A Tale of Two van Dycks

The most celebrated painting in the collection of the Huntington Library is, of course, Thomas Gainsborough's The Blue Boy. The Huntingtons collected many other great works by Gainsborough, as well as significant paintings by Joshua Reynolds, J. M. W. Turner, and John Constable. However, the work that always holds my attention longest and makes me smile at its deft brushwork, lush color, and sheer beauty is Anthony van Dyck's Anne Killigrew, Mrs. Kirke, and so it and a companion piece– rather than Gainsborough's famous work–are the subjects of this installment of "Permanent Collections," my series about paintings in American museums.

While perusing the Huntington's website to plan my most recent visit, I came across an image of van Dyck's portrait, and immediately my interest in Anne Killigrew...uh...pardon the pun, grew. "Isn't that the same pose of the woman in the van Dyck portrait at the MFA?" I asked myself. Off I went to the website of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and, sure enough there I saw Isabella, Lady De La Warr standing and gesturing just like Anne Gilligrew. Moreover, I discovered that the MFA's painting has the same props and background as the Huntington's. Heck, the skirt of the dress has the same folds.

Although I visit the MFA regularly, I had never previously made the connection between van Dyck's two portraits because, in part,  Isabella, Lady De La Warr, languished in storage for many years. And while I can comment on the quality of van Dyck's handling of paint and use of color in the Huntington's painting, there's not a lot I can say about the MFA's van Dyck. It's hung too high for viewers to get a good look at the painting and fully appreciate it. 

Looking at the MFA's van Dyck or any other painting in the William I. Koch Gallery is so frustrating. When the gallery was closed for renovation a few years ago, I had hoped that it's salon-style hanging scheme would be abandoned once it reopened and that all the paintings on display would be available for close-up inspection. No such luck. The salon-style scheme remains, with many paintings too high up on the walls to be fully appreciated. For example, Rubens' monumental painting, Head of Cyrus Brought to Queen Tomyris would probably be a fabulous visual treat to view at eye level, but it remains in the same upper corner where it has hung for at least twenty years. Moreover, those paintings that hang at a reasonable height are protected by a knee-high stanchion that keeps viewers at more than arm's length and thus unable to look carefully at surface details. And the lighting in the gallery is far from ideal.

Thankfully, the Koch Gallery's salon style has not been adopted in the nearby art of the Netherlands galleries. For as long as I have been visiting the museum, this space has featured a single row of paintings. And the van Dyck normally on view in one of these rooms, Peeter Symons, offers an opportunity to fully engage with one of the painter's works, as well as some exemplary Rembrandt portraits among others. Here's hoping the MFA one day sees fit to provide Peteer Symons with the pleasure of Lady De La Warr's company in this space.

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.