Christopher Wren

When we think of the designation "Renaissance Man," undoubtedly the first name to come to mind is that of Leonardo da Vinci. The term denotes a man or woman of broad skills and learning in the arts and sciences capable of integrating all that he or she knows into the pursuit of more learning and exceptional creative expression. Down through history there have been great artists and great scientists, but seldom do these two gifts come together in a single individual. If the Italians have their Leonardo, the English can lay claim to having given birth to a man who, in some peoples' minds, may have had an even greater mind and perhaps a greater long-term impact on Western civilization than did Leonardo. His name was Christopher Wren (no relation to Christopher Robin). And where Leonardo's mind had a tendency to be unfocused in that he would often flit from one interest to another leaving in his wake unfinished (and often unsuccessful) projects galore as well as unfulfilled lines of inquiry which might have borne great fruit, Wren was almost his exact opposite in this sense.

Young Christopher was born in 1632 in East Knoyle, Wiltshire, England. He was fortunate from birth. He was the son of the Dean of Windsor, the King's chaplain. He was raised in Windsor Castle and as a child, was a playmate of another young boy of great fortune named Charles. Charles later became Charles II, King of England. Christopher was a very bright young lad, did well in school, and before he was seventeen, had invented a weather clock, a pneumatic engine, a device for writing in the dark, and a new language for the deaf and dumb. He went to Oxford where he gained a reputation as a brilliant scientist and mathematician. He was the first to demonstrate the use of opium as an anesthetic and the use of a syringe in transferring blood from one dog to another. Later, his interest in optics led him to become a professor of astronomy, doing much of the groundwork which Isaac Newton later got credit for in his gravitational theories.

Christopher Wren's 1874 design for
St. Paul's Cathedral, London

As a student at Oxford, Wren came upon a book written by a Roman architect. In the mid-1600s, the book was already some fifteen hundred years old. But Vitruvius' On Architecture excited something within Wren At the age of thirty, he went to Rome where he studied the remnants of the civilization Vitruvius had helped build. His first commission was for a new theater at Oxford. He used drawings he'd made from the ruins of the Theater of Marcellus. However, it took a terrible calamity to make of the ambitious young man a real architect. On September 2, 1666, medieval London very nearly burned to the ground. The Great Fire of London destroyed a huge area of the city including St. Paul's Cathedral and some 52 other churches as well. Six days later, Wren presented his old boyhood friend, a complete plan for the reconstruction of the city. He got the job. He was to spend the rest of his life fulfilling the commission. St. Paul's alone took thirty-five years to rebuild. The task was not an easy one. St. Paul's had been a Gothic structure. Wren imposed a Roman face on the plan that today is considered a masterpiece of Neoclassical design. It is second in size and magnificence only to that of St. Peter's in Rome.  Christopher Wren died in 1723. By now Sir Christopher, he was the first to be buried in his new cathedral.

St. Paul's Cathedral as completed in 1711, more than 37 years after construction began

Camouflage Art

There is an old, oft-repeated story which may well be true, given its persistence in history, that one day in the winter of 1914, during the First World War, Pablo Picasso and his American mentor, Gertrude Stein, were standing on a Paris street corner watching an American military convoy rolled past, resplendent in a new military camouflage paint job. Picasso is said to have commented, "We did that. That's Cubism." Picasso could take credit for a lot of artistic inventions, but Cubism notwithstanding, camouflage painting was not one of them. Cubism was hard-edged, rectilinear, dull and drab at times perhaps, but other than that, it bore little resemblance to the new "art" of making invisible in the undergrowth, an entire army. Credit (if that is the word) for that goes to a little known American painter by the name of Abbot Handerson Thayer.

A Virgin, 1892-93, Abbot Handerson Thayer,
depicting the artist's children

Thayer was born in 1849 into a prominent New England family. He studied art in Boston and with some success, painted animal portraits there and in New York before going on to study with Jean-Leon Gerome in Paris. Upon returning to this country, his expressive portraits and idealized angels, goddesses, and Madonnas were quite popular, especially with his biggest patron, Albert Freer. With the death of his wife and two young sons, Thayer's work became more melancholy as he searched for the ideal of feminine innocence and sought to raise what he considered the lax the moral standards of the "Gilded Age" through his art. He attached his painting style to the Cult of the Virgin and was a leading exponent in American Symbolist movement. However by 1910, as allegorical and Symbolist painting lost favor, he drifted into obscurity, painting abstract landscapes until his death in 1921.

WW I camouflage as influenced
by Thayer

All of this is very interesting, of course, but ironically, the fact that Thayer is remembered today is the result of his shrewd, though eccentric, efforts to persuade the US military to adopt a pattern of broken shapes to cover not only uniforms, but hardware as well, so that they would be more difficult targets for snipers and field artillery. But the turn-of-the-century war department was not interested.  President Teddy Roosevelt put down his experiments saying, "They were of no more value than putting a raven in a coal scuttle and claiming he is concealed." As is so often the case with such things, it took time and a war to convince the army there might be some legitimacy in Thayer's theories. By the time the Yanks marched into France, his designs could be seen on many of the guns and tanks that accompanied them. However it took another fifty years before GI's began wearing camouflage in Vietnam. Today, if you can't tell the good guys from the bad as your evening news covers the latest in Afghanistan, you can blame Thayer. Everyone from the Russians to al Quaeda are now appropriately garbed in some derivative of this artist's pet brainchild.

Modern-day camouflaged sniper

Camouflage of the urban variety
in Afghanistan today

Brice Marden

There isn't an artist working today who doesn't delight in expounding, often at great length, on the work of those artists who served to influence them. Like a preacher from a pulpit, they can quote chapter and verse, often stroke for stroke, from some great painting (or occasionally not so great painting) that helped in making them who they are as painters. And in art history, nearly every artist has listed somewhere in their biography those artists from the past who served as models, guides, teachers, molders...whatever.  But much less often mentioned, and something to which we today don't usually give much thought, is who was (or is being) influenced. Cezanne, for instance, influenced several generations of twentieth century artists. In the event you begin to feel pretty good about your work, it's rather sobering to ask yourself, "Who have I influenced?'

Cold Mountain I (Path), 1989, Brice Marden

At this point in time, we often think of art history as having stopped about thirty years ago. We talk about Pollock, de Kooning, Rothko, and others as if they were all still living and productive artists. But they're not, except in the sense that their work serves to influence the next generation. But who did they influence? These people were powerful forces in art. They should have produced some powerful followers, but who are they?  One of them is Brice Marden. He is the living testament of Pollock, de Kooning, and Rothko, also Picasso, also Tung Ch'i-ch'ang. Who? Influences don't always have to come from the previous generation. Cezanne is still influencing artist today. Tung Ch'i-ch'ang was a Ming Dynasty painter from the sixteenth century. Yet we see in Marden's Cold Mountain I (Path), dating from 1989, the unmistakable influences of the Chinese calligraphy master as much as the New York drip-meister (Pollock).

Marden was born in 1938.  He grew up in the wealthy environs of Westchester County, New York, and moved to the city in 1963. Art studies at Boston University and Yale made him an artist. The New York art scene of the 1960s and 70s made him a Minimalist. Like Pollock, his work is often a constant battle between the abstract and the figurative, glorifying in accidents, correcting mistakes, and leaving behind at every turn the gestural tracks of the creative effort. A close cohort of Agnes Martin, and Elizabeth Murray, they are the "influenced" ones. They are the living proof that art history did not stop thirty years ago. Certainly it grew more murky. Yes, it's quite open to interpretation. But it continues to be written, not with bold billboard letters, but in 10-pt. Arial on glowing word processors. The insert and delete keys are ever-present. Remember, artists are influence by words as well as pictures. Think about that the next time you paint, the next time you talk or write about your work. Who have you influenced?

Biltmore

Every family has, what we call, a "black sheep." In the late 1800s, there were three brothers, William, Cornelius, and George. The elder two followed their father into the business world of high finance, transportation, and manufacturing. Their "little brother" was something of a quiet, bookish sort, a collector of scientific oddities, liked to hunt, travel the world, and grow things. He never held a job in his life, was uninterested in marriage, and devoted to his mother. He developed into an art connoisseur and student of architecture, landscape design, and horticulture. He enjoyed a good party once in a while too. When the boys' father died in 1885, his will left the bulk of his holdings to his two favorite sons while little Georgie received a mere pittance. With it young George decided to go to the hard scrabble backwoods of North Carolina, buy a farm and build a house; while his two brothers took their society wives and headed off to join the elegant social whirl of New York and Newport, Rhode Island. Interesting, but not all that unusual perhaps, except in that the boys' names all ended in Vanderbilt.

The Breakers, Newport, Rhode Island, Richard Morris Hunt,
1888-92

Marble House, Richard Morris Hunt, 1893-95

George's "pittance" was a mere $10 million. His brothers each got $65 million. All three hired the same architect to build them new homes--Richard Morris Hunt. The two "rich" Vanderbilts each squandered millions on a couple garishly overblown "cottages" overlooking the sea at Newport, each struggling to outdo the other with pretentious marble palaces rivaling the royalty of Europe in their grandiose ornamentation, expensive gimcracks, and gewgaws. Cornelius II had the misfortune of completing his house first. Called "The Breakers," it was something of a cross between a grand beach-front hotel and an Italian Palazzo. His brother, William, thus had the chance to build an even larger "cottage" just down the street. His marble palace, modestly called "Marble House," was...well, let's just say it gave Versailles a run for its money.

Meanwhile, "poor" George was putting together his own entry into the ongoing family domicile contest amidst the rolling foothills of the eastern slope of the Smokey Mountains. He called it Biltmore. It was aptly named and perhaps something of an inside family joke. He literally "built more." When finished, it was the largest private home in America--all 255 rooms of it. Based largely on the Palace of Fountainbleu built by France's, King Francis I, during the 1600s, Hunt also drew inspiration from the English country house, Waddesdon Manor designed by Gabriel Hippolyte. As the Vanderbilt mansions go, though certainly opulent, it was beyond doubt the most tasteful architectural indulgence of the three. The style is French Chateau with Gothic decoration--five floors connected by an elevator, backed by a spiral staircase wide enough to drive a Land Rover to the top. The dining room ceiling soars to the dizzying height of some seventy feet and at 72 by 42 feet this room alone is large enough to contain a modern-day three bedroom house with attached garage. Overseeing a working farm with a state-of-the-art land-management and forestry program, farmer George called on New York's Central Park designer, Frederick Law Olmsted, to lay out the grounds. Inside, the two-story library contains some 20,000 volumes while the rest of the house is a veritable museum of fine art ranging from portraits by John Singer Sargent to tapestries by French nuns, even Napoleon Bonaparte's private chess set. It just goes to show what a modicum of good taste and a "little" money could accomplish in the days before income taxes.

Biltmore Estate, Asheville, North Carolina, Richard Morris Hunt, 1889-95

The Big Three

The School of Athens, 1509-10, Raphael

When we think of Renaissance painting, we often "in the same breath," so to speak, think of what we might call the big three, Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael, artists so familiar that we know them mostly by their first names. And, for the most part, we know their work even more intimately in that we can immediately pull up mental images of Leonardo's Last Supper, Michelangelo's Sistine ceiling, or Raphael's...well, here we founder a bit. Raphael's what?  His Madonnas? His Ascension? His School of Athens? His Expulsion of Heliodorus? His Liberation of St. Peter from Prison? His Mass of Boselena? His Fire in the Borgo? Hmm...looks like we're in need of an art history lesson.

Mass of Boselena, 1512, Raphael

The "big three" were acquainted with one another but hardly friends. First of all, they represented three different generations. Leonardo, the eldest, born in 1452, was not on speaking terms with Michelangelo, whom he considered an impudent, upstart rival; and not without good reason.  Leonardo had a brilliant mind but was infamous for taking on more than he could ever possibly complete, leaving many projects unfinished. Michelangelo, born in 1475, was an impudent young upstart, and definitely a rival of Leonardo; but at least he finished most of his major commissions (except for the impossibly ambitious tomb of Julius II). Raphael, the youngest of the three, born in 1483, was the most amiable of the three with friends in high places and the best reputation for completing what he started. Michelangelo hated him, looking upon Raphael with much the same distaste as Leonardo did him, even going so far as to accuse Raphael of plagerism. Given the fact that there was some 30 years difference in age between Leonardo and Raphael, little is known of anything more than a nodding acquaintance between them (if even that).

The Transfiguration, 1520,
Raphael

Why is it then that we know the name but are so unfamiliar with the work of Raphaello de Sanzio?  Well, first he worked constantly in the shadow of Michelangelo...and a huge shadow it was. Second, while he could be relied upon to complete that which he started, his one failing (if you could call it that) was that he never completed his life. He died suddenly of a mysterious ailment in 1520 at the age of 37, leaving behind his one unfinished painting, his work depicting the Transfiguration and ascension of Christ into Heaven (later completed by an assistant). The third reason is that, while outliving both his rivals (Leonardo died in 1519), Michelangelo's star continued to rise (as did Leonardo's in spite of his death). With Raphael, that was not the case. He left a dozen or more major masterpieces but none were to become art icons. His School of Athens comes closest, and is on a par with anything (other than Michelangelo's ceiling) done by the other two. However it seems his work was either too cerebral or too "sweet" (sometimes both at the same time) to have earned him the "superstar" status he so richly deserved. Though his memory glowed for a short time after his death, only in the 1800s did his work come to be really studied and admired again. Who knows, maybe it will take another hundred years or so before we can call to mind his Disputa with the same ease we can Michelangelo's Last Judgment.

Stanza della Segnatura, Vatican. Raphael's Disputation of the Holy Sacrament (Disputa)
at left is seen opposite his School of Athens, both from 1509-10.

A Beautiful Face

As artists and painters, we pride ourselves in being merchants of beauty. Even those of us who don't always paint beautiful things, at least try to produce work that is to some degree pleasant, attractive, and visually satisfying. To do this we develop a keen eye for great beauty and are appreciative of it wherever we might come upon it. Sometimes, we find it in nature, sometimes in objects, and sometimes in a beautiful face. Today we call such faces super models, or movie stars, or wives, or grandchildren. In the 20th century, Jacqueline Kennedy, Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, and others have inspired artists from traditional portrait painters to Andy Warhol. Around 1780, there was born one such beautiful face. She married in her early twenties to a wealthy Parisian banker by the name of Recamier. Her name was Juliette.

Mme. Recamier, 1800, Jacques-Louie David

At the beginning of the nineteenth century, her beauty was legendary. Jean-Baptieste Bernadotte commented that her beauty reminded one of Venus. She attracted painters wanting to capture her exquisite loveliness, by the scores. The most famous painting of her was by none other than the great Neoclassical artist, Jacques-Louis David who depicted her reclining, barefooted, on a Roman-style sofa (left). Her delicate, Roman tunic, aside from revealing perhaps as much as it concealed, set the standard for the Empire Style in both female fashion and furniture (based upon the design of the sofa). The Empire referred, of course, to that of Napoleon Bonaparte. The surface coolness of her pose and expression concealed a latent sex appeal having a powerful influence upon other artists, not to mention all the other similarly beautiful women who saw the painting.

Portrait of Juliette Recamier, 1826,
Francois Louis Dejuinne

Another artists, by the name of Dejuinne, painted Mme. Recamier dressed all in virginal white, reading in a library (right). Chinard, sculpted her in terra cotta as a nymph with partly exposed breasts (below left); while Francois Gerard used a Greek style of dress and furniture for his version (below right). It would appear she may have inspired more paintings than Helen of Troy inspired ships. Yet her existence was hardly ideal. Rather than living as a goddess, she was something of a prisoner in her own home, albeit a rather palatial pad, the Hotel Recamier. She was married to a husband who neglected to consummate their marriage, and similarly, was the victim of several unhappy romantic liaisons. Nonetheless, in conjunction with the artists who painted her, she managed to dictate her tastes in clothes, interior design, and other matters of style, to much of Parisian society during the entire Napoleonic era.

Juliette Recamier, 1801-02, Joseph Chinard

Portrait of Juliette Recamier,1805,
Baron François-Pascal-Simon Gérard

Benjamin Latrobe

White House, north portico
by Benjamin Latrobe

The next time you have the chance, look at the back side of a modern day twenty-dollar bill, and compare it to the back side of an old one. In each case you'll see the work of this country's first professional architect. No, he didn't design the White House. A man by the name of William Hoban did that. What I'm talking about are the porticoes, the south portico on the old twenty (below right), the north portico on the newer one  (above left). Both are the work of Benjamin Latrobe.  Without them, the building would be, at best, distressingly plain (as seen below left). Latrobe himself referred to Hoban's design as "all belly," apparently referring to the oval extension in it's southern elevation around which he built his semi-circular portico. These two elements, plus it's long, low, ground-floor wings give the mansion a sense of grace and elegance unlike by any building then or now.

Latrobe's south portico before the
Truman balcony

Benjamin Latrobe was born in England in 1764. His mother had been born in Pennsylvania, and some sources speculate that his father may have been born here too. The family was devoutly Moravian and as was their custom, they sent their son to Germany at the age of twelve to complete his education. Eight years later, he returned choosing to become an architect. He spent the next several years of his life in London, learning his trade amidst an unprecedented building boom. A few of his structures still stand there today. Lots more did until the fire bombs of WW II destroyed many of them. He married and began raising a family, a son and a daughter. His wife died in childbirth as did their third child.  Heartbroken in grief, his personal and professional life went into a tailspin to the point that his two children had to be put in foster homes. In 1796, he decided to make a clean break of it. He left them in England, and sailed for American. Word had it there wasn't a single professional architect in the entire new nation.

The Hoban's White House before Latrobe's north portico

At the time, the United States had a half-dozen self-trained gentlemen architects such as Hoban, Thomas Jefferson, William Thornton, and a few others. There were also a few inadequately trained engineers, many having learned their trade rather haphazardly as a result of the Revolutionary War. What the country lacked was a single individual marrying both these skills who, on top of that, was also a skilled artist. Latrobe was all these and more, a naturalist, amateur geologist, watercolorist, linguist, philosopher, and keen observer of all other aspects of the world around him. His early commissions included the domed, Classic Revival Bank of Pennsylvania in 1800 (pulled down in 1860) and the Philadelphia waterworks complex in which he designed housing for a steam driven pump which he engineered to draw water from the Schuylkill River, storing it in a large reservoir to bring fresh water (and an element of fire protection) to the growing city. Not coincidentally, he also designed the first house in Philadelphia with an indoor bathroom. Within just 15 years, thanks to his waterworks, there were 228 more just like it in the city.

Besides all this he was responsible for the rebuilding of both the White House and the U.S. Capitol after the British burned them. It was this comission which netted us today's twenty and fifty-dollar images. Latrobe was also responsible for the Catholic Cathedral in Baltimore, the Bank of the United States in Philadelphia, and a waterworks for New Orleans similar to that of Philadelphia. It was in conjunction with this that his twenty-year-old architect-engineer son, Henry, was sent south just before the War of 1812 to supervise the complex undertaking. While there, he came down with Yellow Fever and died. After the war, in 1820, Latrobe himself went to New Orleans to finish the project. Sadly, he too suddenly came down with the same deadly mosquito-borne disease and died.  He was 56.