Framing It

The entrance of the building, displaying a replica of a Bristol 'Boxkite' aeroplane

 Walking under the wings of a Bristol Biplane replica and encountering two Chinese dragons, I am introduced to the Bristol Museum and Art Gallery. Its rooms are filled with eclectic collections ranging from Assyrian artefacts to wetland wildlife. On my first trip, however, my destination is the Old Masters gallery at the back of the building.

The Old Masters 

Our assignment as part of the ‘Approaching the Object’ module was to focus on two particular artworks in the collection, but focus on an unusual characteristic of them: their frames. One was The Madonna Adoring the Infant Christ by a Follower of Botticelli (about 1505), the other the Withypool Triptych by Antonio da Solario (1514). Although frames are of course a hugely important element in the display of  art, it is not something I normally consider for a large amount of time. If one is particularly interesting or eye-catching, I will normally look at it, but I have never had to answer particular questions about them. Interestingly, when I tried to find photos of these paintings online, in most photos, their frames are not included, showing how they never seem to be as important.

 For this assignment, we were told to consider whether the frames were originally made for the paintings they now display or whether they were later additions. We were asked whether the frames communicate anything about where the artworks originally resided. It made me really attempt to dissect the relationship between frame and painting.

he Madonna Adoring the Infant Christ by a Follower of Botticelli (about 1505)

I could see that the Madonna Adoring frame must have been made for the painting. They were perhaps joined together, made from the same panel. The frame also seems to be a reflection of the Madonna herself. The arch of the frame seems to mimic the bend of Mary’s body. The colours of the frame are also complimentary to Mary, with navy and dark reds. Most convincing of all is that the small star on Mary’s breast is painted over and over again around the frame. Therefore, this frame reflects and compliments the key figure here. It is interesting that it really draws attention to Mary here, rather than the Christ child. As well as this, the frame draws the two away from their harsh surroundings. The frame shows them to be divine. The colours and stars could be used for royalty. This shows that, despite their rustic surroundings and the harsh grey brick behind Mary, they are two very important and divine characters.

Withypool Triptych by Antonio da Solario (1514)

Comparatively, the triptych was less clear. I felt the wood used in the panels looked in far too good a condition, and must have been a later addition. But were they replicating the original frame used? I also felt it was interestingly plain. Most triptychs from this period are found in Catholic Churches and so often are highly decorated, golden affairs. Yet this was made of plain painted wood. Rather than overshadowing the painting, or even really enhancing it –as the other frame did- this one really lets the painting speak for itself.

British and European Art (The Age of Enlightenment and the Birth of Romanticism)

In general, I really enjoyed my first experience of the museum. It gives the impression of being half exhibition space, half curiosity-cabinet, filled with various and often very disparate items of interest. Wandering around taking it all in, I found my favourite room dedicated to the works of the Romantics. The whole room evokes fantastical, beautiful, dream-like thoughts. The pieces perfectly compliment each other. For instance, this sleeping sculpture (1859) seems to have rolled out of Burne-Jones’ The Garden Court (1890).

Young Girl Sleeping (1859) 

 I also paid more attention to the frames in this room than I would have normally. A thought-provoking use of the frame is seen here in Hughes’ The Guarded Bower (1864). The words inscribed on the gilt frame ‘over my head his arm he flung, against the world’ are taken from Robert Browning’s poem ‘Count Gismond’ (1845). 

Arthur Hughes, The Guarded Bower (1864).

Interestingly, the man in this painting holds a sword up ‘against the world’ which is a far more aggressive take on this action than the poem. The woman looks out a the viewer, almost uninterested in the dominating, possessive stance of the man next to her. The painting alone is quite unnerving, and perhaps does not suggest a happy relationship. But the words above completely change the tone.

Read more about a particularly engaging sculpture here…

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Beyond Caravaggio

Back in London for the exhibition...

Emerging from the darkness, framed by the arch of swirling red cloth, two men’s faces are pressed closely together. One is in profile, his brow furrowed with the strain of his task. The other’s face is iconic, not only because of his famous beard and long hair, but because of his deep sorrow. Despite the fact that they are surrounded by movement and jostling, grabbed at from both sides, this moment is one of perfect stillness. Here, is the pivotal moment where Judas kisses Jesus, thereby betraying him and condemning him to death. This act is framed, not by objects, but by a crowd of men, suits of armour and outstretched arms. This is a composition exemplary of the mastery of the artist. He has painted himself in the scene, bearing witness to this biblical betrayal. He is of course Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. 

Caravaggio, The Taking of Christ, (1602)

Caravaggio is one of the most engaging and easily recognisable artists. His art is at once beautiful, shocking, dark, real, and timeless. He is one of my favourite artists, but that isn’t a very surprising statement. So many people are fans because his art is easy to love: its stories, subjects and characters are easy to understand and easy to feel. I was just down in London for one weekend, so of course, I had to go to The National Gallery to see Caravaggio’s work and learn about his influence in ‘Beyond Caravaggio.’

Although The Taking of Christ (1602) is shown here, there are in fact very few paintings by Caravaggio in the whole exhibition. It is more about celebrating him through those he influenced rather than just through his paintings alone. In each of the seven rooms, there is perhaps one or two of Caravaggio’s pieces. The rest are by followers who were influenced by him in subject matter or painterly technique.

Cecco del Caravaggio, A Muscisian, (1589)
Here a student of Caravaggio was clearly influenced by his use of chiaroscuro, humorous subject matter and emotive facial expressions. 

An interesting example is in the room dedicated to paintings where candlelight is explored. Caravaggio is famous for his use of chiaroscuro. Although he did not invent it, he may as well have, because no one manipulated it as he did. The high contrasts between light and dark allow his figures to dramatically emerge from the canvas. His utility of shafts of light lend new and emotive meanings to paintings that otherwise could be quite simple. He did not, however, paint candles. This room shows how his advances into manipulation of light and dark allowed others to explore new methods and themes. I was interested in the way that, as artists became more confident with chiaroscuro, they no longer had to even show the flame of their candles but rather alluded to it. In Willem Van Der Vliet’s A Philosopher and his Pupils (1626), the wick is completely hidden by the student’s hand which is backlit. The gold and then red outline of his fingers beautifully illustrates flesh and bone being illuminated by a close flame. Lighting up the scene, so clearly from this one small light source, is an extraordinary feat which shows the skills of Van Der Vliet, but it is clear by this point in the exhibition that this painting would not exist if not for Caravaggio.

Willem Van Der Vliet, A Philosopher and his Pupils, (1626)

The parts of a painting I always think I look at the first are the faces. This is not unusual, and is quite natural for humans to do. However, Caravaggio and his followers exploit this far more than any other group of artists. They demand for the faces to be looked at, imploring the audience to be part of the painting, to feel what this figure is feeling. Caravaggio was not just revolutionary in his use of chiaroscuro but also in the realism he lent to his subjects. In fact this often landed him in controversy. When painting biblical figures, he did not shy away from painting the dirt under their fingernails, blackened skin on the souls of their feet, the swollen belly of the dying Virgin Mary. This makes them seem like people, in a way that was simultaneously ground-breaking for the art world and almost blasphemous for the Christian one.

Caravaggio, John in the Wilderness, (1598)
Here, the Saint's dirty foot is prominent at eye-level. It adds incredible yet controversial realism to the piece. 

So too, his followers pursued intense realism, particularly for biblical figures. One of the most arresting paintings was Giovanni Antonio Galli’s Christ displaying his Wounds (1625-35). The tilt of the face is so real, so contemporary. It entices you into the painting with the angle of the chin and the imploring eyes. Here, we are forced into the role of doubting Saint Thomas who needed proof to believe Christ had risen. There is no background, just a slight gradation in colour behind Christ’s head, hinting at a divine glow. This is an intimate moment where we face Christ and he invites us to touch his wound. Perhaps seen on a screen, it is just a good painting, but face-to-face it is truly powerful. As a Big Caravaggio Fan I hate to say it, but this has to be even better than his take on the subject.

Giovanni Antonio Galli, Christ displaying his Wounds, (1625-35).

Caravaggio, The Incredulity of Saint Thomas (1601) 

One of my only grievances with this fantastic exhibition was the crowd control. Tickets are needed for entry, but I was surprised with how many were sold for one period of time. It was so crowded in there I only caught glimpses of Caravaggio’s most famous pieces such as the Supper at Emmaus. But it did create an interesting almost pilgrimage-like feel which reminded me of my recent reading into the religious feelings we have when confronted with famous art.

I struggled to get a view of the Supper at Emmaus (1601) due to the crowds

Many of Caravaggio’s fans followed his work so closely that for centuries many were thought to be by Caravaggio himself. This is an interesting slice of art history by itself, showing the evolution of our understandings of paintings as well as our use of scientific data. I wonder if any of the paintings currently thought to be a Caravaggio original will emerge otherwise. I like to think not. Mainly because, with DNA analysis, I’m sure it is now easier than ever to decipher the artist. But also because, since spending an afternoon comparing Caravaggio and his followers, there still seems to be many elements to his paintings no one could quite mimic.

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Emotional Archaeology at Arnolfini

Daphne Wright, Stallion, 2009. Marble dust, resin

Coming face-to-face with a large, white, dead stallion it is almost comical to see his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. It is only when you take in the rest of the object- the straining muscles, the contorted body, the writhing legs- that a feeling of remorse and horror settles on you. Why is this animal lying here? What has been done to him? What have we done to him? The exhibition of Daphne Wright’s work, is of course, not supposed to be comical but rather makes you think about your place in society and your interactions with others.

This was my first visit to the Arnolfini gallery in Bristol. Located in a waterfront warehouse, Arnolfini exhibits ‘innovative, experimental work in the visual arts.’ In the 1970s, it was important in attracting visitors to the then-neglected harbourside, thereby playing a key role in Bristol cultural history. Entering from the quayside, I had first encountered the Stephen Joyce statue of John Cabot (1985). Cabot’s voyage to North America left from Bristol in 1497. This theme of Bristol heritage continued in the gallery. Arnolfini aims to present artists and issues relevant to the Bristol public. Although originally from Ireland, Wright has been based in Bristol for nearly twenty years.

Arnolfini, Bristol 

The stallion’s tale seems to be a tortured one. He is a magnificent, strong beast, brought to the ground, but not without a fight. His body doesn’t lie flat on the floor, but appears to have just fallen. His head doesn’t rest back, his neck is still straining to keep him upright. This is a moment frozen in time.

Much of Wright’s works seem to revolve around this idea of freezing time. I found one of the most shocking parts of the exhibition to be the clay sculptures of Wright’s own children. She described the horse’s body as a ‘death mask,’ so what does that make these sculpted portraits of her children? One child sits at the family table and one sits cross-legged on top of it. This is a moment of their young lives captured. Wright said of this “you’re travelling in both directions and in each direction something is lost. By the time you cast an ear, the rest of the body has grown.” It struck me as a strange, poignant way to view one’s children: their youth constantly diminishing. The draining of life is conveyed with small hints of colour such as light touches of pink on the mouths of the boys.

Daphne Wright, Kitchen Table, 2014. Unfired clay

Some areas of the exhibition were less emotive. Domestic Shrubbery (1994) consists of a room lined with intricate plaster flowers. Here and there are tiny shrunken hearts. Although it was powerful, I was not immediately struck as I had been by her Stallion (2009) or Kitchen Table (2014). However, it did continue with the theme of the delicacy of life and nature. The hearts seem so small and shrivelled, just as fragile as the plaster petals, just as easily broken.

Daphne Wright, Domestic Shrubbery, 1994. Plaster. 

There were many more complex works here too, including videos of her sons telling jokes to no one, and an elderly woman discussing the experience of breastfeeding. The CEO of Arnolfini, Kate Brindley, described the issues here as relating to ‘class, aspiration, faith, parenthood, aging and care.’

Although I didn’t feel some of these issues were conveyed as well as others, I definitely experienced the theme of age, life, and care. Mainly because of the utilising of the most powerful tool here: colour, or rather the lack of it. Almost monochromatic, a feeling of drained life was a constant.

How do we look after others? How do we relate to animals, to children, to the elderly? How fleeting is youth?

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Art Museum: A Temple?

Pilgrimage to the Mona Lisa?
(Photo credit: https://richardtulloch.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/) 

“Art lifted up her head and was seated on her throne, and said, All eyes shall seem me, and all knees shall bow to me… There she had gathered together all her pomp, there was her shrine, and there her votaries came and worshipped as in a temple.” –William Hazlitt after visiting the Louvre in 1816.

I have recently read an article by Carol Duncan, ‘The Art Museum as Ritual’ taken from her 1995 book Civilising Rituals. In it she discusses the similarities between a visit to an art gallery and a visit to a religious temple. Starting the chapter, I wasn’t convinced. After all, art galleries are secular buildings with paintings hung up by various employees. There isn’t a bible, a religious figure to worship or any commandments to keep. And yet, hearing her arguments and comparisons, I have to say: I’m sold.

Reading this over the Jewish festival of Rosh Hashanah, I’ve recently spent a lot of time in Synagogue, so it seems strange, almost offensive in some ways, to compare this place of worship with art galleries. Temples such as Churches, Mosques and Synagogues have centuries of history, community, and spirituality behind them. For many people, the teachings inside are the very centre of their lives. Visiting art galleries could surely just be reduced to a hobby or a cultured privilege. 

The Munich Glyptothek- the layout invites inner contemplation

It occurs to me whilst reading these articles that I do take art galleries and museums for granted. For many of us –particularly those who live a few stops on the Northern line from the world famous museums of London- visiting museums with parents and grandparents was a right of passage. I definitely can not remember my first visit to a gallery or art museum. We see galleries and museums in postcards and as dull backdrops in tv shows and films. I think it is because of this desensitisation that we would now find it hard to think of these visits as religious or spiritual. And yet, there was of course a time when art was confined to private collections. In the late 18^th century, art museums began to be open to the public and writers of the time were spellbound by the experience. 

The German writer, Goethe, first visited the Dresden Gallery in 1768 and wrote:

“The profound silence that reigned, created a solemn and unique impression, akin to the emotion experienced upon entering a House of God.”

Dresden Gallery (Photo Credit: www.best-museums.com) 

It is clear therefore, that there was a time when entering an art gallery was a spiritual experience. Despite my love of art, I don’t think I’ve ever thought of the enjoyment as anything more than the painting itself. But Duncan argues the case that it is the building too, the very layout of the architecture and the composition of the exhibitions, that creates a narrative throughout the museum. Until recent more modern designs, most art museums were based on ancient temples. One just has to look at the structure of the Munich Glypothek and the National Gallery of New South Wales. Huge columns create a grand entrance, instantly drawing visitors away from the everyday and into a more divine experience. Impressive entrance halls and expansive staircases always create a long introduction to the building before any artworks are even seen. It is how people would have approached the gods of their ancient temples. Thus, it was not simply the paintings that would have spoken to visitors in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, but also the very layout of the museum, making them seem smaller and more humbled.

The Munich Glyptothek- Architecture clearly based on Ancient temples

I think this is true even today. Everyone enters art galleries with the same expectation of seeing art and feeling moved or educated by it. Much in the case of a religious ceremony, there is the expectation of enlightenment and a spiritual uplift. There is a certain decorum as well which is similar to temples. No loud talking, no eating, no playing music, no running. It all demands inner contemplation and a different approach to the world around you than out on the street.

The crowds surrounding the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. Visits to the painting seem like a pilgrimage. People enter expecting to be overwhelmed by the experience...
(Photo credit: https://www.travelblog.org/Photos/1679980) 

Duncan describes this as ‘liminality’, meaning a mode of consciousness outside of the day-to-day cultural and social state. Often used to describe religious consciousness, this clearly also applies to the state-of-mind people have upon entering art galleries. This is why in the liminal space created by the museum, everything and anything can become art “including fire-extinguishers, thermostats, and humidity gauges.”

This made me think about a recent viral story about two teenagers who pranked gallery-goers in the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Kevin Nguyen, 16, and TJ Khayatan, 17, put a pair of glasses on the floor of the gallery and were delighted when people began to treat them as part of the exhibition, stopping to take photographs. Nguyen commented “is this really what you call art?” People who are critical of modern art loved the story and thought it proved how ridiculous art-lovers are. I think this links to the idea of liminality in the art museum. It wasn’t a case of Art Is Stupid and Gallery Goers Are Gullible, it was more about the way gallery-goers are told to open up their minds to what the museum has to show them.

People reacting to the glasses prank in the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. 

Much in the same way temples ask their congregation to allow their minds to be open to the religion and to reach spiritual heights, art museums ask their visitors to allow themselves to be inspired, intrigued and educated by what they see. Rather than a joke, I think it is quite a magical thing that museums accomplish by making everything seem worth viewing and contemplating. Even if it is a fire-extinguisher or a pair of glasses.

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