The Getty Gets a Turner...Maybe

A few weeks ago, the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles bought Joseph Turner's Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino at a Sotheby's auction in London. With only a half dozen or so Turner paintings of this size and quality remaining in private hands, the auction offered the Getty a rare opportunity to add significantly to its relatively small holdings of works by the British master.

Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino, said by Sotheby's to be in excellent condition, is widely admired and was highly coveted by other bidders. It sold for about $45 million, well above the pre-auction estimate of $18 to $27 million. The seller was an heir of the 5th Earl of Rosebery, who bought the painting from its original owner in the late 19th century.

Normally when a painting transfers like this from private hands to a public institution, I am quite happy. But I have mixed feelings about this acquisition. Before the sale, Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino was not secluded on some British estate out of view of everyone but a privileged few; it had hung on loan in the National Galleries of Scotland for decades. Now most Scots will likely never again have the opportunity to see this painting in person.

On the bright side for me, however, my wife has family in Los Angeles, and we travel there at least a couple of times a year. If the transaction of Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino is completed in time, I plan to go see it at the Getty on my next visit to Southern California.

I should note that there is an outside chance that Turner's painting will never leave the United Kingdom. Under British law, the Getty's purchase can be blocked if someone in the U.K. can match the purchase price. The Getty has seen previous acquisitions foiled by this law.

However, it seems highly unlikely that any British museum has $45 million to spend on one painting. And in the current economy, raising that sum would be a daunting task. Government help is probably out of the question, especially considering the controversy that sprung up last year when the Scotish government spent more than 17 million pounds to keep Titian's Diana and Actaeon at the National Galleries.

Also, it's unlikely that a British citizen will step forward to buy. Anyone with the means and the interest in Turner's work probably bid in the auction and lost to the Getty, whose rich endowment seems to allow it to outbid anyone, no matter the price, whenever the museum is determined to acquire a work of art.

This enormous buying power adds to my ambivalence about the purchase of Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino. As much as I love great art, I wonder if any painting is worth $45 million. I've heard the argument that if a buyer is willing to pay that much, then the painting is worth it. But should anyone, or any institution, be willing to value a single work of art so dearly?

Such a high price for Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino seems out of whack with history. The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston owns one of Turner's greatest paintings, Slave Ship (Slavers Throwing Overboard the Dead and Dying, Typhoon Coming On). Thanks to the MFA's informative website, we know that the museum paid $65,000 for the painting in 1899. Adjusted for inflation, that price is equal to about $1.65 million.

So what has happened in the past 110 years to inflate Turner's value nearly thirtyfold? Is it simply a matter of supply and demand, with many fewer Turners now available for purchase while a global economy allows many more people to partake in the bidding?

Whatever the answer, this overheated art market has created a climate where an owner of a great work like Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino is unlikely to donate it to a museum. I like to think that if I were in the same position as the Earl of Rosebery's heir, I would want to share Turner's painting with the art-loving public and donate to a museum. But no matter what my wealth, it would be awfully hard to forgo $45 million.

So Turner's image of 19th-century Rome seems destined to leave Scotland for Los Angeles. I guess when I see Modern Rome - Campo Vaccino, I can keep any pangs of guilt at bay by reminding myself that the United Kingdom is awash in Turner paintings, including another view of Rome at the National Galleries of Scotland. I'll just tell myself that it's only fair that LA get one, too.

Surface Praise for Vuillard

Many years ago I saw an exhibition called "Intimate Interiors of Edouard Vuillard" at the Brooklyn Museum. This show brought together about 75 paintings of the artist's domestic life in turn-of-the-last-century France. I hadn't previously seen much of Vuillard's work--just an occasional glance at the handful of his paintings at the Museum of Modern Art or the Metropolitan Museum. So the Brooklyn exhibition offered a welcome introduction.

As I examined Vuillard's depictions of family and friends engaged in mundane activities such as sewing, sweeping, and reading, I remember thinking, "How tedious." Their proper, 19th-century clothes and their stuffy rooms, often decorated in browns and grays and other dull hues, seemed stifling. When I left the museum after an hour or two, I was glad to step out into the energetic air of modern-day New York City.

Yet I wanted to go back. Vuillard's playful paint dabs and brushstrokes, along with his clever design and color schemes, had translated his oppressive three-dimensional world into a fascinating two-dimensional realm. I expected that whenever I returned to the exhibition, these marvelous formal feats would distract me from Vuillard's tedious subjects.

I never did make it back to the show in Brooklyn. But in the years since, I have seen Vuillard's work in many other places and have come to regard him (as many others have) as a master of early modern art.

A few museums in the U.S have splendid examples of Vuillard's prowess. MOMA has Interior, Mother and Sister of the Artist, Dumbarton Oaks in Washington, DC, owns Child at a Window, Woman Sewing before a Garden Window is in the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and the Metropolitan owns Madame Vuillard Sewing by the Window, rue Truffaut.

Any one of these paintings could be the subject of this post, but for this edition of "Permanent Collections" I've decided to discuss the Saint Louis Art Museum's K.X. Roussel Reading (seen above) not only because it, too, illustrates well what I love about Vuillard, but also because I'm fond of the St. Louis Art Museum.

I have visited SLAM (some acronym) just once, in the late 1990s when I lived in Chicago. As with most museums at that time, I could not access SLAM's collection online. So before my visit, all I knew about the museum was what an art history professor had told me (the museum owns many works by Max Beckmann) and what I had seen in one of my Matisse books (SLAM owns his Bathers with a Turtle).

As a result, I spent a discovery-filled afternoon at the Saint Louis Art Museum, impressed by the extent of its collection, which includes--among many other great paintings--Hans Holbein's Mary, Lady Guildford, Georges Braque's The Blue Mandolin, The Transformed Dream by Giorgio De Chirico, and K.X. Roussel Reading.

Like most Vuillard paintings, K.X. Roussel Reading is relatively small (17 1/4 x 21 1/2 in.). Painted in 1904, it shows Roussel* crouched over a table engrossed in something. Although the title suggests that he's reading, he could be sketching--SLAM's website indicates that the work has also been called Kerr-Xavier Roussel Sketching and Roussel in his Studio.

Whatever his activity, Roussel's back seems to blend with the mantlepiece behind him. This merging of figure and background undercuts the illusion of realistic, three-dimensional space achieved elsewhere in the painting, and is a motif seen in other Vuillard paintings from the 1890s to the first few years of the 20th century (see, for example, Interior with Mother and Child at the Legion of Honor in San Francisco and Interior, Mother and Sister of the Artist at MOMA)

This spatial ambiguity, which Vuillard borrowed from the Impressionists, encourages viewers not only to look at a painting as an illusory opening to a world beyond the surface of the picture, but also to consider its physical presence as paint applied to canvas. Thus, the area of black at the center of the picture can be viewed both as Roussel's jacket and the fireplace behind him, and as an odd shape of black paint.

Ever since the Brooklyn exhibition, I have eagerly accepted Vuillard's literally formal invitation to approach his work in two ways, and I have thereby been able to overlook what I consider his stuffy subject matter. So when I look at K.X. Roussel Reading, I savor the way Vuillard modulates his grays: from a cool gray in the upper part of the canvas (the wall of Roussel's studio) to a warmer tone toward the bottom (in Roussel's floor).

I also appreciate the contrast between depth, most evident in the space around the crisscrossed legs of Roussel's table, and the areas of flatness scattered throughout the painting. I'm particularly impressed with Vuillard's choice to juxtapose that tangibly three-dimensional area with the indecipherable form directly left of the table. I can only read that enigmatic shape as a small assemblage of two-dimensional abstract forms. I also applaud the reddish-brown hue that Vuillard sprinkles in among those abstract forms and on the mantle shelf. They bring additional warmth and vitality to the painting.

I could discuss so much more about this painting--for example, more about Vuillard's deft distribution of values and hues; or about the proliferation of straight lines and right angles vs. the scarcity of curves; or about the centrality of the black shape made by Roussel's back and fireplace, how it acts like a target that immediately attracts the viewer's eyes. If I continue, this post will be much longer, and perhaps tedious itself.

So I will stop here with my praise. Perhaps I will revisit K.X. Roussel Reading and Vuillard with another post after my next visit to St. Louis (whenever that might be). Then I'll be able to write with memories of a personal encounter with the work fresh in my mind.





*Ker Xavier Roussel was Vuillard's friend and a fellow painter. Although his work has never achieved the same recognition as Vuillard's, museums such as the Art Institute of Chicago and the Hermitage Museum in Russia own some of his paintings.

Art School à la Chardin

"[We] crouched over our portfolios a long time..."

For this edition of "Permanent Collections," let's contemplate art school circa 1738, brought to us by Jean Siméon Chardin and the Kimbell Museum of Art in Fort Worth, Texas.

Opened to the public in 1972, the Kimbell's small yet impressive collection includes paintings by Fra Angelico, Giovanni Bellini, Michelangelo, Titian, Caravaggio, Rembrandt, Velazquez, Goya, Corot, Courbet, Manet, Monet, Cezanne, and Matisse. All these works by master artists are housed in a building by Louis Kahn that is considered a masterpiece of modern architecture.

One of my favorite works at the Kimbell is the painting above, Young Student Drawing. It is typical of Chardin's pictures of daily life in 18th-century France, which often depict a single person engaged in an activity, usually domestic chores or leisure-time pursuits.

What sets Young Student Drawing apart from Chardin's other genre paintings is not only its academic setting, but also its mystery. Many of the details in this little painting (it's only 8-1/4 x 6-3/4 inches) seem intended to provoke conjecture. First of all, we can't see the student's face. How old is he, I wonder. I know he's young; he's a student after all. But how young? A pre-teen? A young teen?

I also wonder about his emotional state as he draws. If I could see his expression, would it show strain? Would it show confidence? Or would it merely show concentration and not betray the difficulty of his task? If I could see his grip on the chalk holder he uses, would it suggest tentativeness?

It is also unclear what the student is drawing. I guess he is copying the figure study on the wall in front of him, but it's hard to tell for sure. And what about the works inside the portfolio on the student's lap? If I could peruse these drawings, what would I see?

The blank canvas at the right of the picture also adds to the mysterious air. I assume that once the student has mastered rendering with chalk--a task that could take years to accomplish--he will graduate to canvas and take on his subject in oil. But we have no idea how well he will do with a brush and paint, just as we have no idea if the student will succeed as a professional artist. Like the blank canvas, his future is unknown.

Chardin himself had once been a young artist with an uncertain future, struggling to develop his craft. In conversations with Denis Diderot, Chardin described the many-years-long, rigorous education he endured. "The chalk holder is placed in our hands at the age of seven or eight years," he said. "After having crouched over our portfolios for a long time, we're placed in front of....masterpieces by Greek artists." Chardin and his fellow students were then told to draw the ancient works. "[Y]ou've never seen such tears as those shed over the Satyr, the Gladiator, the Medici Venus, and the Antinous," he recalled.*

Young Student Drawing clearly shows that the young Chardin did not struggle in vain. Indeed, the technical skill he displays in the painting is what makes the work truly noteworthy.

I feel a bit uneasy making such a definitive proclamation--I've never seen Young Student Drawing in person. However, the Kimbell's website provides a copy of the painting that seems large enough and sharp enough for us to appreciate Chardin's skills.

Look at the carefully built-up impasto texture that suggests a slow, deliberative process. A process that allows Chardin to give his painting a richly subtle composition of colors. He has distributed reds along with vibrant blues and browns in a harmonious way that makes Young Student Drawing a treat to look at, even online.

For example, consider the blank canvas to the right of the student. Chardin has added dabs of blue among its clay-like gray hue. No real, untouched canvas would be this mix of colors. However, the blue gives Chardin's blank canvas a quiet vibrancy that, coupled with the tactility of the impasto, makes it seem more real than if the canvas were merely a uniform gray.

Also take a look at the bit of sienna-brown shirt peeking out at the left of the student's jacket. It stands out in contrast to the charcoal coat and the relatively dull, red-brown figure study on the wall. Some more of this brown peeks through the slit in the coat's bottom and through a hole that punctuates the back of the coat.

Together these three areas of brown make up the eye-catching points of a triangle, a shape which is echoed in the student's tricorn hat, in the three-sided form defined by the student's head and flared coat, in the triangular part of the stretcher frame behind the blank canvas, and elsewhere in the painting. This proliferation of triangles produces a complexly balanced composition that reinforces the harmonious color of Young Student Drawing.

I'm always impressed by a small painting that provokes the kind of consideration I have given Young Student Drawing. Chardin's remarkable little painting hangs in the Kimbell Art Museum amid a collection that includes works by Francois Boucher and other great contemporaries of Chardin. I wonder if those much larger paintings could also hold my attention so strongly.



*From "The Salon of 1765," as translated by John Goodman in Diderot on Art, Volume 1, p.4, Yale University Press, New Haven, 1995.

First a Car, Then a Bike, Now Some Boats

This is the kind of painting that I would have overlooked when I was much younger. Too gray and too boring, I would have thought. Its subtleties would have been lost on me.

But not any more; today it's one of my favorite paintings at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and so it is the subject of this edition of my series, "Permanent Collections."

Painted around 1679, Rough Sea depicts boats struggling to sail violent waters off the coast of Amsterdam. It is one of a handful of seascapes painted by Jacob Isaacksz. van Ruisdael, who is regarded as one of the greatest Dutch landscape painters of the 17th century. (Take a look at the MFA's View of Alkmaar, and you'll see why Ruisdael's landscapes are so esteemed.)

I remember first seeing Rough Sea nearly twenty years ago, shortly after I had returned to Massachusetts after living elsewhere for a long time. I think I was initially struck by the subject. I saw no other painting in the MFA's Dutch gallery that depicted the ocean, which seemed odd, considering the importance of the sea to life in the Netherlands. As the MFA's website states, "The sea was an integral part of Dutch life and landscape; a powerful navy and ships that traded as far as Asia and the Americas made this small nation one of the wealthiest in Europe."

After considering the scant presence of the sea in the room, I looked closely at the painting's choppy waves, tilting boats, and flapping flags. Ruisdael depicts these elements with such compelling precision, that I could almost feel the strong wind that causes such tumult. I imagined myself on one of the boats cold, miserable, and, above all, afraid.
Nearly two decades later, I still often picture myself in the same predicament when I look at Rough Sea. What a horrible existence, I think. Once you reach the safety of shore, what do you have to look forward to? Another day at sea, another day risking your life.
As if to underscore a seaman's peril, Ruisdael includes weather-beaten logs peeking out of the water at the bottom left of the painting. Sunlight has broken through the clouds there to bathe the logs in a glow that makes that area of the painting almost as bright as the white sail
on the front-most boat. I'm not sure what these logs are--perhaps the remnants of a pier? Whatever their purpose, they seem old and broken, and by making a formal connection between the logs and the white sail, Ruisdael reminds us of the shipwreck the boats will become if they don't weather this storm.

Nonetheless, the situation is not hopeless in Rough Sea. A substantial amount of blue peeks through the clouds, and clear skies seem to be just out of view at the left edge of the canvas. The rightward direction of the gale suggests that the clouds and storm will blow away, and peace will return.

I love that blue sky. It's a hue that, if seen alone on an otherwise blank canvas, would seem dull. But here among Ruisdael's mostly gray clouds, it has a quiet vibrancy, and, most importantly, it looks real. If Ruisdael had chosen a more intense, unnatural blue, the sky would feel artificial, and the painting's optimism less genuine.

Other Ruisdael seascapes are less hopeful. About forty miles to the west of Boston, his View of the IJ on a Stormy Day hangs in the Worcester Art Museum. In this painting, the boats teeter severely, on the verge of capsizing. And the wind seems more likely to blow in a deadly storm than to bring the calm that seems to be moments away in Rough Sea. I imagine if I were on one of the boats in the Worcester Museum's painting, I would huddle in a corner, petrified with fear and useless to everyone else aboard.

In Rough Sea and View of the IJ on a Stormy Day, Ruisdael created two palpably intense and riveting depictions of humans' vulnerability to the capricious whims of nature. I feel fortunate that both these great works found their way to Massachusetts collections.

Pin Matisse on Avery

"Some critics like to pin Matisse on me....But I don't think he has influenced my work." *

It's hard to believe that Milton Avery actually made that statement.

Just take a look at some of his paintings, like Tree Fantasy (Whitney Musuem of American Art, New York), March on the Balcony (Phillips Collection, Washington, DC) and Seated Blonde (Walker Art Center, Minneapolis). Avery's brushwork, sophisticated use of color, and his masterful reduction of forms to simple, playful, sketch-like approximations all show a fluent understanding of Matisse's style as well as a skillful appropriation of it. In addition, March on the Balcony is a picture of a woman seated by a window overlooking the sea--a favorite subject of Matisse once he moved to Nice. And where did Avery paint March on the Balcony? Also in the South of France, in St. Tropez.

A lot of space could be spent considering the reasons for and implications of Avery's implausible denial of Matisse's influence. But I don't want to spend my time--or yours--speculating. Instead I'll just be glad that he learned so much from the French master that he created paintings like the one above, Bicycle Rider by the Loire, the next work in my series "Permanent Collections."

As the painting's title indicates, Avery did not restrict himself to the Riviera when in France. Besides a sojourn into the heart of the country, which produced Bicycle Rider by the Loire, Avery traveled to Paris and made at least one picture along the Seine. That painting, The Seine (Whitney Museum) is one of my favorite Avery landscapes. But I've decided to focus on Bicycle Rider by the Loire, simply because it makes me chuckle and because of the institution that owns it, the Flint Institute of Arts.

That's right Flint, Michigan--mostly known for rusting factories, economic woes, and its poisonous water--has an art museum. And Bicycle Rider by the Loire, is a representative example of the impressive quality of the museum's collection of American paintings. If you take look at its website, you'll find that the FIA also owns fine works by Mary Cassatt, Lee Krasner, Jacob Lawrence, and John Singer Sargent. I got a kick out of discovering that the museum owns a painting by Don Eddy, a former teacher of mine.

The FIA also has a fairly extensive group of 19th and early 20th century French paintings, with works by Courbet, Corot, Sisley, Boudin, Renoir, Bonnard and Vuillard. In 2006 the museum a small Matisse painting from 1921.

Bicycle Rider by the Loire was donated to the FIA in 1990, along with paintings by Josef Albers and Willem De Kooning, and a small sculpture by Alexander Calder. All four works were bequeathed to the museum by Mary Mallery Davis. People like Mary Mallery Davis intrigue me. You find their names in museums across the country. The information cards next to paintings tell us that they were generous and fortunate enough to own great works of art. But other than that, who were they?

From a web search, I have discovered that Mary Mallery Davis was a painter, but I haven't learned much more. I'd love to know how she got her hands on Bicycle Rider by the Loire. Maybe she met Avery at one of the various artists' colonies where he spent his summers in the 1950s. Or maybe she met him through other creative circles. Or maybe she simply saw the painting in a gallery and bought it. Who knows?

However Mallery Davis acquired Bicycle Rider by the Loire, the people of Flint are fortunate that she did. I love the enigmatic silliness of the robed figure on two wheels. Is he a monk? Or could the figure be a woman in a long dress? The figure's shrunken head makes the rest of the body seem large in contrast. How does a person of such apparent girth maintain balance? And how does a bike with its rear hub so far off center manage to function properly?

These silly conundrums are the by-products of Avery's thoughtful formal decisions. The small head draws the viewer's attention to the biker's body, an organic shape that stands out against the geometric forms that indicate the river and its bank. When I look at the body, I immediately notice the curved edge of its back crossing the horizontal edge of the far side of the river. This intersection is the most dynamic part of the painting, and it seems to provide the biker with the energy necessary to propel him across the canvas.

The off-center rear hub also activates the picture. If Avery had placed it at the middle of its wheel, the rear hub--like its forward counterpart--would rest on the abutting edges of the river and bank. The bicycle would then seem locked in place, thereby draining the painting of its energy. A simple yet well thought-out decision that makes all the difference. Without it, Bicycle Rider by the Loire would bore, and the Flint Institute of Arts would be a little less remarkable.



*James R. Mellow, "Sun, Surf and Subversion," Art News 81:10 (12/82) p. 80; quoted by Robert Hobbs in Milton Avery: The Late Paintings, pg. 49.

Let's Start with Matisse

This post is the first in a series I call "Permanent Collections." "Permanent Collections" is the result of countless hours spent traveling the country looking at paintings from institutions of all kinds: from large, encyclopedic collections built on the donations of many collectors--such as the Metropolitan Museum in New York and the Cleveland Museum of Art; to well-known eponymous legacies, like the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and the Phillips Collection; to small, obscure museums with one or two gems in otherwise modest collections. Future posts will feature other highlights from my travels to museums, both in the real world and online.

I begin with a Henri Matisse painting owned by The Cleveland Museum of Art.

Home to signature works by Caravaggio, El Greco, Velazquez, Turner, Monet, Cezanne, Picasso, Braque, Pollock, and Rauschenberg, the Cleveland Museum houses one of the greatest collections of paintings in the United States. Its most famous Matisse work, Interior with an Etruscan Vase is a prime example of the artist's late style. However, I've decided to concentrate this inaugural post on one of the museum's lesser-known Matisse paintings, The Windshield, on the Road to Villacoublay (seen above), because of its appropriateness to this blog's theme.

The Windshield's evocation of a road trip thus makes it a logical choice for this first post. Yet I've never gone to the Cleveland Museum by car. In fact, I have never set foot in the museum. I have "traveled" there and to many other American art museums in the same manner that you have reached this page. The internet has allowed me and other artists and art lovers the opportunity to seek out treasures in museums across the country (and the world) without ever leaving home. As a result, I have discovered a myriad of intriguing paintings, many of which I might never have the opportunity to see in person. The Windshield is one of my favorites.

Painted on a summer day in 1917, The Windshield gives a sketch-like depiction of the road from Paris to an airport near the city. According to the Cleveland Museum's website, "while being chauffeured by his son Pierre," Matisse suddenly "decided to paint the road from inside the car, which proved challenging, as zooming traffic forced the artist to keep the windows shut and constantly rocked the old Renault back and forth."

This burst of creativity doesn't surprise me. For more than a dozen years, Matisse had sporadically painted pictures of windows, most notably The Open Window, Collioure from 1905 (National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC). And when he moved from Paris to Nice later in 1917, windows would take on a bigger role, figuring prominently in his paintings into the early 1920s.

Placing windows in his works allowed Matisse to overtly address the paradox inherent in figurative painting: its role as an illusory opening to a world beyond the surface of the picture versus its physical presence as paint applied on canvas. In The Open Window, Collioure, Matisse deftly played with this contradiction, allowing the viewer to at once imagine himself moving through the window to the boats and water beyond, while at the same time being keenly aware of the brushstrokes and the tactile qualities of the paint that creates the illusion.

In The Windshield, Matisse has created a more dynamic sensation of movement. The painting's subject alone suggests fast, forward motion, and Matisse accelerates this feeling with an old formal trick: two lines converging at the horizon to create great depth in the picture. We can imagine the car quickly arriving at the vanishing point way off in the distance.

Moreover, because the painting includes parts of the car's two side windows, the viewer can almost feel himself physically inside the car, hurtling down the road. Indeed, the painting makes it clear that the viewer is riding in Matisse's seat: we can see an early stage of The Windshield peeking up from the bottom edge of the image, as if resting in our lap.

For all this dynamism, however, The Windshield also seems still; Matisse depicts the car without a driver, so, despite sensing the contrary, we have to assume the car is parked. This paradox alludes to the equivocal nature of painting that Matisse had directly addressed in The Open Window, Collioure. In addition, the sketchy quality of The Windshield--its obvious brushstrokes, irregular lines, and its lack of crisp detail -- undercuts the picture's illusion of three-dimensional space. Like the tactility of the earlier work, some of The Windshield's formal properties remind us that what we're really looking at is an assemblage of paint on canvas.

And in some respects, this assemblage does not create as compelling an image as The Open Window, Collioure. The Windshield's palette is much less vibrant, and its interplay of shapes is not as intriguing. Nonetheless, if I could own either one, I'd pick The Windshield. First of all, it's one of the few paintings in which Matisse includes details that tie the painting to a specific era. The two-paned windshield, the wheel-hugging fenders, and the bulb-horn next to the steering wheel all indicate that we're looking at an early-twentieth-century car. And secondly, I can't think of any artist among Matisse's contemporaries who ever depicted the view from inside an automobile. The Windshield, on the Road to Villacoublay may not be one of Matisse's best paintings, but it is one of his most unusual.