toma tells a harrowing account of being separated from his troops in Pettoranello where he had to hide to evade capture. When he was eventually discovered, he came close to being executed. The men under his charge had already fled and assumed he was dead, so they were completely unaware of his imprisonment in Isernia. Before long, though, Garibaldi’s men arrived and liberated Toma along with other prisoners of the Bourbons. Toma’s experience in what became known as the Second War of Independence was by no means exclusive, as Boime illustrated in his study on the Macchiaioli.22 Florentine painters were among those who participated in the war, and bonded with the Neapolitan artists over their similar political sympathies. Morelli was exiled from Naples following his role in the 1848 uprisings, when he escaped to Florence and spent most of his time until the 1850s associating closely with the group. Bernardo Celentano, also Neapolitan, participated in the 1848 uprisings as well. Political circumstances, then, resulted in artistic exchange; besides Morelli, the Neapolitans Giuseppe Abbati (1803–1860) and Francesco Saverio Altamura (1826–1897) both took refuge in Florence (Figure 5.5). All save Abbati returned to Naples, bringing with them knowledge of the Tuscan experiments with the palpable description of light.23 Although Toma does not participate directly in this fluid exchange, he gleans much from Morelli and his overwhelming influence on Neapolitan painting during this era.

Figlio del Popolo The “greatly exaggerated report” of Toma’s death at Pettoranello is one of two factors responsible for the shift from his early sentimentalizing style to his mature and personal pictorial attitude. The loss of his friend Bernardo Celentano (1835–1863) was the other.24 The brief period between these two events provided him a moment for reflection, and he reconsidered the role of figurative painting. In the end, he began to engage with the present in a way he had not previously attempted outside of portraiture. At first and directly following the war, he considered the expression of a nationalist outlook with a

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Figure 5.5 Giuseppe Abbati, Cloister at Santa Croce, 1861, o/c, Florence, Galleria d’Arte Moderna di Palazzo Pitti Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library / N. Grifoni.

sentimentalizing patriotic lens meant to glorify the war. Rather than recount battle scenes or even his close and very real escapes, his references to the war take place in simple interior scenes with contemporary, humble figures. Then, following Celentano’s death— another abandonment for a young artist who had already lost so much—the sober subjects of his interior scenes developed in another narrative direction. It is these works, from 1865 and after, with which he is most identified. In the simple, intimate scenes, Toma drew from his earliest struggles to develop social narratives that simultaneously and profoundly address his growing realist formal occupation. In 1861, after returning home to Naples, he discovered that not only had he missed his own funeral, everything he owned had been given away. He had nothing. Rather than return immediately to work, then, he needed to gain the means to start again. In a sense, he had a clean slate, a new start. His recent military experiences were surely on his mind when he began painting again, as evidenced by Children of the People (I figli di popolo, 1862) and two versions of his Roma o Morte! (1863) (Figure 5.6).25 These works were certainly not unique to Naples in the years directly following unification, which saw many references to the Garibaldini in battle scenes and genre paintings by the Induno brothers, or Filippo Palizzi. Assuredly, Toma must have recognized a sure strategy for success in the art market, particularly with the first painting. That explanation, however, may be too simplistic to address the Roma o Morte! compositions, which likely had a secondary motivation.

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Figure 5.6 Gioacchino Toma, Children of the People, 1862, o/c, Bari, Pinacoteca Provinciale Source: © Seat Archive / Alinari Archives.

In Children of the People, Toma reached back to his memories of 1848. As a 12 yearold in Galatina, he outfitted himself and his local friends as soldiers, complete with makeshift weapons made from his father’s surgical instruments, exasperating the actual soldiers by staging military exercises alongside the actual volunteers.26 In the painting, two young boys with toy rifles in makeshift military garb present themselves to portrait prints of Vittorio Emanuele II and Garibaldi mounted on an easel and propped against a chair to their left. On the chair lies the distinctive red of a Garibaldini shirt and a miniature tricolor flag hoisted above the prints. The almost mawkish treatment of the scene seems to pander to a public riding the high of unification. Its appearance at the first exhibition organized by the Società della Promotrice in 1862 gave him his first considerable audience, and resulted in official recognition.27 As in other major Italian cities throughout the

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peninsula, the Società della Promotrice was an organization that supported artists through promotion and acquisitions. In most cases, these societies would support artists economically when needed, but in Naples it was more of an exhibiting body, with welfare concerns handled outside the organization. Morelli directed this first exhibition, and acquired Toma’s Children of the People for twice what Toma had listed. His success at the exhibit led to similar commissions, including his Little Patriots of 1862. Similarly, Toma’s Roma o Morte! of 1863 recalls the sentimentalized brand of patriotism of the genre paintings from the year before, but perhaps with a shift towards a more editorializing edge (Figure 5.2).28 On its face, Roma o Morte! exhibits the same decorative approach to genre as the Children of the People and the Bamboccianti painters in Rome with which Toma’s early work is often compared, especially in relation to the richness of his palette and the unpretentious figures.29 The red hues in the shirts (and even the bandaged head!) are heightened, as is the golden straw at the figures’ feet. The soldiers clustered in the prison are humble, but the visual effect idealizes their lower station. The prison is not identified explicitly, but due to the painting’s date and the specificity of its title, the scene almost certainly refers to the soldiers imprisoned after the Battle of Aspromonte. The choice, then, complicates a nationalist, or patriotic reading by demonstrating internecine conflict, detracting from the notion of unity. Toma did not participate in the struggle leading up to Aspromonte; his military years ended after the Second War of Independence from in 1861. Garibaldi’s second campaign in the south did not challenge the foreigner, but the papacy and its control of Rome. Again landing in Sicily, Garibaldi amassed a volunteer army to march north as he had the two years before, to free Rome from the control of Pope Pius IX. His goals were not sanctioned by the newly formed Italian Kingdom centered in Piedmont under the House of Savoy, and Garibaldi’s mission was quickly put down by the Bersaglieri sent south to contain the disturbance. The soldiers pictured in this painting, then, were imprisoned by the Italian army. One soldier in Toma’s painting scrawls “Roma o Morte!” on the wall of his prison, suggesting the continued support for the mission and its rallying cry “Roma o Morte,” a holdover from earlier in the century and the Roman Republic. Roma o Morte! is not a patriotic celebration as much as a criticism of the House of Savoy and Italy’s first king, Vittorio Emanuele II. On one hand, the market taste for Garibaldini subjects is well-documented, and this may simply be Toma capitalizing on the subject. On the other hand, might Toma be suggesting that the Italian cause and the people’s cause were not one and the same? Sometime around the completion of Roma o Morte! in July 1863, Toma suffered the unexpected loss of Celentano, a friend and a colleague, who collapsed suddenly, likely from a stroke. In his Ricordi, Toma described this as one of the darkest points in his life, a period of protracted melancholy that led him to entertain thoughts of suicide.30 Whereas Toma mentioned his struggle in ambiguous terms, even tying them to frustrations with his work and its directions, scholars Luisa Martorelli and Maria Picone Petrusa have suggested his breakdown, both emotionally and artistically, was driven by personal circumstances as well as professional ones.31 Both scholars suggest that Toma responded by deepening his expression, in a sense reliving the losses of his early years. Michele Biancale, writing in 1933, went so far as to describe the persistence of loss demonstrated in the work throughout his career as the unveiling of “a spirit full of tender and anxious humanity.”32 After Celentano’s death, Toma created works far less overtly sentimental than the Garibaldini paintings. He began to draw from Celentano’s emerging and situational realism, producing figurative paintings based not only on the observation of setting, but more innovatively and intimately on the observation of an encounter.

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By following Celentano’s model, Toma followed a diverging path than most artists in Naples at that time. The dominant figure in Neapolitan figurative painting in Naples was by far Morelli, and his loose, revised Romantic style was the most influential throughout Naples. Whereas Celentano was far more nuanced, Morelli translated historical narratives into a modern vernacular, giving it an authenticity and dramatic presence, but one highly aestheticized. His Episode from the Sicilian Vespers (Un Episodio dei Vespri Siciliani, 1859–60), for example, reinterpreted the scene Hayez painted a decade before (Figure 5.7). Hayez adopted operatic overtones, even though he preceded the actual theatrical production composed by Giuseppe Verdi in 1855. It was staged in Naples at the

Figure 5.7 Domenico Morelli, Episode from the Sicilian Vespers, 1859–1860, o/c, Private Collection Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library.

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San Carlo Theater in 1856, shortly before Morelli’s pictorial version. He told the story of the uprising in the background, behind three frightened, female figures in flight who directly confront the viewer. The novelty of Morelli’s works resulted from the consolidation of the narrative into the effect, what Primo Levi described as “a reading of history and the spirit.”33 Celentano, alternatively, created a temporal reality, the presence of the miraculous through mundane action. It is precisely the latter that Toma chooses to explore. This distinct approach emerged in Celentano’s painting The Council of Ten (Figure 5.8), which focuses not on the event’s dramatization, but on authentic action and the immediacy of the setting. Along with the figurative presence, Celentano incorporated studied and structural light as a crucial compositional element. His figures are notable for their humanness. They are not dramatized as arbiters of power engaged in an historical struggle. Instead, they are brought to life in an interstitial moment, walking through the Palazzo Ducale, engaged in momentary conversation as they follow the Doge upstairs to their chambers. Less political intrigue than candid moment or situation, this painting captured the authenticity of interactions outside a particular story line, showing political discussion through the type of spontaneous “aside” meetings. The quietness, the absence of a pictorial narration, the focus on behavior over action, all of this occurs in several works by Celentano in this period, and began to appear in the work of Toma around 1864. Toma’s A Rigorous Enquiry of the Sacred Office (Un esame rigoroso del Sant’Uffizio) demonstrates his affinity with Celentano (Figure 5.9). In much the same way, Toma recreated not an historical event, but a hypothetical moment.34 A figure lies on the floor, brought to the brink of death by the brutality of church inquisitors. Most of the painting

Figure 5.8 Bernardo Celentano, The Council of Ten, 1861, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Source: © Alinari Archives-Brogi Archive, Florence.

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Figure 5.9 Gioacchino Toma, A Rigorous Examination of the Sacred Office, 1865, Naples, Museo Civico di Castel Nuovo Source: © akg-images / De Agostini Picture Library / L. Romano.

is occupied by darkness; the particular features of all the figures either disappear or remain neutral. Toma left the composition empty over the stark horizontal of the tortured figure, which is emphasized by the mosaic pavement surrounding him. The pervasive dimness, the indistinct features and expressions—either obscured in darkness or turned away from the picture plane—all suggest but do not define a narrative. As such, Toma did not proceed as did Morelli, who described his work as “things imagined but not seen.” Instead, as Causa noted, Toma offers “things imagined and true.”35 The psychology of the situation, not the actions of the figures, dominates. The interior setting of the Sacred Office, along with the majority of Toma’s paintings over the next ten years, allowed the artist to combine atmosphere and sentiment. Causa, writing in 1955 with if not the first then the deepest dive into Toma’s stylistic shifts and motives, pointed to the Sacred Office as a moment when Toma filters aspects of the Neapolitan artistic context in order to respond to his personal expressive exigencies.36 In other words, his work is not isolated from his present, nor is it purely provincial in its approach, but it is distinctly “his.” To arrive at his mature stylistic solution, though, he had to confront the prevailing artistic currents in Naples. To begin with, he had to challenge the weight of Neapolitan artistic patrimony, represented by Filippo Palizzi’s early-century investigation of a palpability and physicality of light, especially in landscape painting (Figure 5.4). Likewise, he had to address the dominant contemporary voice of Morelli, especially in the 1860s, and his recasting of Romantic history painting in the

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looser finish of contemporary French and British schools. Finally, Toma had to come to terms with his own past, and the scant but still visible academic perspective revived in the reactionary writing of Vittorio Imbriani, an opponent to modernization or reform.37 The Sacred Office addresses all three perspectives. More importantly, the painting anticipates the stillness and sobriety most identified with Toma’s approach, not to mention the regionalist stylistic approach for Naples more generally. The works that Toma painted in the 1870s, following the Sacred Office and his own personal crisis, embody more directly the Neapolitan condition. To come to terms with the new, southern reality, Toma used this work to speak to the struggles of political and cultural unity following unification. In her “Gioacchino Toma: ‘Elogia della provinciale’ o aspirazione ad una cultura nazionale,” Martorelli identified a shift in the art market corresponding to the 1870s and the rise of urban middle class, depicted in “sentimental representations of people’s miseries.”38 Neapolitan poverty predated unification, but at best was left unsolved during the realization of the state. At worst, Naples was made to suffer for its distance from Turin and its unsupported industrial infrastructure. Naples and its disadvantaged geography, separated from the northern industry and administration by the truculence of the papacy until 1861, resulted in a different form of realism than in the more economically stable regions of Lombardy, Tuscany, and Piedmont. The control of the Bourbon monarchy in the south and its resistance to reform, made the effect of reform much more jarring in the south than in the north. Rampant poverty, administrative isolation, and cultural destabilization is best represented pictorially not by Morelli’s invention and Romanticism, but by Toma’s struggle, by his social expression, which, as Causa stated, is “flanked if not fused” with the formal simplicity and gritty scheme of the real world.39 Toma became known as the “poet of grays,” at his best avoiding the maudlin and the saccharine depiction of the people to focus on objective reality instead of one Romantic, evocative, or aestheticized.40 Most generally, a Neapolitan brand of realism, as witnessed in the work of Toma, differs from the north—both northern Italy and northern Europe—through an informed populism that falls short in the north of reaching an authentic and immediate expression. Furthermore, Corrado Maltese distinguished the southern populist aim from the philosophical inspiration in France, and the scientific eye in Florence.41 In regard to the Macchiaioli specifically, the realism adopted by artists like Giovanni Fattori and Silvestro Lega (or Giuseppe Abbati and Odoardo Borrani) had a specific and divergent aim from the grittiness and humility of the south (Figure 5.10). Florence was a much different place than Naples in the 1860s. Whereas Naples struggled to find its footing, Florence was the national capital from 1865 to 1870, and the site of the first national exhibition in 1861, an event that showcased Italian progress in industry and the arts. The Macchiaioli artists and their realist investigations of light based on all’aperta painting needs to be placed within this crucial context. Tuscany was in many ways a center of the Italian identity following the establishment of the state. Its wealth and history allowed it to rise to the occasion, and Florentines justified their heightened position as a means to decentralize the Italian government away from Turin. Alessandro Manzoni had already chosen the Tuscan dialect to revise his I Promessi Sposi and model a national language. The style of the Macchiaioli, then, is often suggested by recent scholars as the Italian pictorial style, rather than the Tuscan pictorial style. Maltese appropriately recognized, though, that the Macchiaioli realist approach was not nationalist, but one expression of it. It was as regionalist as the Purismo, or Romanticismo Storico during earlier eras. So, far from being the Neapolitan equivalent of Gustave Courbet, or even the Neapolitan equivalent of the Fattori, Toma’s later paintings express his own social milieu, and his own version of the Realist paradigm.

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Figure 5.10 Silvestro Lega, The Singing of the Stornello, 1867, o/c, Florence, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna di Palazzo Pitti Source: © Alinari Archives, Florence – N. Lorusso.

The oversimplification of Italian Realism, then, grows out of how scholars describe it in singular rather than plural terms. The Neapolitan Realism the viewer perceives in Toma’s painting in the 1860s and 1870s is not only inspired by the social condition of the lower classes, it reveals his first-hand experiences in a city rife with social struggle. JeanFrançois Millet and Courbet in France, leading figures in the French Realist narrative stylistically and thematically, were observers to the struggle of the deprivations of the peasant classes. They did so largely from a philosophical platform, though. The Macchiaioli, on the other hand, are linked by Albert Boime to both positivist and political motivations. Toma’s post-unification work came from somewhere else, somewhere more personal and immediate. Alone, his approach does not suggest a regional vernacular,

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certainly not among the diverse practice of other Neapolitans. In conjunction with artists like Gemito and Mancini, though, his realism suggests a regional character and a particular content. Maltese described the particular brand of Neapolitan Realism as a realismo integrale, a realism combining formalism with a social philosophy. This should not be confused with another Neapolitan group of painters known as the Scuola di Resina. This group is contemporary to the integrale approach of Toma and others, but identified with a more strictly analytical, Florentine approach. This group centered around the Florentine painter Adriano Cecioni, who spent 1863–1867 in Naples after receiving a stipend to study sculpture from the Florentine academy (Figure 5.11). While in Naples, Cecioni worked closely with Federico Rossano and the other two members of the group, Giuseppe De Nittis and Marco De Gregorio, whose hometown gave the group a gathering place and its name. The Scuola was an important means of transmitting the Macchiaioli concepts

Figure 5.11 Adriano Cecioni, Aunt Erminia, 1867–1870, o/c, Arezzo, Museo Mediovale e Moderno Source: Reproduced with the permission of Ministero per I Bene e le Attività Culturali / Archivi Alinari, Florence.

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south, and for Toma specifically it transmitted a Macchiaioli formal orientation of rigorous analysis of light in a contemporary, daily setting. The impact of the Florentines on his approach, undeniably pronounced, was nevertheless indirect and modified by his own regional exigencies. Both Cecioni and De Nittis left Naples for Florence in 1867, with De Nittis eventually settling in Paris. In contrast, the three artists associated here with the Neapolitan expression of realism—Toma, Vincenzo Gemito, and Antonio Mancini— were fused with the Neapolitan artistic and social climate. Mancini arrived in Naples with his family in 1865 at the age of 13, and almost immediately met Gemito, a child raised on the streets of Naples after being abandoned as an infant. Both artists, from similar meager circumstances, frequented an open drawing studio run by Stanislao Lista at San Domenico Maggiore.42 Lista was a sculptor known for supporting the studies of the young and forgotten in Naples, with the same commitment to students Toma would demonstrate later in his career. Both Gemito and Mancini, like Toma, struggled for opportunities, and after exhibiting in the 1874 Promotrice exhibit enjoyed the protection of Morelli. Both artists were too young to participate in the patriotic movements of 1860 or 1862, and their earliest works represented their immediate environment rather than a nationalist spirit. Gemito’s Neapolitan Fisherboy (Pescatore napoletano) of 1877 and Mancini’s The Study (Lo Studio) of 1868 do more than picture Naples; they depict the artists’ lives (Figures 5.12 and 5.13). The authenticity of the expression, without a patronizing tone or separation of circumstances, caught Morelli’s attention. Both artists, who were inseparable companions until 1878, travelled to Paris, and, with Morelli’s connections, gained the attention of patrons like the count Albert Cahen d’Anvers and art dealers like Adolphe Goupil. Gemito, in particular, became a favorite of the French painter Ernest Meissonier.43 Even though Gemito’s ambition, which exceeded that of Mancini, moved towards a more academic outlook in the late 1870s and 1880s, he continued to periodically reference his Neapolitan roots by looking back to Roman antiquities found in the Archeological Museum in Naples. The pure expression of poverty that colored the realism of Mancini and Gemito was directed differently in Toma’s work in the 1870s and 1880s. For one, in his Foundling Wheel he related his own experience without the immediacy and proximity of the young street urchins or street performers, subjects favored by his younger colleagues. In addition, he demonstrated the consequences of the south’s growing disenfranchisement and economic decline. Likewise, his Luisa Sanfelice Imprisoned (Figure 5.14) is arguably a post-unification emblem, addressing southern disillusionment while shifting away from the European Realist paradigm to reflect a multi-layered expression of the personal and the political. Toma completed the first of two versions in 1874, and then exhibited it that year at the Neapolitan Promotrice exhibition.44 The second version likely dates to shortly thereafter. On a technical level these two works show his adeptness in constructing an understated and subtle drama through a nuanced treatment of light. Causa described the calm and quiet depiction of minutia of the story, with “a constant effusion of melancholy.”45 Both versions depict a female figure sitting in a Spartan room on a stone bench, occupied by sewing what, in light of the nearby still-life, appears to be a layette. Only after close examination does the room reveal itself as a prison, thus identifying the character as the eighteenth-century revolutionary heroine Luisa Sanfelice during the last days of her life. The subject, identified in the title and the unlikely juxtaposition of the maternal figure and a prison cell, suggests an historical and Romantic content, akin to the work of Hayez, or Toma’s fellow Neapolitan Morelli. Toma’s approach is much quieter than

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Figure 5.12 Vincenzo Gemito, Neapolitan Fisherboy, 1877, bronze, Florence, Museo Nazionale di Bargello Source: Reproduced with the permission of the Minstero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali / Archivi Alinari, Florence.

these artists and their concern for updating tradition. For him, the painting should use the visual fabric of his immediate surroundings to convey a palpable presence in a broader social dialogue. As Netti pointed out after the third exhibition of the Promotrice in 1865, the subject, because of “a social mindedness,” manifests not genre as much as a historical orientation, even with the absence of a narrative of an historic event.46 The historic subject would seem to preclude a shareable moment, but the meditative focus concurrently incorporates contemporary references, much in the same way Hayez obscured the call for nationhood in the Middle Ages with his Pietro the Hermit. Yet, the stylistic and political does not diminish the impact of his personal orientation. Stories surrounding Luisa Sanfelice were popular, and depicted frequently enough for easy recognition.47 Toma chose the least dramatic moment of the story. During the Parthenopean Republic in Naples in 1799, Sanfelice passed privileged information to the republican administration in an effort to protect her lover from an impending conflict. Popular history considered her a republican heroine, which fueled Queen Maria Carolina’s determination to seek vengeance after the reinstallation of the Bourbon monarch Ferdinand IV the same year.

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Figure 5.13 Antonio Mancini, The Study, c. 1875, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Source: © De Agostini Picture Library, licensed by Alinari.

After her arrest and subsequent imprisonment, Sanfelice reported a false pregnancy to the clergy conducting her last mass. Whether her pregnancy was not viable, a plan to extend and perhaps preserve her life, or a plot hatched by the clergy and doctors to protect her, eventually and inevitably her true state was discovered. Not even the sweeping clemency offered by King Ferdinand IV could save her. To great popular dismay, Sanfelice was decapitated in the Piazza Mercato on September 11th, 1800. The story is dramatic and compelling, but Toma broke away from the theatricality of a Romanticismo Storico approach that one would see with Hayez. Instead, Toma cast off the historic context of previous depictions, and sought a more contemporary relevance in these versions. The starkness and stillness of the setting contrasts with the subject’s dramatic end. As a result, Sanfelice’s fate is particularly poignant in these versions, tacit and more psychologically charged than the interpretations of Modesto Faustini or Eurisio Capocci. Toma shifted from the dynamic to the contemplative, from climax to composure, away from Romanticism to the physicality of the circumstance. Francesco Netti’s 1877 review of the painting recognized this new simplicity. It also seems to me that he proceeds with analysis in his painting; analyzing as he does, he expresses himself clearly, putting forth his own penetrating sentiment. Another of his characteristics is simplicity. Not a useless figure, object or detail. Everything is necessary or has a meaning.48

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Figure 5.14 Gioacchino Toma, Luisa Sanfelice Imprisoned, 1874–1875, o/c, Rome, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Source: © De Agostini Picture Library, licensed by Alinari.

Toma created the material substance of light, in the shadows of the room or that of Luisa, staggering the shadows as the light falls against the austere prison wall. Tonal shifts delineate the carefully structured space, lending the scene an air of stability. The prison setting emerges through the grayness of the space, the sobriety and bareness. In the second version of the painting (1874), Toma shifted the orientation to include a window with barely visible bars, but only the massive door and absence of ornament reveals the prison in the first version. Toma’s emphasis on the stark setting speaks to his distinctive southern experience rife with social and economic, even psychological, struggle. The somber palette and structural complexity reveals a new phase of artistic development for Toma, and is apparent not only through the formal study, but also through his reference to current events and social praxis. This work, as with others by Toma, show isolation, sparseness, futility. His interpretation is far from the allusion of Morelli, or even of Hayez. Instead, Toma considered a social context over a cultural or historical context. The stark stillness of the setting contrasts with subject’s dramatic end, and reorients the viewer through its austerity to the palpability of the contemporary disillusionment. This distinction is perhaps the biggest distinguisher of Neapolitan realist painting. Toma’s Luisa Sanfelice demonstrates a personal and very immediate connection to the realist subject. Whereas the French or Tuscan realists mostly recorded social struggles

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generally, painting with a wide brush, Toma gives us not only particularity but intimacy, fueled by his own circumstances, a solidarity with the condition of the struggling peasant class. The Luisa Sanfelice reveals a connection to the artist similar to Gemito’s young fisher boys or Mancini’s street urchins (scugnizzi). Each case demonstrates an awareness beyond observation. In the case of Gemito, he used to be one of these fisherboys, living on the streets of Naples and catching fish in the Bay of Mergellino. Mancini admitted that he was the young beggar in his The Poor Schoolboy.49 Not only does Toma have first-hand knowledge of the bleakness described in the composition, he knew the inside of a prison, twice. Toma, and Gemito or Mancini or even Francesco Paolo Michetti, embodied the realities of post-unification Naples, and left the references to modernization and industry to northern artists. Their realism instead was built around the social questions left unresolved after unification. The political is notably entwined with the personal. As in The Foundling Wheel, the link Toma forged between Luisa Sanfelice and his own struggles is not merely academic or driven by ambience. By 1874, Toma and his wife of eight years, Diletta Perla, welcomed and lost their first child, Ettore.50 He would lose two more children after this painting was completed. The topic of maternity, or more specifically the lost maternity of Luisa Sanfelice, would undoubtedly have weighed heavily on Toma. Indeed, when he had attempted a similar subject a decade earlier, a composition figuring the same revolution in the execution of Eleonora Pimentel, he was unable to bring it to completion using the “trivial models” at hand. Only when he had “taken advantage of the true,” by using the face of his own wife and grieving partner, did he find what was real. If Courbet needed to see an angel to paint one, Toma needed his own definition of a heroine—and mother—to achieve the authenticity the subject deserved.51 The sadness and stillness of the subject, then, as the young woman sews for a baby that will never be, becomes intimately connected to the artist himself. Even with this information withheld, the profound silence and starkness conveys the weight of his own story. For the viewer unfamiliar with the artist and context, Toma’s Luisa Sanfelice still clearly reveals a concern for the status of women more generally. As Bruno Mantura noted, Toma focused on feminine subjects in many paintings from this period and after. According to Mantura, Women, whose social condition were inferior to that of men, were lifted up as protagonists in Toma’s paintings, to be intimate, but above all solemn, with an air of profound dignity in the description of the feminine position, even if they were only heroines of cloistered romances.52 The Luisa Sanfelice reflects a dignity, a woman calmly accepting her fate. Where Toma goes further, though, is by aligning the imprisonment of Luisa with the general condition of the post-Risorgimento woman and her metaphorical cell. Again, it is Toma’s own experiences and choices that influenced his perspective. The Luisa Sanfelice, which he showed at the Promotrice, marked Toma’s reappearance to public exhibitions after a period of nearly a decade committed to teaching.53 During this time, his self-appointed charge was the preparation of a diverse working class, including women, to pursue a career in a variety of trades. His concern for women and their livelihood, for their education and their empowerment, is well-documented, and provides a context for the industrious attitude of the Luisa. The contemporary critic Francesco Dall’Ongaro provided a valuable and first-hand account of Toma’s social objectives. He recognized the absence of the artist from

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exhibitions after championing him at the Promotrice of 1868 when Toma showed his Sacred Office. When Toma did not exhibit over the next few years, Dall’Ongaro sought him out, finding him at the helm of two drawing schools. Both were funded by the city, and one was even started by Toma. By the time of Dall’Ongaro’s visit, the schools were packed with students from all backgrounds. Dall’Ongaro described a bustling studio, walls covered with drawings, accomplishing rapid progress that broke demonstrably from the conventions and practices of academic learning. As he recalled, For the two or three years that he has devoted himself to this teaching, about a thousand pupils of all ages and conditions received from him the first rudiments of drawing, and are able to apply them to their profession: blacksmiths, carpenters, tailors, milliners, interior decorators, craftsmen, carpenters, etc. etc.54 According to him, Toma’s approach to modern teaching methods was necessary, and would hopefully sow seeds of industry through Naples, and beyond, by graduating competent and inspired artisans prepared for a vocation. For women, particularly, the Ospizio feminile di San Vincenzo Ferreri offered instruction to orphaned young women to prepare them for a career in teaching. By the time Toma joined the academy as the Chair of Ornamental Painting in 1878 under the reformist platform of Morelli and Palizzi, he had taught for over a decade in schools dedicated to the instruction of workers and women. In these years he had increased his efforts in advocating for the accessibility of education across society, including those stranded on the wrong side of the social gap. Although the push for education reform had begun following the 1848 revolution, it did not gain traction in Naples until the removal of the Bourbon administration after unification. In 1871, he was asked to participate in the VII Congresso Pedagogico. In the Atti from these proceedings, the second part is dedicated to extending the education to all classes of workers and women.55 Again, in 1880 he was a member of the Congresso Artistico Nazionale, but, along with 48 others, he resigned in protest over delays in executing reform.56 Toma’s commitment to educating women in particular manifests itself in several paintings over his career. His 1872 School for Blind Lacemakers, for example, or the Mother Teaching her Daughter to Read of 1870 focus on different aspects of education reform (Figure 5.15). In the first case, Toma merged an evolved understanding of formal considerations with a sensitive description of a little known and undervalued demographic. From a pictorial perspective, Toma adeptly rendered the tonal environment, with the subtly shifting shadow of the foreground figure next to the window, and the darkened corner removed from sunlight. Toma’s consummate and rigorous demonstration of perspective, angling the composition’s center slightly to the left and the center of the back wall, combines with the carefully studied luminosity, even in the darkness of the shadows. Color pales in accord with the light from the window, but also shifts the focus away from material description of form to the simplicity of the setting. The precise description does not obscure the impact of the scene, or the humanity of the figures. The blind women are industrious and in the process not only of learning a skill, but teaching one. It is unclear if one or both of the instructors on the left are blind; the figure facing the picture plane seems to have compromised and corrected vision. Toma highlighted the value of the endeavor overall with no decorative distraction. Stillness pervades the scene, as though every figure is absorbed in their work. The realism Causa once

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Figure 5.15 Gioacchino Toma, School of the Blind Lacemakers, 1872, o/c, Private Collection Source: © De Agostini Library, licensed by Alinari.

suggested was “flanked if not fused” here becomes one. There is no saccharine depiction of hardship or struggle, no exaggerated poverty. Two years earlier, in Mother Teaching her Daughter, Toma adopted a new subject type that draws both from formal investigations and a market for realism. The bourgeoise setting is distinct from Toma’s frequent depiction of poverty, but it shows an even earlier focus on the support of educational opportunity, especially for women. Later treatments include Reclining Woman Reading (c. 1875) and Novel in the Cloister (1888), among others. The organization of the composition through successive areas of light underscores his studies during the 1860s, directly after returning from war, and in the ambit of Morelli. As a group, the Mother Teaching her Daughter, the Luisa Sanfelice, and the others also investigate contemporary gender roles at the time, during an era when Italy was struggling to define itself. The public role of Luisa, the revolutionary heroine and the anointed “patriot mother,” addresses the roles of women under the new state. During the Risorgimento, women were typically promoted for their supporting role in facilitating revolution by keeping the home fires burning. These images—think of the Macchia paintings by Odoardo Borrani (The Seamstresses of the Red Shirts, 1863) and Silvestro Lega (Singing of the Stornello, 1867)—show women supporting the cause from a domestic, bourgeoisie realm. The Luisa Sanfelice certainly overlaps in regard to a revolutionary, even domestic setting, but Toma’s focus is her limited social milieu, and her crucial maternal role. The feminine hero was a maternal force, what Mazzini called the “angel of the hearth.”57 Mazzini, tireless

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revolutionary for a future Italian republic and perhaps the most dedicated advocate for women’s rights during the unification, wrote in his “Faith in the Future” (1835) and “Duties of Man” (1844–1858) about the power and influence of women over the next generation of patriots. Mazzini was a product of such a progressively-minded woman, and he saw motherhood not as a set of limitations or an imprisonment, but as a politically active role charged with “urging men towards progress.”58 To Mazzini, the goals of the Risorgimento and the women’s movement were the same—liberation. For the Italian this meant liberation from foreign domination, for women it meant equality in the public realm. One liberation could not be granted without the other. Other authors, including Salvatore Morelli, followed Mazzini in his recognition of the link between the fate of Italy and that of women. Maternity became the primary motivation for Toma’s women within bourgeoisie interior settings, as with Mother Teaching her Daughter to Read. In these subjects, the theme of struggle or survival disappears, and his psychosocial cues are recast towards the marginalization or isolation of women, especially in the contemporary family structure.59 The social structure clearly composed by Mass at Home (1877) organizes figures around the power dynamic of a provincial family of means, where the women appear with contrasting restraint in comparison to the relaxed and self-possessed men (Figure 5.16). Another work, the opening of the door by the Young Woman of about 1875, arguably illustrates their awkwardness or unease within the public realm, while simultaneously demonstrating with great skill the effects of sudden and vivid illumination on portions of the figure’s face and clothing. Finally, The Two Mothers continues a series of works documenting the crisis of infant mortality. One woman, from the popular class, is unable to feed her child, so she sits in a corner, dimly lit, next to a bourgeoisie woman who has milk, but no child. These works, and their concentration of female experience across social classes, are unusual for the perceptive

Figure 5.16 Gioacchino Toma, Mass at Home, 1877, o/c, Naples, Museo Civico di del Castel Nuovo Source: De Agostini Picture Library, licensed by Alinari.

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and subtle readings of psychological nuance. They go beyond the “absorption” of ladies reading or ladies sewing, to indicate an empathic understanding. After unification in 1861, the specific aims of women—including access to education, equal rights within the home, and suffrage—were sidelined in the shuffle to both reform and accommodate existing Italian institutions. It became increasingly clear to both moderate and radical reformers that the status of women of all classes was not reforming at the same rate as the new state, especially in the south. Equality was curtailed in the name of women’s protection from social ills, and the major concern for all but the most adamant feminists was to keep woman safely within the home. The new state reinforced restraint and restriction for women, and may be the orientation for the imprisonment of Sanfelice. The “moral unification of Italy,” as described by the author Francesco De Sanctis (1817–1883), was not realized. Regions, classes, and genders suffered from irremediable gaps until well into the next century.60 The Sanfelice reflects a dignity in the subject’s acceptance of her fate, but Toma made clear that her imprisonment is relevant to the condition of post-Risorgimento woman. Along with his particular reading of realist tenets, Toma illustrated the synchrony in the depiction of nature and subject, the personal and the collective, that further distinguishes Neapolitan Realism. Within his ambit, the most influential voice in aesthetic commentary was De Sanctis. Primarily a literary historian and educator, De Sanctis provided Toma a model for the merging of scholarship and political service. His tireless dedication to teaching led to both official and unofficial efforts in educational reform, and he was highly respected by his contemporaries. In the 1860 provisional government in Naples, Garibaldi tapped him to be the Minister of Education, and Cavour followed the subsequent year by appointing him to the corresponding national post.61 De Sanctis’ anti-academicism and mission to restructure the conservative educational system, beginning with the reorganization of the University of Naples in 1860, preceded Toma’s active participation in expanding access to drawing and design instruction. In De Sanctis’ 1861 address to Parliament, he equated the liberty achieved by unification with the social mobility allowed through education, likening the liberal and democratic with a new national culture. …It is necessary to complete the full development of liberty: that is the full liberty of science, and the instruction of popular classes, who are not free as long as their spirit belongs to the confessor, the notary, the man of law, the landowner and to all those that have interest in directing them, of mastering them.62 Toma’s Sanfelice and School of Blind Lacemakers respond to De Sanctis’ call with what may be an allegory of repression and limitation—repression of women—experienced in a south dominated by struggling and working classes. Like De Sanctis, Toma engaged beyond his art, and participated in public policy discourse, as he did in 1872 at the VII Congresso Pedagogico di Napoli. Toma’s work for the reform of Neapolitan institutions occurred at a time when he focused on teaching and refrained from exhibiting. Between his participation in the Universal Exposition in Paris in 1867 and the exhibition of the Luisa Sanfelice at the Promotrice in 1874, Toma disappeared from the artistic sphere. Dall’Ongaro, at his visit, described how Toma sought to teach drawing techniques applicable to industry, with complete freedom from academic pedagogical conventions, to all graduates of the elementari and normali classes.63 At this point in his career, artistic recognition was far from his concern. Instead, he sought social reform.

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His social commitment was only one way in which Toma reflected a Desanctian approach to arts and society; he also reflected an aesthetic theory ascribed to the author. Although De Sanctis published no art criticism, his ubiquitous volumes on literature and his frequent discussions within the university system popularized his views and his aesthetic to an audience beyond the Neapolitan literati. His writing was based on the theories of Hegel, and the direct correspondence of art to cultural identity, a reflection of the human spirit. Art, in its classical form, was epochal in its ability to unite the reality of the form and the idea. In other words, form was integral to content; meaning was not a narrative depiction, derived from a mirror held up to an idea and translated into form. To De Sanctis, as well as others, meaning was inherent in form. Where De Sanctis diverged from Hegel is in his description of form, not always an “appearance of an idea,” but at times the form was meaning in itself, without connection to the divine or the intuitive. In his 1878 publication “Studio sopra Emilio Zola,” he wrote that science can be seen in the modern era as an art, the basis for transforming art from edifice to reality.64 “In its transformations, art must keep the base unaltered, reproduce natural reality in its inventions and its transformations, and also imitate the natural process. This is Zola’s realism.”65 One could read the sculptor Gemito’s predilection to the medium of wax, a meager material that spoke for his subjects, as a reference to his poor and humble figures. Likewise, Toma, in the way he fused form and experience, through his rigid empirical study of light and shadow combined with a powerful allusion to social praxis, pictorialized De Sanctis’ concept of realism. In so doing, he painted Neapolitan Realism not as a Tuscan, Macchiaioli optimist, nor as a French philosophical positivist. Toma’s realism, his truth in form, looked to his Neapolitan ambient and his own social initiatives.

Post-Risorgimento Disillusionment in Toma’s Late-Century Realism With Rome finally instituted as the Italian capital in 1870, the geographical goals of the Risorgimento were essentially fulfilled. Between 1861 and this point, many artists throughout Italy still painted nationalistic themes making the case for Italian unity. After 1870, the optimism centered in Turin and Milan dissipated increasingly the further south towards Naples one travelled. Toma’s depictions of struggle—economic, social, or psychological—emphasized the southern condition; in 1877 he did so for a national audience. That year, Naples was the location for the Esposizione Nazionale di Belle Arti, a reprise of the art component of the earlier national exhibition held in Florence in 1861. The three works that Toma contributed to the exhibition (The Funeral of the Orphan, The Foundling Wheel of Santa Maria dell’Annunziata, and Mass at Home) highlighted his translation of the marginalized or struggling on a larger stage, while simultaneously responding to the late-century stylistic trends from throughout the peninsula. From an iconographic perspective, the message he contributed to the emerging national dialogue reflected Neapolitan artistic currents, while also speaking for the forgotten ones. The Foundling Wheel, previously mentioned for its autobiographical overtones, spoke to poverty, much as his The Funeral of the Orphan did. In the latter, the pervasive sadness relates to his earlier translations of misery, which unfortunately were not isolated to the earliest years of his life. Related, and certainly relevant to his depiction of pain, are the studies he completed of his own deceased children. Toma, perhaps in an attempt to process the pain or grasp at their fleeting presence, did studies of all three of his children who passed. He memorialized his first child, Ettore, when he passed in 1873; in 1875, he completed a study of his twins Emma and Gustavo, but Emma passed shortly after; and

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finally, more poignantly, in 1881 or 1882, he captured the last moments of his son Ugo, who was around four years old at the time of his death.66 The images of children and maternity he painted during the last two years of his life equally demonstrated his first-hand experience with loss, not an overly sentimentalized, staged reading of his time. To be sure, infant mortality was all too common in the nineteenth century, although Naples saw a larger share of suffering than northern Europe and even northern Italy. Demographic research reveals a much later and slower decline in infant and early child mortality due to social conditions and cause of death.67 At the time of Ettore Toma’s death, the chance of an Italian child living to five years of age was 53%, compared to a 75% chance in England or a 70% chance in France. The biggest area of discrepancy between northern European and southern European child mortality rates occurred between the ages of one and five years. After the first year but before the fifth, 144 out of 1,000 children died in Italy, as compared to 88 and 70 in England and France, respectively. Tuscany was the region that fared the best within Italy, but Lombardy was a northern aberration due to the demands of growing industrialization and urbanization. The south, which has inconsistent data at a granular level, had high mortality levels after the first year due to gastrointestinal diseases, especially during the weaning period, caused by Neapolitan housing conditions and population density. Although the causes of Emma and Ugo’s deaths are not listed, the numbers suggest that their deaths, although devastating, were unexceptional. Toma’s pain at the loss of his children is palpable in these paintings. They are truly personal statements of loss and love. He translated this pain into a more public statement in two of the paintings at the 1877 Esposizione, The Foundling Wheel and the The Funeral of the Orphan. In so doing, he not only revealed the sentiment of the situation, but the reality of the social situation as well. Antonella Pimmelli and Paolo Mancini point to the policy-driven reality of loss in Naples during this era. “The high mortality of children … confirms their delay in the struggle for the improvement of survival rates in the population, particularly with the infant population.”68 In addition to the higher mortality in the south after unification, there was a much higher rate of abandoned children, enough so that the anonymous foundling wheels became a fixture of Neapolitan communities specifically. Earlier in this chapter, Toma’s experience as an orphan was connected to The Foundling Wheel (Figure 5.1) At the time he did the painting for the Esposizione in 1877, he finished another version, which is now in a private collection. Rather than point to a personal obsession, the duplication of the subject and the composition suggests either a formal investigation, another description of a horrific social condition, or both. On their face, the foundling wheels of the nineteenth century seem like a compassionate solution for a city struggling from rampant overpopulation and poverty. Foundling hospitals were found throughout Italy, as in Florence with the Filippo Brunelleschidesigned Osepdale degli Innocenti.69 After babies were anonymously left in the window, they would either be transported to a foundling home, or placed with an external wet nurse or foster mother. Attempts were also made to bring wet nurses into the hospitals to nurse as few as two infants, but much more likely several at a time. Due to neglect and inadequate nutrition of the babies and the wet nurses both, most children perished, in shockingly high numbers. Research conducted by David Kertzer and Michael White revealed mortality rates for these abandoned children were at least double that of other children. In certain circumstances, where conditions were the worst, as in the large foundling hospital found in Naples, the death rates were even higher. In one northern foundling hospital in Udine early in the century, the survival rate was less than 1%.

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Considering the odds against an abandoned infant’s survival, Toma’s depiction of The Foundling Wheel, and its sleeping guardians, reveals a distinctly pointed statement. In the same way that today’s cell phone footage revealed to a twenty-first-century audience, often insulated or removed, the realities of violence towards the African-American community, Toma reminded nineteenth-century Italians about the continuation of struggle after unification, and the statistical discrepancies between the north and the south. Beyond the personal and social implications of the subject matter, the paintings Toma exhibited at the 1877 Esposizione Nazionale demonstrate a continued stylistic evolution prompted by his understanding of the dominant pictorial trends in Naples since midcentury. Although Toma never traveled outside of the region, European influences came to him. Not only did he have access to Morelli’s knowledge and adaptation of the French Impressionist aesthetic—nuanced study of light in simplified or informal settings—Morelli was only one avenue for exposure. Mariantonietta Picone Petrusa directly connects Toma to Edgar Degas after the Frenchman’s frequent visits to Naples between 1856 and 1860. Degas’ grandfather, Hilaire-Edgar, settled in Naples and became a successful banker, and the painter’s father was born there.70 While in Italy, Degas became part of the Macchiaioli circle, and divided his time between Rome, Florence, and Naples. About the same time, in 1861, the Spanish artist Mariano Fortuny first arrived in Naples, where he would return in 1873 and 1874. He became close to Morelli, and his influence was so significant that, according to Picone Petrusa, he cancelled the full-bodied realism and naturalism of the south.71 Toma did not appear to accommodate the ideas or stylistic traits of either Degas or Fortuny, not to mention those of Morelli or Palizzi, in his paintings from the 1870s. The Foundling Wheel and The Funeral of the Orphan show the dismal greys and darks of a world still living in shadow, without the pervasive color and warmth in late Ottocento painting throughout Europe. Nevertheless, he demonstrated his awareness of various artistic trends. He experimented with light sources and unevenly cast shadows. He complicated space to emphasize the randomness of nature, and he loosened his contours to enhance the effect of dimness. His awareness of artistic trends enhanced, not compromised, his earlier investigations. His impact, though, was not in his translation of these trends, but in his interest in educational and social reform. As a result, the paintings were barely noted by critics. Toma’s reputation, therefore, as a Neapolitan painter, an inherently Neapolitan painter, was a later consideration. A series of articles by Michele Biancale and Nicolo Vacca began to generate an increasing resurgence of interest in the 1930s. Major retrospectives in Lecce in 1954 and Naples in 1955 led to a re-evaluation of his work by Raffaele Causa and Picone Petrusa, among others.72 The emergence of Toma’s biography by these authors began to rewrite his reputation from a sentimental painter of interior scenes, or a pittore di grigio, to an artist who had first-hand knowledge of the southern struggle in the lead-up to the Risorgimento and the disenchantment of its aftermath. His reconsideration led to the appearance of new works first exhibited in the Lecce retrospective in 1995, including several still-life paintings from his earliest years in Naples studying under Alessandro Fergola. The 1995 retrospective curated by Mantura, followed by another retrospective in Lecce in 1996, also highlighted paintings from his last decade, including his seascapes and reinterpretation of genre painting done in a much looser, unfocused manner.73 The mid-century exhibitions, more than anything else, introduced a depth in Toma’s work, especially in his continued investigations of landscape painting. Again, his impulse

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to invent likely came from a vibrant Neapolitan landscape tradition. The Neapolitan academy had held a chair, a cathedra, of landscape painting since 1826 when Pitloo filled the position, followed by Smargiassi. While the French academies saw landscape as a lesser genre, landscape painters in Naples practiced across artistic communities, including the academy, the independent art schools, and individual studios. Toma’s subjects before the 1880s focused almost exclusively on interior scenes, a psychological landscape rather than a natural one. After 1880, for whatever reason, he began to create Neapolitan views in the manner of Palizzi, or, more appropriately, the Scuola da Resina painter Marco De Gregorio. Like De Gregorio, Toma loosely applied highlights that were both carefully studied, and contrasted dramatically with the darkened areas of gray shadow. The vibrancy in these paintings breaks up the brilliant light of the Neapolitan landscape, but in passages retains the dimness of Toma’s earlier gray compositions. While usually these works recorded corners, isolated and quieter environments of the Neapolitan outskirts, he also produced vistas of Vesuvius, as if to capitalize on an earlier tradition and always stable market. After 1880, art in Naples continued to respond in various ways to the liberation of the painting’s surface from the subject. In part a reaction to French avant-gardism, and in part a new imperative for art more generally, new stylistic trends emerged, including Stile Liberty, which was the Italian response to Art Nouveau, and the Scapigliatura, a movement centered in Milan with Symbolist sympathies. The northern stimulus may have been more welcome in 1880 than it was in 1848 or 1860, years when the initiative of painters often aimed for a nationalist reading. Causa saw this as a watershed moment, when “a common myth of a desire for the Risorgimento was at this point no longer operative.”74 Toma’s response to these moments came in the late 1880s with a series of paintings that while reminiscent of his earlier interior scenes were much looser, approximating the rapid brushstrokes of Daniele Ranzoni or Tranquillo Cremona. There is a weight to these works, among Toma’s last. Whereas the Scapigliatura and their northern counterparts could be quite sensual in the loose and dissolving brushstrokes, both in subjects and in the highly aestheticized compositions, Toma returned to interior scenes (The Tattoo of the Camorrisiti of 1890, or the Kiss for Grandma from 1888–1890). The sketchiness of these later works decentralizes the subject, even though the specificity of the narrative seems to beg description. He appears to have been working out a new approach, but—as Martorelli so aptly describes—breaks the equilibrium between the subject and drawing. The unravelling of his brushstrokes obscured form behind the somber tones of interior settings and darkened clothing. The scale—only about 2½ by 4 feet—seems to indicate these were an avenue for exploration, and were merely steps leading to his next area of study. By 1880, however, the well-travelled approach to aggressively accentuating the painting’s surface—a technique Causa calls anachronistic—did not continue to evolve into a later, or distinct closing stylistic phase.75 More in keeping with his preoccupation with complex lighting conditions, Toma’s Rain of Ashes from Vesuvius, from 1880, develops overlapping ideas (Figure 5.17). The description of the extraordinary lighting conditions alone straddles the genres of history painting, genre painting, and landscape. The startling contrast between the light reflected off the Bay of Naples on the left and the geological event on the right dramatizes an event that Toma likely witnessed, possibly in 1868 and 1872. During the latter eruption, the lava flow from Vesuvius reached the Neapolitan suburbs.76 The juxtaposition of the vivid white of the unaffected bay and the sinister smoke and fire of the volcano charges the painting with dramatically different tonal effects, and provides the backdrop for the Neapolitan street scene in the foreground. The contrast continues with the shifting genre. On one hand, this painting recalls the moments of faith and despair in earlier historical

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Figure 5.17 Gioacchino Toma, The Rain of Ashes from Vesuvius, 1880, o/c, Florence, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna Source: Reproduced with permission of Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali / Archivi Alinari, Florence.

treatments of the end of Pompeii after the first-century eruption, most famously recorded by the nineteenth-century Russian painter in Rome, Karl Bryullov, whose Last Days of Pompeii was well-known in Italy. Yet, the scene is fundamentally a scene of daily life, for those who live near an active volcano anyway. The dramatic swell of the dominant group of peasant women, who pray in unison as if one organism, gestures towards the right of the composition. The individual flames on the candles held by two figures are points of light in the overall ashen scene. The desperation of the women contrasts with the casual onlookers on the left of the painting, who disappear into the shadows with their darkened umbrellas shielding them from the ash falling from the sky. The transitional figures, young girls begging between the women and the onlookers, underscore the ordinariness of the scene. The drama of the vigil appears now subdued, a reality of Neapolitan life and the particularity of life under Vesuvius. The painting drew positive attention to Toma, after its exhibition in the 1880 in Turin at the National Exposition (Esposizione Nazionale di Belle Arti).77 The Minister of Public Instruction, who in 1880 was De Sanctis, acquired it for the state. It was translated into print by Quintilio Michetti and Giuseppe Barberis, appearing on the front of Illustrazione Italiana to represent the exhibition. Toma continued to exhibit over the next decade, producing scenes of the marginalized and forgotten, along with landscapes populated with signs of southern Italian life. He continued unabated with his commitment to education, serving in the faculty of the academy in the department of ornamentation. In 1880, after his resignation from the National Congress on the Arts (Congresso Nazionale Artistico), he expanded his position to oversee drawing from plaster casts at the School of Architecture at the academy, a position he maintained until 1890.

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His particular focus on ornamental painting, ever since the earliest years of his career, manifested in his teaching practice. It was, he firmly believed, an essential opportunity to provide students from all backgrounds with a means to widen their career paths in the arts and allow those from the most meager and struggling classes—exactly as he was when he arrived in Naples in 1856—an avenue for study, artistic practice, and gainful employment. Until the 1920s, his patterns for lacemaking were still used in trade schools throughout Italy.78 Closer to home, however, his educative program included his surviving sons, Gustavo and Mario, who were born in 1875 and 1876, respectively. (He also had a surviving daughter, the second Emma, born in 1881.) Their guidance is the reason Toma gave at the end of Ricordi di un Orfano for writing his memories, “simply because, reading, my son draws an example … to face life’s events with courage.”79 Where Hayez and Minardi used their memoirs to establish their legacy and situate themselves within the historical record, Toma claimed to demonstrate to his sons the fortitude to overcome any circumstance. He projected modesty, referring to his first public exhibition of Erminia as “rubbish” (junk), even though he won a silver medal. When his Sacred Office garnered praise in 1865, Toma wrote that the praise, “instead of encouraging me, had the opposite effect on me, disturbing me from my peace.”80 One hears the father speaking to the son, cautioning against selfsatisfaction, a vice that does not manifest within Toma in his career at any point. In December 1890, Toma suffered a cerebral stroke, and died in Naples on January 12th, 1891. The work of his last years, including two self-portraits capturing the simplicity and the humility that marked his work since the late 1860s, continued his brand of verism (Figure 1.3). Until the end, he continued galvanizing social situations with the sootiness of his palette, which were mitigated rarely with vivid hues of bourgeoisie idealism. His steady, unassuming gaze in his 1882 Self-portrait looked across time to tell the story of Naples at the close of the nineteenth century (Figure 1.3).

Conclusion: On the Brink of Modernism The year Toma died was the year both Gemito and Mancini entered a period of mental decline and isolation. By then, social verism, in Naples and elsewhere, had been replaced by the aestheticism and increased formalism that marks the beginnings of Modernism throughout Europe. Painting from Lombardy and Rome—not to mention the Veneto, Tuscany, or Piedmont—increasingly dissolved pictorial structure and space and asserted the picture plane through texture, liberated color, and scintillating light effects. In other words, the artists who emerged in the wake of the realists were part of a European movement, and did not seek to define an Italian expression as much as a modern one. Regional differences became less distinct, less provincial, and the messages of individuals replaced those of il popolo. Within this context, Toma’s work was read as anachronistic, even those completed at the height of the Risorgimento struggles or the period of subsequent nation building. The small scale of his works and the intimacy of his subjects were out of line with the aestheticism, and some would say hedonism, emerging at the end of the century. Regardless, his work from the 1870s and 1880s reveals the reality of his milieu with an accuracy and compassion. In combination with his stylistic affinity with local painters like Pitloo and Palizzi, Toma resides firmly within the Neapolitan artistic firmament, if not the broader national ambit occupied by his fellow painter, Morelli. Toma told a different story than Morelli. His experience was more delineated and confined, and definitely more regionally inspired. As he did perennially during his career, Toma engaged in stylistic study and the application of new trends and stimuli. But, as with his Ropemakers of the Torre del Greco (I Funari

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di Torre del Greco, 1882), Naples is the true subject (Figure 5.18). The formal impulse first exerted over Toma through his friendship with Celentano is consistent even in this late work. It is refined, structured, dominant. His studied recording of light, bright light, reached the proficiency of the Macchiaioli or Morelli, but Toma’s light is a specific light, a light so intense and unremitting, the scene must certainly be placed in the south. The Naples of Toma resembled the land left behind when Rome became the center of power, and Milan became a center of European industry. He showed the effects of poverty, marginalization, and malaise. In contrast, Morelli’s exoticism and spiritualism from the 1880s and 1890s, before his death in 1901, merged the subjectivity and exoticism of the modern age with the traditionalism of Italy to appeal to both northern and southern interests. Toma’s quietness aimed elsewhere, and as a result, better states the regional character of Naples post-Risorgimento. It is Toma’s insularity, his resistance to an increasingly pan-European approach to painting, one fueled by photography and the infusion of Japanese imagery, that sets him apart from other Neapolitan artists. Disinterested in tinting life with imagination as Morelli counseled, or in moving away from the harsh realities of the world as Palizzi did, Toma immersed himself in Naples and its presence, even when his brushstrokes loosened or his subjects moved from his customary interiors to the open expanse of the sea. As Picone Petrusa observed, “His ambition was to reconcile, for him, into a difficult synthesis the colored shadows of Manet with

Figure 5.18 Gioacchino Toma, The Ropemakers of Torre di Greco, 1882, o/c, Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte Source: © De Agostini Picture Library, licensed by Alinari.

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the naturalism of his [Neapolitan] origins.”81 His ambition, therefore, was as a Neapolitan artist, provincial to be sure, but in the scope of nation building, the provincial voice—Toma’s voice—was an important one. From our perspective over a century and a half later, his work speaks for those left behind after the birth of Italy as a kingdom.

Notes 1 The following passage is based on an anecdote narrated in Toma’s Ricordi di un orfano, 43. 2 Rinaldis (105) described the pain he felt after discovering his mother lifeless. Presi allora da terrore, ci stringemmo, chiamandola ad alta voce, al suo petto: ma nessuno rispondeva, e nella casa non si udiavano che le nostre grida ed il pianto, a cui s’era aggiunto quello della bambina, che, destatasi, anch’essa piangeva e gridava nella culla! Then [my brother and I] became terrified, we clung to her breast, calling her name aloud: but no one answered, and in the house we heard only our cries and the crying, to which was added that of my little sister, who, waking up, also cried and cried in the cradle. 3 Macry, “Il contesto: Napoli in età liberale,” in Spinosa 15: “Un importante elemento che caratterizza Napoli e il modo di sentire di chi vi abita, all’indomani dell’unificazione nazionale, è la perdita delle funzioni e dei privilege legati al proprio status di capitale.” 4 On the advancement of arts in the Kingdom of the Two Siclies, see Pinto (1983) 940–57. 5 See Martorelli (1991), 469–93, and Barilli 470–72. 6 Goethe 196, 341. 7 Martorelli (2005) 476; Spinosa 22. 8 Spinosa 24–5. For more on the Scuola di Posillipo, see Causa (1967), and Martorelli (2018). 9 Turner would travel to Italy seven different times, between 1819 and 1843. On Turner and his connections to Italy, see: Powell, Italy in the Age of Turner and Turner in the South: Rome, Naples, Florence; Hamilton et al. On foreign artists travelling in Naples and throughout Italy, see also Poppi (1991) 539–64. 10 Conisbee, Faunce, and Strick. In his essay on the history of open air painting, Conisbee acknowledged that “all’aperta painting was well established there” in Naples, but there is no mention in this catalogue of the Scuola di Posillipo, or any Italian artist from the late seventeenth or early eighteenth centuries. 11 Martorelli (1991) 474. 12 For Turner’s influence over Naples and Gigante, see Causa (1967). 13 On realismo in Italy, see Maltese (1960 and 1967). 14 On Domenico Morelli, see Martorelli Morelli e il Suo Tempo and “Dopo l’Unità” both from 2005. On his relationship with the Macchia, see Boime 79, 126. 15 Toma 13: “L’esperienza della sventura e miseria umana rimase profondamente nel suo spirito, perchè profondamente esso se ne era imbevuto.” 16 Another excellent source for Toma’s early years and his first artistic accomplishments come from Nicola Vacca (1933). 17 Cassiano 4. 18 Toma 49–50 and 58: “studiavo pure con molta passione la prospettiva;” and “Sappi aver coraggio!” 19 On his time in Piedimonte d’Alife and, later, San Gregorio, see Toma 52, and Biancale 501–18. Biancale dates several still life paintings, paintings of San Francesco and a Deposition for the small church in San Gregorio, and many portraits of townspeople. For a list of the latter, see Mantura (1995) 118–19. Most of these works are in private collections in Lecce. 20 Ever modest, Toma himself wrote it was “robaccia da meritar d’essere scartata.” (“Junk, worthy of being discarded.”) (60). 21 Teserone recreates, in vivid detail and with the aid of Ricordi, Toma’s military experiences (13–15). See also Toma 68ff. 22 Boime 10. Of the 11 artists Boime associated with the movement, all of them participated in military engagements, with the only exception being Giovanni Fattori who served in another capacity. 23 On the mutual inspiration of and between the Macchia and the Neapolitans, see Boime 79–80.

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24 On the effect of Celentano’s death on Toma, see Mormone 15–18. 25 Italy’s local Risorgimento museums are filled with paintings by portraits of Garibaldi and images of the Garibaldini. Some well-known examples were published in the 1982 catalogue for the exhibit held at the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna (Di Majo). 26 Biancale 506–7 and Toma 29. 27 See Picone Petrusa (1991) 494–520. 28 Mantura (1995, 105–6) lists another version, more decorative, now in a private collection. Little is known of this version as it had just appeared on the art market near the time of the exhibition. 29 The Bamboccianti were a group of eighteenth-century genre painters mostly working in Rome. For more on this group, which included Karel Dujardin and Johannes Lingelbach, see Clemente Marigliani’s La campagna Romana dai Bamboccianti alla Sucola Romana (2010). 30 Toma, 80. 31 On Celentano and the impact of his death on Toma, see Martorelli (1995) 22ff; on reliving his orphanhood through Celentano’s passing, see Picone (1955) 172–76. 32 Biancale 513. “…pieno d’umanità tenera e trepida.” 33 Levi 107: “…una lettura della storia e dell’anima.” 34 Mantura (1995) 106. 35 Causa (1955) 46: “Cose immaginate e vero.” 36 Ibid. 39. 37 Picone Petrusa 496. On Toma’s access to the anti-academic polemic in the Gazzettino delle arti del disegno, see Martorelli (1995) 21. 38 Martorelli 23. “…di rappresentazione pietistica della miseria popolo…” For more on the social condition of Naples, see the work of Paolo Macry, including his essay in the 1995 Toma Catalogue (Mantura 1995, 34–9) and his 2002 book Ottocento: famiglia, élites e patrimoni a Napoli. 39 Causa (1955) 46: “Tra i due strapiombia del sentimentalism e della oleografia, miracolasamente in bilico, procedono, affiancati ma non fusi sentimento e pittura.” 40 Both Causa (39) and Vacca (L’Adolescenza, 116) challenge the scholarly characterization of him as merely a “poet of grays.” 41 Maltese (1960) and (1967). 42 Virno and Carrera 10. For more on Stanislao Lista, see Di Giacomo (pp. 40ff). Lista, whose portrait Toma painted around 1875, is an unheralded figure for the role he played in developing young painters, especially those without familial support. Gemito remembers the maestro’s encouragement every time he dramatically reworked one of his young students’ drawings. He would always end with “Coraggio ed avanti.” See also Mantura (1989). 43 Both artists suffered a mental breakdown after their French period. Mancini first showed signs of mental illness in Paris, and spent four months in a mental hospital from 1881–1882 (Virno and Carrera 27). Gemito retreated into his home on Via Tasso and did not leave between 1887 and 1909 (Mantura 1989, 131). 44 For the second version of the Luisa Sanfelice, GNAM version, see Di Majo (1995) 28–33. See also Rinaldis (39, 232) and G. Argan (202), who suggest this might not have been a later version, but perhaps a simultaneous one, where he was exploring a different mode of expression. 45 Causa (1955) 46. 46 F. Netti, discussed in Causa (1955) 44: “…bisogna chiamare storica ogni rivelazione di un pensiero sociale.” 47 Other interpretations include two biographies by Alexandre Dumas père (1865) and Benedetto Croce (1942), and paintings by Modesto Faustini (c. 1880) and Eurisio Capocci (1874). More recent examples include a 1988 biography by M. A. Macchiocchi and a 2004 telenovela by Paolo and Vittorio Taverni. 48 Netti (Esposizione) 179: Mi sembra inoltre che nei suoi quadri egli proceda per via di analisi. Analizzando egli arriva ad esprimersi chiaramente, mettendo del proprio un sentimento finore penetrante. Un’altra sua carrateristica e la semplicità. Non una figura, non un oggetto o un dettaglio inutile. Tutto è necessario o ha un significato. 49 Virno, “Dialogo con i curator,” in Virno and Carrera 11: “La scugnizzo ero io.” 50 On the death of Toma’s children, see Mantura and Spinosa (1995) 107–8, 112, 117–26.

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Toma 88. Mantura (1995) 13. On Toma’s role as an educator see Martorelli (1995) 19–27. Dall’Ongaro 123: Da due o tre anni ch’egli si è consecrato a questo insegnamento, circa mille alunni d’ogni età e d’ogni condizione hanno da lui ricevuto i primi rudimenti del disegno, e sono in grado di applicarli al proprio mestiere: fabbri, falegnami, sarti, modiste, decorator di stanza, arriciatori, carpentieri, ecc. ecc. …

55 Mantura and Spinosa (1995) 23. 56 Ibid. 121. 57 On gender roles in the nineteenth century, particularly as it relates to the Risorgimento, see Howard 237–58. 58 Mazzini (1887) 53–4. 59 See Mantura and Spinosa catalogue numbers 20, 24, 26, pp. 107–8. 60 Mack Smith, “Francesco De Sanctis” in Society and Politics in the Age of the Risorgimento. Essays in Honor of Denis Mack Smith. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1991, p. 266. 61 On De Sanctis, see Oldrini 427ff. 62 Muscetta 95: Assicurare a tutte le forze vive del Paese che domandano di sorgere … piena, compiuta libertà di sviluppo: cioé la piena libertà della scienza e l’istruzione dei ceti popolari, non liberi finché la loro anima appartiene al confessore, al notaio, all’uomo di legge, al proprietario, a tutti quelli che hanno interesse di volgerli, d’impadroniersene. 63 Dall’Ongaro 122–24. 64 De Sanctis (1890) 359–405. 65 Ibid. 367, 386: “L’arte nelle sue trasformazione deve conservare inalterata la base, riprodurre nelle sue invenzioni e nelle sue trasformazioni la realtà natural, imitare anche il processo natural. Questo è il realismo di Zola.” 66 For these images, see the Mantura and Spinosa 107–8, 112. 67 Del Panta 7–21. 68 Pinnelli and Mancini 91: L’elevata mortalità dei bambini è un carattere dominante della dinamica demografica dei paesi dell’area mediterranea e conferma il loro ritardo nella lotta per il miglioramento delle condizioni di sopranivenza della popolazione in particolare della popolazione infantile. 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

On the foundling windows in Naples, see Riall 93 and 95; and Kertzer and White 451–80. On Degas and his connection to Naples, see Boggs 271–77, Picone (1991) 507, and Spinillo 13ff. Picone (1991) 510: “Si cancellò d’un colpo la sodezza corposa del naturalismo meridionale.” Picone (1955) 172–76; Biancale (1933) 501–18; Causa (1955) 39–52; Vacca (L’adolescenza) 113–17; and Vacca (Ancora) 225–33. Mantura (1995) and Cassiano. Causa 47: “…mito comune di un anelito risorgimentale ormai non più operante.” Martorelli (1995) 26. Darley 165–66. Mantura and Spinosa (1995) 110. The pattern books are listed in Mantura (1995), Metodo di disegno adottato per le scuole municipali—Disegni originali di merletti a tombolo; merletti eseguiti dalla signora Recchione Lucia, and reproductions are published in Ortolani. Toma 81: “…che ho scritto solo perchè, leggendoli, mio figlio ne tragga esempio ad affrontare con coraggio le vicende della vita.” Toma 60 and 79: “….invece d’essermi di incoraggiamento, mi fecero per l’appunto l’effetto contrario, disturbandomi da quella mia santa pace.” Picone Petrusa 504: “La sua ambizione era quella di conciliare in una difficile sintesi personalissima le ombre colorate di Manet con il naturalism della sua formazione originaria.”

6

The Regional/National Model

By the time of Toma’s passing in 1891 and the end of the century, the commitment and focus of Risorgimento painting had dissipated, transitioning towards a broader, northern European, and fin de siècle sensibility. For most Italian artists, their pictorial concerns shifted from the nationalist expressions consistent during the Risorgimento to a more ornamental, decorative, and expressive stroke, and a highly sensualized subject. Toma’s realism, with a combination of both social and physical observation, held no interest to artists more in tune with the indomitable influence of Paris. In this way, his work was singular. With the prolonged seclusion of Mancini and Gemito, Neapolitan Realism was confined to a local audience. The character of Toma’s women or workers—representatives of the region’s italianità—was lost behind a universalist approach represented by the growing individualism and expressionism of the Scapigliatura and Stile Liberty.1 The same could be said for both Minardi’s and Hayez’s artistic strategies. In other words, in Naples, as in Rome or Milan, the regional narrative eroded, as did the critical tools for understanding the arc of nineteenth-century Italian painting. Without the Neapolitan context, Toma’s subjects loses its interpretive thread, and is mismatched against the dominant European pictorial expression. Without this thread, and the others associated with Hayez and Minardi, the story of Ottocento painting unravels for those outside the immediate or scholarly ambit. So, how does one weave the tapestry of Italian nationalism, with the strands of local and regional narratives—and acknowledging the danger of strangling this metaphor—for a non-Italian audience familiar with an entirely different fabric? In addition, how would one develop an alternative narrative when at least a dozen subnarratives compete, and no one dominates at a national or institutional level, supported by a central authority like a national academy? How, more importantly, does one justify such disparate statements of the nationalist and collective in an era moving dramatically towards the universal and the individual? How, indeed. Italian scholarship is well-developed and insightful, as Chapter 1 demonstrates. Its translation, both those few literal translations of Italian authors or the even fewer studies by non-Italian authors, has not fared well, though. This leaves Ottocento painting open to mistranslations (Hayez’s The Kiss), dismissals by critics as regressive or sterile (Minardi’s religiosity), or inadequate contextualization of a subject or stylistic innovation (Toma’s Luisa Safelice Imprisoned). Along with this present effort, the English-language narrative of the Ottocento cannot only re-establish its complex “fabric,” it can engage with parallel nationalist narratives, including those in Germany or America. There is much to establish in English-language scholarship, though, and a sparse foundation from which to begin. From a scholarly perspective, the absence of English-language studies is largely irrelevant. Scholars read in

The Regional/National Model 171 whatever language is necessary. For more casual students of art history, though, this absence skews the importance of Ottocento painting. More damaging, when students are not introduced to the Ottocento as they begin their studies, they are less likely to pursue it at a more advanced academic level, especially if they are operating under the assumption that Italian painters are outliers, derivative in style, or irrelevant to a more manageable and prominent art historical narrative. Regardless, the wealth of artistic examples demands a closer look. Once these investigations take place, through accretion and accessibility, the narrative will extend beyond Italy to other classrooms, galleries, and collections. This rarely occurs in the United States, but there have been moments. Sheldon and Irma Gilgore established their collection in Naples, Florida, which included a private museum designed to house examples of Gemito, Mancini, and others.2 An exhibition of this collection appeared at the Art Institute of Chicago and the Denver Museum of Art in 1994. The 1992 American Federation of the Arts Exhibition, curated by Roberta J. M. Olson, likewise showed a cross-section of regions and eras, but such breadth precluded a clear view of what Ottocento painting had to offer. These two exhibits are significant for emphasizing the Risorgimento or late-century Italian environments specifically, and, in the AFA exhibit, for the introduction of essays translated from the Italian for the American audience. Unfortunately, that is hardly a foundation for expanded study or awareness for those unfamiliar with the era and its art. What is necessary now is to take Albert Boime’s study on the Macchia and the Risorgimento and build around it, to create points of reference for those approaching Italian art from its “lesser” periods of “decay” (thank you John Ruskin) after the Baroque era.3 With Boime, the Risorgimento became the organizing principle, a means for viewing the somewhat cohesive group of Tuscan artists, while still allowing for parallel visual strategies. Boime took a big leap forward in the study of Ottocento painting outside of Italy. Now, the question remains, how can twenty-first-century authors build from his example? As Boime limited his parameters to the study of the Macchiaioli to adequately explore the regional influence of Tuscany and its role in Risorgimento politics and culture, future studies must address the regionalist aspect of art, both for its stylistic and iconographic influences. Recognition of the regional factors in turn must be investigated in comparison with competing nationalist strategies. Too general or too isolated a picture and Ottocento painting loses the necessary lens for interpretation and comparison. Italian culture at various points suffered from both tendencies, isolationism between regions and an overgeneralized nation. In regard to the former, the long history of the balkanized peninsula, carved up throughout its history by northern European powers, precluded an easy or immediate sense of unity. In 1861, after the annexation of the peninsula under the Savoy crown as the Kingdom of Italy, Massimo d’Azeglio, artist and statesman, famously said, “the Italians have wanted to make a new Italy, but themselves to remain the old Italians.”4 Others echoed d’Azeglio’s sentiments, describing the unity on the peninsula as “improvised” (Giustino Fortunato) or, as Luigi Blanch described in 1851, “The patriotism of the Italians is like that of the ancient Greeks, and is love of a single town, not of a country; it is the feeling of a tribe, not of a nation.” Although the region may have played a significant role in an individual’s artistic identity, artists were not isolated or resistant to outside influences. To the contrary, the stylistic and ideological diversity on the peninsula during this period led to moments where cultural influences transcended territorial borders or royal courts, moments where different political histories grappled with similar artistic

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attributes, regardless of personal motivations or proclivities. This occurred when Bossi transferred the compositional investigations of the Accademia de’ Pensieri to Milan from Rome, or when Adriano Cecioni brought the luminosity of the Florentines south to Naples and the Scuola di Resina. Although these moments of extension and exchange are significant for the understanding of artistic practice and stylistic development, they must be combined with the endemic desire of artists for a nationalist message to liberate the peninsula. Strategies on how to do so varied, sometimes significantly, but artists could not avoid the social and political demonstrations of the century. In most cases, the messages centered around the inherent superiority of Italian cultural expression in music, painting, literature, and architecture. In all areas, the rich legacy of the past reached into their present day. Artists staked this claim for artistic superiority on differing notions; Minardi continued the long tradition of Christian painting in Rome, and Hayez drew from the stylistic inspiration of Titian to resurrect the Italian heroic epic. Their approaches differed significantly, but their end goal was the same. This message, one highlighting the consistency of the peninsula’s rich cultural heritage, perhaps is a key to investigating the singularity of Italy’s regional multiplicity. With this key, the character of regional diversity lends itself to a nationalist narrative, without compromising the integrity of the regional perspective. Without the need for sweeping anthems, nor emblematic statements, Ottocento painting then becomes a statement of a cultural unity, an italianità. Hayez’s The Kiss most readily lends itself to a statement of unity; but with the framework of a regional strategy for a statement of Italian artistic authority. Yet, what about Toma’s Sacred Office of 1865? Can this work claim a similar role as Hayez’s political allegory of unity and commitment, even with its regionally inspired realism? Toma no less embodied a voice in the discourse on unity, although he addressed it after the fact and with the aim for reform. As such, he challenged the conventional knowledge of the Italian concept of the heroic action constructed in Milan. Stylistically, his sharp value contrasts and dramatic composition speaks to the legacy of Caravaggio, its dramatic lighting and theatrical staging. His aim, though, was to show the Italian left behind in the process of unification. In the Sacred Office, the detached and isolated individual lies alone, separate from the light, from the support, from the beneficence of the church. Certainly not optimistic and far from aspirational, Toma confronts the power of the church. He speaks to the qualified aims of unity, one that isolated the south and left it vulnerable to extant power systems. His conviction, though, to educate, to reveal, and to advocate worked as much for the Italian nation as the civic vision Hayez introduced in the 1820s. Toma’s work lends itself to many interpretations, surely, but the framework of the regional concern within the national dialogue remains no less valid, and is a reading more consistent throughout the century. In other words, for Ottocento painting, the ideal of unity spoke to those coming from regionalist perspectives. Determining that place in the broader unification narrative becomes the aim, then. Doing so provides the basis for an autochthonous lens in relation to the rest of Europe, while allowing artists to relate to a common goal. Failure to see artists as active participants in some sort of narrative, even one as open-ended as the regional/national duality, resulted in many artists falling into obscurity. A regional/national perspective, though, allows for shared aims, but also accounts for diversity and individuality. This narrative distinguishes itself from a dominant French narrative developed around a pattern of academics and revolutionaries, which became more strident and pronounced as the century progressed. For a country

The Regional/National Model 173 with no central cultural authority and no nationhood until the second half of the century, the French narrative cannot be transferred. The regional/national orientation is not only more tenable and appropriate, it is adequately flexible to accommodate the breadth which nineteenth-century painting on the peninsula demands. The flexibility of the regional/national orientation also allows for work to be investigated through layers of personal, institutional, or regional factors. Minardi, for example, demonstrated a personal commitment to the Italian nation in his dedication to the church as the true head of the Italian people, in the same way Gioberti did. He refused to speak French at the end of his life, and rejected the French approach to classicism as decadent and detrimental to the nature of the Italian spirit. At the Accademia di San Luca, Minardi guided artists through his words and his example to access the glory of Christian painting. His last work, dedicated to the apostolic mission embodied by the church, hangs prominently in the Quirinal Palace, and was installed at the point when Italy was a new nation, but Rome’s position within it remained in question. In the context of a Roman regionalist expression—and of course it matters that he worked in Rome rather than the region of his origin, Emilia-Romagna—Minardi painted the Christian voice, as he saw, the authoritative Italian voice. His work represents the unified Italian character, legitimizing Italy’s role as leader of the Catholic world. In Rome, unity came from the spirit, from the cross. In Milan, the visualization of unity came from somewhere else entirely, closer to the heart. Hayez tapped into the heart of the Risorgimento by locating its moments of passion and commitment. Again, the regional/national model allows for his work, some 300 paintings done over the most charged decades of the Risorgimento, to be viewed from the personal, institutional, and regional perspectives. For each of these, additional proclivities and practices inspired Hayez; but, always central to his approach was both his regional and national orientation. His paintings often drove the artistic discourse, pushing it forward, as with his Pietro Rossi. In this case, it appeared in 1820 when the pictorial split with Neoclassicism necessitated a “civic painting,” separate from both the academic models of Rome’s traditionalism and Restoration culture in France. At no point did he get more personal than after unification, when Venice remained under Austrian control for an additional five years. The 1860s saw Hayez exert his Venetian identity, in his signature (“Francsco Hayez da Venezia”) or his subject matter (The Two Foscari or The Last Moments of Marin’ Faliero). Before then, though, he placed himself in a broader nationalistic role, such as when he included his self-portrait in Pietro the Hermit (1829) or The Refugees of Parga (18231). Either strategy, regional or nationalist, speaks to the mission of an Italian unity. Only in the case of Hayez’s Marin’ Faliero did he hint at a disenchantment at its outcome, not unlike Toma during the same period. From a regional identity—region here referring to his immediate Milanese context and not the Venetian identity he expressed simultaneously—Hayez advocated for a civic purpose in painting. His regional focus stems from the post-Enlightenment climate in Milan, passionate and Romanticized and determined to see Italy stand alone, separate from the oppressor. Critics and patrons first recognized this nature in his Pietro Rossi, but he reinforced it subsequently over the next three decades. Images of Italian heroicism, especially when vanquishing the foreign occupier were retold in various guises, The Sicilian Vespers (1822 and 1846) and his Greek pictures representing just a few. In addition, Hayez painted the Milanese intelligentsia, the faces of the Risorgimento, to establish the Romantic and enlightened motivations of Milan to the broader nationalist discourse. His portraits include figures like Count Francesco Teodoro Arese Lucini facing the viewer

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during his imprisonment (1828), Alessandro Manzoni at ease holding his customary pipe (1841), and Gioacchino Rossini (1870) holding a musical score entitled “Music of the Future.” Milan and its people spoke to Hayez’s passion and patriotism. The nationalist spirit that pervaded artistic expression in Milan—the Milan of Giuseppe Verdi or Manzoni or the painter Carlo Prayer—formed the basis of Hayez’s outlook, and provides the crucial lens through which to view his painting. The regional expression, then, is the expression of the collective, national spirit. It is not the collective that Toma gave the viewer. It is the isolated, the marginalized, and the forgotten. His voice is no less important, though, as he records the struggles of some areas, specifically in southern regions, to participate equally in the unified state. Considering this, his work, again from a personal, institutional, and regional perspective, participates differently than the other two within the nationalist discourse. His personal commitment to the Neapolitan people manifested strongly in the figures he chose to represent, either from autobiographical reference (The Foundling Wheel) or the models he chose to represent (his wife in Luisa Sanfelice Imprisoned). These direct connections between his personal experience and his imagery provide the desired end, an authenticity and credibility. In both these examples, and throughout Toma’s career, his veristic approach drew from a long tradition of Neapolitan realist painting, tracing back to the Seicento and the influential presence of Artemesia Gentileschi and Caravaggio. In his hands, however, the effect was far less dramatic, and much more somber. The frugality of means, particularly with color and value contrasts, spoke to the humility of his subjects. From a regional perspective, the simplicity of the figures betrays the rapid economic decline and struggles in the social sector following unification. He provided visible examples of the disenfranchised Italian, authentically rendered with dignity and purpose rather than the saccharine and the romanticized poverty that often played a part of the northern conception of the southern landscape. Toma’s Blind Lacemakers or women (Mass at Home, or The Two Mothers) gave a face to social inequalities, and made the case for the expansion of rights and resources as part of the emerging discourse in Italian politics. The nation, Toma tells us, belonged to these people, too, and to dispel any doubt this was his aim, then and now, Toma spent almost a decade away from professional recognition to teach at institutes that catered to developing the skills of the working class, including women. More than his tenure at the Reale Accademia di Belle Arti, these institutions defined his focus. In combination with his activities in the Congresso Pedagogico and Congresso Artistico Nazionale, Toma clearly saw art as a mission for social expansion, and one antidote to the social ills plaguing Naples at the end of the century. The regional/national duality is undeniably a fruitful lens for the investigation of these three artists, and others from the same regionalist-grounded and nationalist-inspired circumstances. It is a lens allowing for heterogeneity, but simultaneously places each artist in the context of a broader nationalist framework. No matter how divergent regional strategies become, the nationalist dialogue can accommodate their message, without denying context or response. This becomes the much needed framework. If employed, it not only produces the key for new viewers, it expands and enriches our understanding of European art from this century. Failing to employ it, however, relegates the powerful expressions of Ottocento painters to relative obscurity for all but a local audience. In 2013, Roberta Olson wrote an article in the Journal of Modern Italian Studies called “Art for a new audience in the Risorgimento: a meditation.” Although the article is informative, perhaps the title is even more so. The absence of an audience for Ottocento

The Regional/National Model 175 painting outside of Italy should be questioned, especially considering the familiarity with nineteenth-century European art more generally, or with Italian art from the Renaissance and Baroque eras. Why should art from this era be alienated from the larger field of study, or from the appropriate cultural perspective? Not applying the appropriate lens denies the nineteenth century the story of a powerful episode of nation building. Not doing so denies emerging scholars a more complete picture of the visual richness and diversity of Italian regional expressions. Not doing so denies these artists, still alive through the vividness of the convictions captured on the surface of their paintings, the audience they deserve. More importantly, not doing so denies the viewer—outside of Italy—the aesthetic experience of Minardi’s piety, of Hayez’s patriotism, and of Toma’s compassion.

Notes 1 On Stile Liberty, see Bossaglia. Stile Liberty is the term used to describe the decorative stylistic counterpart of the French Art Nouveau. 2 On the Gilgore collection, see Greene, and Wardropper and Licht. 3 On Ruskin’s view of Italian painting after Michelangelo or Titian, when he claimed art “ceased to lead her sons in the way of truth and life,” see his “The Stones of Venice” and my “Regionalism and Ruskin in the Ottocento Artistic Narrative” 129ff. 4 This quote is perhaps apocryphal, but is reported in various places, including Lyttleton 70. D’ Azeglio wrote something similar in his Le Miei Ricordi 344. On Blanch and Fortunato, see Mack Smith (1998) 6 and 64.

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Index

Abbati, Giuseppe 141, 142, 148 Academy of Fine Arts in Venice see Venice Accademia de’ Pensieri see Rome Accademia del Regno Italico see Rome Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia see Venice Accademia di Brera see Milan Accademia di Brera Biblioteca see Milan Accademia di San Luca see Rome Accademia in Perugia see Perugia Accademia Reale di Belle Arti see Naples advocacy for women’s rights 156–58 Agricola, Filippo 49 Agricola, Luigi 50 Albani, Alessandro Cardinal 37, 51 Albrizzi, Isabella Teotochi 106 Altamura, Saverio 141 Amari, Michele 110–11 Ambrosoli, F., 109, 121 anti-Jesuit actions 20, 31 Antinori, Giacomo 49 Appiani, Andrea 38, 80–2, 85 Arese Lucini, Francesco Teodor 81, 92, 94, 100, 109. 173 Armellini, Carlo 21 Baldacci, Vincenzo 84 Banti, Alberto Maria 10 Barberis, Giuseppe 164 Barbiano di Belgiojoso, Carlo 124 Barbizon School, The 137, 139 Bartholdy, Jakob Salomon 47 Basso, Giovanni 83 Beauharnais, Eugene de 18, 23 Belgiojoso, Pompeo 97 bello ideale 80, 82, 90 Benvenuti, Pietro 17, 38, 43, 84, 87 Berchet, Giovanni 80, 107–8; Sul “Cacciatore feroce” e sulla “Eleonora” di Goffredo Augusto Bürger, Lettera semiseria di Grisostomo al suo figliuolo (1816) 7 see manifesti romantici; I Profughi di Parga (1823) 106, 107–8 Berger, Jacques 136

Berthier 13 Bertini, Giuseppe 124 Bianchini, Antonio 39, 57, 60, 64, 66; “Del Pursimo nelle Arti” (1843) 49, 63, 64 Biblioteca Italiana 7 Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense see Milan Bidera, Emanuele 118 Binasco, Giovanni 82, 84, 85 Blanch, Luigi 27 171 Boime, Albert 7, 31, 42, 171 Boldini, Giovanni 11 Bonaparte, Joseph 28, 136, 137 Borrani, Odoardo 148, 157 Borsato, Giuseppe 90 Bossi, Giuseppe 38, 43, 80, 81, 82, 106, 172; Self-Portrait with Cattaneo, Taverna and Porta (1809) 79 Bourbon, House of: Napoleon I 17–18, 22, 28; Napoleon III 21, 27 Bourbon, Neapolitan House of 13, 134, 148; Ferdinand I of Naples 87, 139; Ferdinand II 30; Ferdinand IV, King of the Two Sicilies 27–8, 144, 152 Bristol, John Hervey Lord 53 Broude, Norma 7 Bryullov, Karl 164 Byron, George Gordon Lord 23, 106–8, 125; Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1812–1813) 109; “Ode on Venice” (1818) 118; The Siege of Corinth (1816) 102; The Giaour (1818) 107; Venetian dramas 99, 118–24 Cabianca, Vincenzo 7 Cahen d’Anvers, Albert 151 Calcografia della Camera Apostolico see Rome calcography see Tommaso Minardi, vocational reform Cameretta Portiana 24, 26, 79, 81 Cammarano, Giuseppe 136 Camuccini, Vincenzo 37–8, 41, 43, 52–3, 54–5, 58–9, 64, 85, 93; works: The Continence of Scipio (1808–1811) 58; Death of Caesar (1799–1806) 53, 87; Death of Virginia

186

Index

1799–1806, 41; Death of Julius Caesar (1799–1806) 41 Canova Antonio: and Hayez , 80, 84–5, 87–9, 92, 93, 106; and Minardi 37, 44, 49, 50–1, 53, 55–7, 58, 60; Reclining Magdalen (1819–1822) 108; and the Treaty of Tolentino 88 Cantù, Cesare 107 Capocci, Eurisio 153 Capodimonte, Museo e Boschi di see Naples Carbonari 23, 28 Carlo Alberto see Savoy, House of Carlo Felice see Savoy, House of Carotti, Giuseppe 124 Casa Bartholdy see Rome Casa Italiana, Columbia University 10 Casati, Gabrio 26 Caserta: Palazzo Reale 136, 140 Caso, Beniamino 140 Castelnuovo, Enrico 8 Castillia, Gaetano de 92 Catel, Franz 47 Cattaneo, Carlo 26, 31 Cattaneo, Gaetano 79 Cavour, Camillo Benso di Conte 27, 30, 31, 159 Cecioni, Adriano 150, 172 Celentano, Bernardo 141–42, 144–45, 146, 166; The Council of Ten (1861) 146 censorship 25, 94–7, 99, 105–6 Ceroni, Luigi 52 Chigi, Don Agostino 41 Cialdini, Enrico General 31 Ciani, Gaetano 94, 96 Cicognara, Leopoldo 56; aesthetic theory 60, 80, 90; Del Bello (1808) 60; and support of Hayez 85, 87, 88–9, 93 Cisalpine Republic 22 Cochetti, Luigi 55, 69 Colbert, Jean-Baptiste 37 Colonna, Don Vincenzo 55 Colonna, Donna Chiara 55 Comerio, Agostino 41 Conciliatore, Il 23, 25, 79–81, 90, 106 Confalonieri, Count Federico 23, 101 Congress of Vienna 23, 28 Congresso Nazionale Artistico 1880, 156, 164 Cornelius, Peter von 45, 47 Corot, Jean-Baptiste-Camille 137 Corvi, Domenico 53 Courbet, Gustave 139, 149 Cremona, Tranquillo 163 Crispi, Francesco 30 d’Azeglio, Massimo 70, 99, 171 Da Persico, Giovanni Battista 97 Dall’Ongaro, Francesco 116, 155, 159

Dante Alighieri 17 Darù, Pierre 123 Daumier, Honoré 133 David, Jacques-Louis 37, 80, 92, 93, 136 De Antoni, Antonio 85 De Gregorio, Marco 150, 163 De Mesnil Baron Oscar 2 De Min, Giovanni see Demin, Giovanni De Nittis, Giuseppe 150 De Sanctis, Francesco 164; aesthetic theory 160; education reform 159; History of Italian Literature (1870–1871) 23, 25; “Studio sopra Emilio Zola” (1878) 159, 160 De Sanctis, Guglielmo 11, 38–41, 50, 52, 55, 69–71 De Staël, Anne-Louise Germaine 80; “Sulla maniera e l’utilità delle traduzioni” (1816) see manifesti romantici Degas, Edgar 162 “Del Purismo nelle Arti” see Bianchini, Antonio Delacroix, Eugène 109 Demin, Giovanni 60, 84, 88 di Breme, Ludovico 23, 80, 107 Diedo, Antonio 86 Donizetti, Gaetano 118 Dupré, Giovanni 52 Esposizione della Società Promotrice di Belle Arti a Napoli (1865) see exhibitions Esposizione della Società Promotrice di Belle Arti a Napoli (1874) see exhibitions Esposizione Nazionale di Belle Arti, Naples (1877) see exhibitions Esposizione Nazionale di Belle Arti, Turin (1880) see exhibitions Esposizione Nazionale, Florence (1861) see exhibitions exhibitions: Esposizione della Società di Promotrice, Naples (1865) 151; Esposizione della Società di Promotrice, Naples (1874) 151, 155, 159; Esposizione Nazionale di Belle Arti, Naples (1877) 160, 162; Esposizione Nazionale di Belle Arti, Turin (1880) 164; Esposizione Nazionale italiana, Florence (1861) 17, 148, 160; Exposition Universelle, Paris (1855) 139; Exposition Universelle, Paris (1874) 159; Società della Promotrice, Naples 144 Faliero, Doge Marin’ 123 Fattori, Giovanni 17 148 Faustini, Modesto 153 Federati uprising see Milan Ferdinand I of Austria see Habsburg, House of Ferdinand I of Naples see Bourbon–Two Sicilies, House of Ferdinand II see Bourbon, Neapolitan House of Ferdinand III see Bourbon, Neapolitan House of

Index Ferdinand IV, King of Naples see Bourbon, Neapolitan House of Ferdinand IV, King of the Two Sicilies see Bourbon, Neapolitan House of Fergola, Alessandro 137, 140, 162 Flaxman John 47 Filo della Torre, Nicola 140 Florence 16–17; as administrative capital 148; as national capital 148; Esposizione nazionale italiana (1861) see exhibitions Fondo Hayez (Hayez archives) see Milan Fontana, Luigi 66. 69 Fortunato, Giustino 171 Fortuny, Mariano 162 Foscari, Francesco Doge 119 Foscolo, Ugo 81 Francis I of Austria and Caroline of Bavaria see Habsburg, House of Franco, Giacomo 99 Frate, Domenico del 51, 56 French Academy in Rome see Rome Führich, Joseph von 45 Fumagalli, Ignazio 80, 109 Gallamini, Domenico 42 Galleria Farsetti see Venice Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna see Rome Garibaldi, Giuseppe 17, 21, 27, 30, 117, 143, 159; Battle at Aspromonte (1862) 134, 144 Gautier, Théophile 11 Gemito, Vincenzo 133, 150–51, 155, 165, 170–71; Neapolitan Fisherboy (1877) 151 Géricault, Théodore 109 Gherardini, Carlo 106 Giani, Felice 41–4, 54 Gigante, Giacinto 137, 139 Gilgore Collection, Sheldon and Irma see Naples, Florida Ginsborg, Paul 10 Gioberti, Vincenzo 18–19, 20, 21, 25, 62, 71; Del primato morale e civile degli italiani (1843) 19, 20, 39, 64, 70 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 45, 136 Goupil, Adolphe 151 Greek War of Independence 103, 106, 108–9 Grossi, Tommaso 24, 26, 79–80, 82, 90–1, 99; I Lombardi alla prima crociata (1826) 79, 113 Grubicy de Dragon, Vittore 125 Guglielmi, Gennaro 140 Habsburg, House of 16, 22; Ferdinand I of Austria 28m 29, 87, 98; Franz I of Austria and Caroline of Bavaria 89, 97; Maria Therese of Austria 98 Habsburg-Lorraine, House of: Maria Carolina, Queen of Naples and Sicily 152 Hackert, Jacob Philipp 136

187

Hamilton, William Richard 89 Hayez, Chiara Torcellan 82 Hayez, Francesco 1, 9, 60, 70, 173; and the Byronic anti-hero 102; and the Romantic community in Milan 79, 80, 90–1; at World Exposition (Paris, 1867) 115; brief stay in Florence 86; childhood in Venice 82; Congress of Verona commission (1822) 97; Frame 76–8; influence of Venetian Renaissance painters 93, 120, 172; institutional bequests 124; move to Milan 92; professor at the Accademia di Brera 94; return to Venice (1817–1823) 89; Romanticismo 170; self-portraits in paintings 104, 108, 124; study in Rome 84–8; tribute commission to Austrian monarch 89–90; Venetian commissions 90; Venetian subjects 118–24 Hayez, works: Alberico da Romano, fratello di Ezzelino (1845–1850) 98; Apostles Giacomo and Filippo Ciani (1825–1827) 94, 96–7, 102; Atleta trionfante (1814) 86; Bust of a Woman with Loosened Hair (1874) 125; Carlo V Retrieving Titian’s fallen brush (1832) 118; Chiaramonti fresco cycle (1817) 88–9; La Ciociara (1842) 98; Conte di Carmagnola (1820–1821) 94, 116; Death of Abradates (1813) 86; Doge Marin’ Faliero Persuades Steno (1844) 123; Fiesco Taking Leave of his Wife (1826) 103; Gentile Bellini nell’atto di presentare a Maometto II il suo quadro (1834) 118; Kiss, The (1859) 115–16, 125, 141, 170, 172; Kiss, The (1861) 117; Kiss, The (1867) 115–17; Laocoön (1812) 85, 86; Last Appeal of Jacopo Foscari (1852–1854) 119, 173; Last Farewell of Jacopo (1832) 118, 119; Last Kiss of Romeo and Juliet (1823) 116; Last Moments of Doge Marin’ Faliero (1867) 102, 121, 117, 123–25, 173; Meditation (1850) 99; Meditation (1851) 99; Palazzo Ducale cycle, Venice (1819) 90; Pietro the Hermit and the Lombards of the First Crusade (1827–1829) 102–4, 114, 116, 152, 173; Pietro Rossi (1820) 80, 91, 92–4, 103, 114, 116, 173; Portrait of Bianca Cappello (1861 and 1870) 118; Portrait of Alessandro Manzoni (1841) 125, 174; Portrait of Carlo Prayer as Alp (1832) 102, 104; Portrait of Caterina Cornaro (1835 and 1857) 118; Portrait of Count Francesco Teodor Arese Lucini (1828) 94, 97, 102, 173; Portrait of Emperor Ferdinand I of Austria (1840) 98; Portrait of Gioacchino Rossini (1870) 174; Refugees of Parga (1826–1831) 102–3, 105–6, 107–9; Return of the Vatican Treasures (1817) 89; Rinaldo and Armida (1814) 86; Self-Portrait (Accademia di Belle

188

Index

Arti, Venice, 1862) 124; Self-Portrait (Galleria degli Uffizi, 1862) 124; Self-Portrait as Doge Gritti (1842 and 1870) 118; Self-Portrait with Family (1807) 82; Self-Portrait with Migliara, Palagi, Gross and Molteni (1827) 78–9; Self-Portrait (Pinacoteca di Brera, 1848) 124; Sicilian Vespers, The (1822) 94, 97; Sicilian Vespers, The (1846) 109, 114, 125, 146, 173; Thirst of the First Crusaders Under Jerusalem (1832–1850) 112; Triumph of the Reign of Ferdinand I of Austria (1837) 98; Ulysses at the Court of Alcinous (1815) 86, 97; Vendetta paintings (1847–1853) 118 Hayez, Giovanni 82 Hayez, Vincenza Scaccia 111, 125 Herculaneum 37 Hervey, Frederick, Lord Bristol 87 Höhler, Annegret 9–11 Imbriani, Vittore 147 Induno, Domenico 142 Induno, Geralamo 117, 142 infant mortality 161 Ingres, Jean-Auguste-Dominique 37, 85, 86 Ioannina, Ali Pasha 108 Italian tricolore, in painting 97 Kingdom of Italy 30, 117, 144; 1861 Plebiscite 26 Köck, Michele 41, 45, 54 La Scala see Milan Landi, Gaspare 38, 51, 54, 56 Lateran Treaty, Rome 22 Le Brun, Charles 37 Le Gros, Pierre 59 Lega, Silvestro 148; Singing of the Stornello (1867) 157 Leopardi, Giacomo 82 Lipparini, Ludovico 109, 114 Lista, Stanislao 151 Longhi, Giuseppe 11, 12, 48–9 Lyttelton, Adrian 10 Macchiaioli, the 139, 148–51, 162, 166, 171; compared to Impressionism 7, 31; and politics 12, 141; scholarship on 7, 12, 17 Maffei, Andrea 99, 118, 121 Maffei, Clara Spinelli 99 Maffei salotto 79, 99, 106 Maggiotto, Francesco 84 Maltese, Corrado 11 Mancini, Antonio 133, 150–51, 155, 165, 170, 171; The Study (1868) 151 manifesti romantici: Berchet, Sul “Cacciatore feroce” e sulla “Eleonora” di Goffredo

Augusto Bürger. Lettera semiseria di Griostomo al suo figliuolo (1816) 80; De Staël, “Sulla maniera e l’utilità delle traduzioni” (1816) 80; Manzoni, “Sul Romanticismo” (1823) 113; Visconti, Idee Elementari sulla Poesia Romantica (1818) 80 Manzoni, Alessandro 13, 25, 80, 82, 93; Hayez portrait 99, 125, 174; and language 17, 25, 90–1; Promessi Sposi (1841) 25, 113, 148 Maratta, Carlo 66 Maria Carolina, Queen of Naples and Sicily see Habsburg-Lorraine, House of Maria Theresa of Austria see Habsburg, House of Mariani, Cesare 52, 69 Martini, Maria 97 Matteini, Teodoro 84 Max Planck Institut–Bibliotheca Hertziana – Biblioteca Hertziana see Rome Mazzini, Giuseppe 18–21, 25–7, 81, 104, 109, 123; 1848 uprisings 10; “angel of the hearth” 157; Giovine Italia 20; “Byron e Goethe” (1838) 102; “Duties of Man” (1844–1845) 20, 158; “Faith in the Future” (1835) 158; “Modern Italian Painters” 1841, 92–3, 109 Mazzocca, Fernando 3, 6, 37 Meissonier, Ernst 151 Melchiori, Giuseppe 107 Mengs, Anton Raphael 38 Mercurio, Paolo 56 Metternich, Klemens von 26 Michaud, Joseph François 103, 113 Michetti, Francesco Paolo 155 Michetti, Quintilio 164 Migliara, Giovanni 79 Milan 13, 22, 78; as a cultural center 81; Cinque Giornate 26; enlightenment community in 80–1, 173 Federati uprising (1820–1821) 23, 92, 96, 99; Napoleonic 22; Restoration 23; Second War of Independence 27 Milan, sites: Accademia di Brera 1, 80–1, 82, 85, 92, 94, 98, 116, 124 125; Accademia di Brera Biblioteca 106, 108, 119; Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense 125; Fondo Hayez (Hayez archives), BNB 125; La Scala 26, 79, 96, 118; Palazzo Reale 98; Pinacoteca di Brera 81 Millet, Jean-François 133, 149 Minardi, Carlo 56 Minardi, Tommaso 1, 81, 84–5, 170, 173; academic discourse 57, 59, 60–1, 64; academic reform 51, 53–5; albums 54; appointment to the Accademia di San Luca 50; challenge to Neoclassicism 58, 59–60, 64; childhood in Faenza 39; conflict with

Index Camuccini 54; crisis of faith 42; death 69; declining health in later years 69, 71; dismissal of Neoclassicism 38; Doria-Phampilj studio 69; early years in Rome 41; focus on teaching 51–3; in Hayez’s Death of Abradates 86; in Perugia 49–50, 57; influence of Renaissance artists 38, 57–8, 59, 64, 66; Palazzo Colonna studio 54, 55, 68; papal appointments 68; reluctance to paint 44–5, 58, 62–3, 66, 88; religiosity 172; statement of patriotism 71; vocational reform 55–6 Minardi, works: Adoration of the Shepherds (1837) 60–1; Apollo among the Shepherds (1807) 55; Copy of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment (1810–1826) 48, 56; Madonna of the Rosary (1840) 62–3; Mission of the Apostles (Propagation of Christianity, 1864) 65, 173; Plato’s Academy (1808) 55 ; Scene with Artists and Corpse (1821) 52; Self-Portrait in a Garret (1813) 35; Self-Portrait with Luigi Cochetti (1822) 55; Socrates and Alcibiades (1807) 40, 55, 56; St. Paul Sending a Letter to Philemon (1814) 47; St. Stanislaus Kostka with Saints Agnese, Cecilia and Barbara (1825) 58, 60; Supper at Emmaus (1807) 47 Minardi, writings: “Della qualità essenziale...” (1834) 57; Dissertazione sulla pittura del presepio (1836) 51, 60–1 Molteni, Giuseppe 79, 98 Mondo, Domenico 136 Morelli, Domenico 139, 144, 147–48 162, 165–66; Episode from the Sicilian Vespers (1859–1860) 146; and politics 141; protector of Gemito and Mancini 151 Morelli, Salvatore 158 Mount Vesuvius see Naples Murat, Joachim 28, 86, 87, 97, 136 Museo Chiaramonti see Vatican City Mylius, Federico Enrico 117 Naples, Florida, Sheldon and Irma Gilgore Collection 171 Naples 13, 27; 1830 constitution 30; 1848 uprisings 29, 139; after unification 160; Bourbon control see Bourbon, Neapolitan House of; camorra in 31; foundling hospitals 161; infant mortality 161–62; Mount Vesuvius 163; Napoleonic 28; Parthenopean Republic (1799) 148–49; post-unification 135, 155; Restoration government 27; Second War of Independence 30; “Southern Question” 27, 31 Naples, sites: Capodimonte, Museo e Boschi di 9; Palazzo Reale, Old Palace 136; Real Istituto del Disegno 134; Reale Accademia di Belle Arti 139, 156, 162, 164; Reale Istituto di Belle Arti 136, 140–41; Università degli Studi di Naples 159

189

Napoleon I see Bourbon, House of Napoleon III see Bourbon, House of Nazarenes 37, 44–7, 66, 79, 88 Netti, Francesco 6 Nicoli, P. E. 98 Nicolini, Giuseppe 107 Nocchi, Bernardino 56 Olson, Roberta J. M. 7, 174 opera lirica 26, 96 Orlov, Grigory Vladimirovich 136 Overbeck, Johann Friedrich 39, 45, 59, 85; Easter Morning (1818) 46; Italia e Germania (1828) 66; Triumph of Religion in the Arts (1831) 66–7 Ovidi, Angela 69 Ovidi, Ernesto 39, 41, 42, 69 Pacca, Bartolomeo 50, 51, 52 Palagi, Pelagio 79, 80, 85, 87–8, 90 Palazzo Ducale see Venice Palazzo Reale see Caserta Palazzo Reale see Milan Palazzo Reale see Turin Palazzo Torlonia see Rome Palermo, Sicilian Vespers uprising (1282) 97, 110 Palizzi, Filippo 139, 142, 147, 156, 163, 165 Patriarca, Silvana 10 Pellico, Silvio 25, 99, 101, 123 Peloso, Francesco 103–4, 105 Perugia: Accademia di Belle Arti di Perugia 52 Pforr, Franz 45 Philadelphia, PA: Philadelphia Museum of Art 2 Philhellenism 105 Piave, Francesco Maria 118, 121 Picella, Bernardino 54 Picout, Gilles 10 Piedimonte d’Alife 140 Pimentel, Eleonora 32 Pinacoteca di Brera see Milan Pinelli, Bartolomeo 85 Pinto, Sandra 3, 9 Pitloo, Anton Sminck 136–39, 163, 165 Pius IX, Pope 17, 19, 21, 64, 66, 68, 71 Pius VI, Pope 18 Pius VII, Pope 18, 29, 50, 88 Podesti, Francesco 66 Pompeii 37 Porro Schiaffinati, Alessandro 94 Porta, Carlo 24, 79 Pouqueville, François-Charles-Hugues-Laurent 106, 108 Prayer, Carlo 174 Purismo 39, 59–60, 64, 66–8, 69, 170 Quirinal Palace see Rome

190

Index

Radetzky, Joseph von 26, 98 Ranzoni, Daniele 163 Real Istituto del Disegno see Naples Reale Accademia di Belle Arti see Naples realismo integrale 26, 149–50 realismo 1, 139, 144, 148–50, 154, 159, 170, 174 regional/national dichotomy 12–13, 170–74 regionalism: in painting 5–6, 8, 14, 93–4, 165, 171–72; in politics 13, 27, 30 Riall, Lucy 10 Ricasoli, Bettino 17 Romanticism: in literature 23–4, 25, 79, 93–4, 107, 118; in painting 80, 82, 92, 113, 122, 124–25; Romanticismo Storico 70, 83, 124, 148 Rome 13, 17; 1848 uprisings 21; as a cosmopolitan center 37; as a cultural capital 85; as a spiritual capital 45–6, 51; as national capital 37, 160; Carbonari 53; Lateran Treaty 22; Napoleonic 18; Restoration 18; Roman Republic (1848) 21, 64; Second War of Independence 21 Rome, sites: Accademia del Regno Italico 44, 60, 81, 84–5, 87; Accademia de’ Pensieri, 43, 54, 172; Accademia di San Luca 1, 38, 39, 42, 44, 48, 50–1, 53, 54, 56–7, 59, 61, 64–5, 70, 85, 173; Accademia Francesce 37; Calcografia della Camera Apostolico 56; Casa Bartholdy 47, 88; Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna 110; Max Planck Institut–Bibliotheca Hertziana– Biblioteca Hertziana 10, 13, 47; Palazzo Torlonia 87–8; Palazzo Zuccari see Casa Bartholdy; Quirinal Palace 65, 66, 173; San Andrea Quirinale 59; Scuola di Nudo 54 Rossano, Frederico 150 Rossi, Angiolina 125 Rossi, Pellegrino 21, 64, 107 Rossini, Gioacchino 99, 102, 174 Rossini, Pietro 58 Rosso, Medardo 11 Rovani, Giuseppe 114 Ruffo di Motta e Bagnara, Vincenzo 111 Sabatelli, Luigi 38, 43, 94 Sacchi, Defendente 80, 81–2, 104, 109, 116 Saffi, Aurelio 21 Saja, Pietro 136 San Andrea Quirinale see Rome Sanfelice, Luisa 151–53 Sangiorgi, Michele 42, 56 Sanuto, Marino 122 Savoy, House of 17, 18, 135, 144, 171; Carlo Alberto 21, 26, 30, 112, 114; Carlo Felice 29; Vittorio Emanuele II 16, 27, 30, 68, 112, 114, 116, 123, 143, 144 Scaccia, Girolamo 54 Scapigliatura 125, 163, 170 Schadow, Wilehlm 45, 47

Schnetz, Jean-Victor 85, 86 Scuola di Nudo see Rome Scuola di Posillipo 137, 139 Scuola di Resina 150–51, 163, 172 Segantini, Giovanni 125 Selvatico, Pietro 13 Settembrini, Luigi 29 Silvagni, Giovanni 51, 56 Sisi, Carlo 3 Sismondi, Jean Charles Léonard 91, 92, 119, 123 Smargiassi, Gabriele 137, 139, 163 Società della Promotrice, Naples see exhibitions Solera, Temistocle 96 Sommariva, Giovanni Battista 81 Stendhal, Marie-Henri Beyle 90, 104 Stile Liberty 163, 170 Strachan, Sarah Louise 111 Susinno, Stefano 8, 37, 42 Taccioli, Luigi 119 Tambroni, Giuseppe 88 Tasso, Torquato: Gerusalemme Liberata 1581, 113, 141 Taverna, Giuseppe 79 Teerlink, Abramham 136 Tenca, Carla 99 Tenerani, Pietro 39, 54 Thorvaldsen, Bertel 50, 51, 54, 56 Tofanelli, Stefano 56 Tognoli, Giovanni 49 Toma, Diletta Perla 155 Toma, Ettore 155 Toma, Gioacchino 1, 9, 13, 159; after Celentano’s death 141–42, 144; arrest 140; at Caserta 140; capture at Pettoranello 141; death of his children 155, 160–61; death 165; and education reform 159, 174; Frame 132–33; as a Garibaldini 134, 141; comparison to Bamboccianti painters 144; move to Naples 140; and a Neapolitan outlook 139, 150–51; Neapolitan realism 170; at the Ospizio feminile di San Vincenzo Ferreri 156; at Piedimonte d’Alife 140; and social context 154, 172, 174; surviving children 165; as a teacher for the working class 155; theme of maternity 158; youth in Galatina 133, 139, 143 Toma, works: Children of the People (1862) 142–44; Erminia del Tasso (1859) 141; The Foundling Wheel of Sant’Annunziata (1877) 133–34, 139, 151, 155, 161, 162, 174; Funeral of the Orphan (1877) 160– 62; Kiss for Grandma (1888–1890) 163; Luisa Sanfelice Imprisoned (1874) 151–55, 157, 158, 159, 170, 174; Mass at Home (1877) 158–60, 174; Mother Teaching her Daughter to Read (1870) 156, 157–58; Rain of Ashes from Vesuvius (1880) 163–64; Rigorous Examination by the Sacred Office

Index (1865) 146–48, 156, 165, 172; Roma o Morte! (1863) 134–35, 139, 142, 144; Ropemakers of the Torre del Greco (1888) 166; School for Blind Lacemakers (1872) 156–57, 159, 174; Self-Portrait (1882) 165; Tattoo of the Camorrisiti (1890) 163; Two Mothers (1874) 158, 174; Young Woman (1875) 158 Tomassini, Filippo 51 Tosio, Paolo 105, 108 Tambroni, Giuseppe 44 Treaty of Villafranca (1859) 27, 117 Trivulzio, Giorgio Pallavicino 92 Turin: Palazzo Reale 112, 114 Turner, John Mallord William 137, 139 Università degli Studi di Naples see Naples Vatican City: Museo Chiaramonti 88 vedutismo 136–37 Veit, Philipp 45, 47, 88 Venice 80; annexation to Italy 117; Republic of 18; under Austrian control 117 Venice, sites: Accademia di Belle Arti di Venezia 84, 86; Galleria Farsetti 84; Museo Correr 9; Palazzo Ducale 90

191

Verdi, Giuseppe 13, 25, 26, 82, 96, 174; I Due Foscari (1844) 118, 120–21; I Lombardi alla Prima Crociata (1842) 26, 96, 104; I Vespri Siciliani (1855) 111, 146; Nabucco (1843) 26, 104 Verstappen, Martin 136 Vien, Joseph-Marie 38 Vieusseux, Gian Pietro 96 Villani, Filippo 120 Visconti d’Aragona, Vittoria 94, 97, 109 Visconti, Alfonso Maria 116 Visconti, Ermes 24, 80, 90–1; Idee elementari sulla poesia romantici (1818) see manifesti romantici Vittorio Emanuele II see Savoy, House of Vogel, Ludwig 45 Voogd, Hendrik 136 Ward, William Humber, Lord Dudley 63 Wicar, Jean-Baptiste 38, 51, 54, 55, 58, 59, 136 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim 37 Zauli, Giuseppe 40, 44, 50, 52, 56, 88 Zurlo, Giuseppe 86