The Academie Julian

In the Studio, 1881, Marie Bashkirtseff. Classes were segregated by gender.

Roldolphe Julian, 1870s

In the more than three years that I've been perusing the lives of famous (and near-famous) artists, I keep encountering one name quite consistently--Paris's Academie Julian. Although the school was rather small by today's standards (in fact, those of the 19th century, as well) it seems to have had an outsized impact on the fine arts of not just the late 1800s but much of the first half of the 20th century too. With one or two exceptions, the instructors were not famous artists. Rodolphe Julian was mostly famous for having founded the school rather than for his painting. Adolphe-William Bouguereau was probably the most famous painter to have taught there and he was merely "moonlighting" from his day job at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, where he was something of a kingpin instructor. Perhaps even more than the high and mighty Ecole des Beaux Arts, the Academie Julian is remembered not for its instructors but for its instruction, and the seemingly endless list of major figures in art history from that period who passed through its doors.

Bouguereau's Atlier (class), 1891, Jefferson David Chalfant. Drawing the nude human figure was the cornerstone of the Academie Julian curriculum.

Passage de Panoramas, home of the
Academie Julian from 1868 to 1959.

Those doors were on the Passage des Panoramas, the first covered shopping mall in Paris, located in an artsy area about three blocks north of the Louvre and a block or two east of the Paris Opera House. When Roldolphe opened his storefront operation "in the mall" he didn't start out to compete with the Ecole des Beaux Arts. In fact, he intended his atlier to be a private "prep school" for art students seeking to pass the rigorous entrance exam for France's premier artist training school. His chief competition was the Académie Colarossi, on the Île de la Cité (near Notre Dame Cathedral), opened by the Italian Sculptor Filippo Colarossi in the 1870s. Both schools accepted women. The Ecole des Beaux Arts manifestly did not until around 1898. Though the classes were separated by gender, the instruction, using nude models, was identical. Students of both sexes began by drawing from plaster casts. Judging by paintings done by students such as Marie Bashkirtseff (top) in 1881, facilities were somewhat cramped and congested. One of her "friends" drew a caricature of her at her easel (below, right). College kids in those days were apparenly not much different from today. Jeffereson David Chalfant's Bouguereau's Atlier (above)from 1891, seems more relaxed and orderly.

Marie Bashkirtseff at her easel.
Ladies' fashions during the late
1800s were not well suited
for working all day at an easel.

It could well be argued that the inclusion of female art students, unable to obtain academic art training elsewhere, made the Academie Julian more than just a prep school. Certainly a number of male artists (many of them Americans) saw it that way. It was undoubtedly cheaper, less formal, and far less regimented than it's official counterpart across the Seine from the Louvre. Yet the art instruction at the Academie Julian was at least on a par with that of the Ecole des Beaux Arts, and some might say even better. There was official recognition of this fact when, in the 1880s, Academie Julian students were made eligible to compete for the Ecole's prestigeous Prix de Rome (an all-expenses-paid year to study art in Rome).

The list of famous artists who attended classes at the Academie Julian is enough to make your eyes glaze over, (but, to name just a few) they include Grant Wood,, Jean Arp, Cecilia Beaux, Henri Matisse, Kahlil Gibran, Marcel Duchamp, Jean Dubuffet, Thomas Hart Benton, John Singer Sargent, Diego Rivera, Emile Bernard, and Charles Demuth (and those are just some of the ones I've written about).



The Acamemie Julian today.

Study of a Male Nude in Julian's Atlier,
1902-03, Alfred Munnings. Apparently a
slender physique was not considered
essential for male models.

Much like successful private art schools today, during the next few decades, until his death in 1907, Rodolphe Julian expanded his educational enterprise, branching out to as many as five locations all over Paris. Art students still attend classes at the Academie Julian (above), located not far from where it was first founded. Today, however, and since 1959, the school has become a part of ESAG (École Supérieure d'Arts Graphiques) Penninghem, founded by painter/ceramist Guillaume Met de Penninghen and the decorator Jacques d’Andon in 1953. This school has branches in major cities around the world, though they tend to emphasize graphic design more than traditional fine arts.

An Academie Julian brochure from 1903
--lots of staring at the model but not much art happening.

 

Cassius Marcellus Coolidge

A Bold Bluff (top) and Waterloo, 1903, Cassius M. Coolidge
Same dogs, separated by a few seconds.

Cassius Marcellus Coolidge,
1920s, (inset: painted
self-portrait from 1888)

You probably don't recognize the name, but I'm sure you've seen his art. It's often referred to as "Dogs Playing Poker" (DPP) and may be one of the longest running jokes in all of artdom. Actually, there were at least sixteen similar such paintings by Cassius "Cash" Coolidge. The two above, A Bold Bluff and Waterloo recently sold at auction as a pair for $590,400. Okay, at that price, it's not quite the joke it used to be. Nonetheless, Coolidge (by the way, there is no single painting titled "Poker Playing Dogs") is right up there with the Leonardo da Vinci as one of the most lampooned artists in the history of lampooned artists. Around the world, from Turkey to New Zealand, apparently all dogs love to play poker. Personally, I have a great deal of respect for Cassius Marcellus Coolidge. Any artist with the patience to get a whole groups of dogs, dressed up in turn of the century haberdashery, to pose for a painting, even if they weren't really playing poker, is a better man than I.

 

Coolidge's sense of humor played well with his advertising endeavors. Each card featured an ad on the back for a local business. His Marriage in Five Acts dates from 1882 chronicling early infatuation through wedded bliss to...not so much.

Light Me, Cassius Coolidge. He
also painted poker-playing people.

Born in Antwerp, New York, but raised in Philadelphia by strict, Quaker parents, Cassius Coolidge didn't start out painting dogs (poker-playing or otherwise). In fact, he didn't start out to be a painter. He started out to be a druggist, then found sign painting profitable (apparently profitable enough to start a bank). Then he moved on to Rochester, New York, where he started his own newspaper. It was in that enterprise he began to draw cartoons, which led to the advertising business, which led to doing calendar art, which led to Brown and Bigelow, which led to dogs playing poker. During this time he also invented the carnival panel painted with a cartoon body topped by an opening, which people peered through to get their picture taken. The German's came up with a wonderful word for such art--kitsch. "Cash" Coolidge may have invented that too.

Ten Miles to a Garage, 1903, Cassius Coolidge

Behind the Eight Ball, Gerard Taylor

Coolidge's dogs began playing poker for the calendar company, Brown and Bigelow, in 1903. He continued to churn them out until around 1910 during which time his dogs not only learned how to play poker (and cheat at it), but also pool, baseball, ballroom dancing, and in the process learned to read, drink, smoke, drive cars (and fix them, above). Over the past century, Coolidge has proven to be one of the more influential of American artists. His DPP paintings, and his pool hall dogs later spawned a similar school of painting termed PPD (Pool Playing Dogs, left). Today, Coolidge's anthropomorphic dogs have inspired something of a cottage industry among painters (below), proving once and for all that kitsch has no limits as to time and place...or pedigree. As for me, I've given up teaching our two cats how to hold a poker hand. I'd be satisfied if I could just teach them how to keep from missing the litter box.

Poker Pups III, Jenny Newland--ahh, so cute, but still kitsch.

er, Bryan Moon. Did someone say, broken bone?



Samuel Colman of Bristol

The Edge of Doom, 1836-38, Samuel Colman

One of the peculiarities in writing about art on a daily basis is that, in researching a given artist, often I come up with a different artist who may, in fact be more interesting. Today I began poking around the life and times of the American painter Samuel Colman, a student of Asher B. Durand of the Hudson River School. Colman was, what you might say, "late to school," painting scenes of the river long after it had ceased to be a mainstay of the eastern art establishment. I wouldn't go so far as to say if you've seen one painting of the Hudson River you've seen them all, but suffice to say the American Samuel Colman and his art was not all that exceptional. As I began to look at his work I stumbled upon several paintings that were quite exceptional only to realize the really good stuff was by a different Samuel Colman, who died in England shortly after the after the American Samuel Colman was born in 1832.

 

St. James Fair, 1824, Samuel Colman--painted before he got "into" apocalyptic works. 
It is typical of early 19th century British genre and the so-called "Bristol School."

The British Samuel Colman (same name, same spelling) was born in 1780 and died in 1845. There was a "ton" of background material on the American Samuel Colman, but barely paragraph or two on the Brit. I'm not sure why that is other than the fact that the American Colman turned out a lot more paintings than his earlier British counterpart. Apparently, neither man was into self-portraits. The British Colman seems to have been from Bristol, England, in that he's said to have been of the "Bristol School." I'd not been aware there even was a Bristol School, and from all indications it was made up of barely a half-dozen relatively unknown artists and was active for barely a decade (the 1820s). Colman's work is compared to that of his friend, John Martin (bottom). Neither seem to have been active in the "school" itself, but may have been influenced by it somewhat. Of the two, Samuel Colman, in my opinion, would seem to have been the better artist.

 

Destruction of the Temple, 1830-40, Samuel Colman

So, what was it that caught my eye, that made the work of Samuel Colman of Bristol exceptional? His paintings were apocalyptic. Not all of them, of course. Those that weren't were mostly scenes of biblical events, though in the same genre. The painting that first caught my eye was Colman's The Edge of Doom (top) from 1836-38. Colman, no doubt, stood apart from he crowd in that very few artists then or now were painting the apocalypse, though movie makers today seem fascinated, if not obsessed, with the subject. Colman also painted The Destruction of the Temple (above), presumably that of Jerusalem, though he seems to have assumed it was built in a Gothic style (who knew?).

 

The Delivery of Israel out of Egypt, ca. 1830, Samuel Colman

The Destruction of Pharaoh's Army,
ca. 1830, Samuel Colman

Colman was Protestant, which put him at odds with the Church of England when it came to his religious paintings, many of which dealt with the exodus of the children of Israel to the promised land. His Delivery of Israel out of Egypt (above), would seem to have been the inspiration for Cecil B. DeMille's version of the event. It's what we might call a very "wet" painting. Along the same line, Colman's The Destruction of Pharaoh's Army (left), while less graphic, may be a more accurate depiction. It verges on the abstract. Without a title, it would be rather opaque. Colman's 1836 Belshazzar's Feast, (below), though not depicting an ongoing cataclysm, is no less dramatic and considerably more grandiose. Compare it to to John Martin's painting of the same event (bottom) painted thirteen years earlier. According to the Bible, the destruction came a short time later.

Belshazzar's Feast, 1833, Samuel Colman

Belshazzar's Feast, 1820, John Martin



 

The Sydney Opera House

Sydney, Australia's Opera House complex. The performing arts come alive after dark so it is that Jorn Utzon's masterpiece is never more vibrant than at night.

Jorn Utzon unveils his 1957 concept model.

There was a time when, if you mentioned Australia to anyone, the first images to come to mind were Koala bears, Kangaroos maybe, and...and...mmm...well, that was about it. Now, however, starting after October, 1973, the Koalas have had to take a backseat to architecture, specifically Danish architect Jorn Utzon's iconic opera house crowning the harbor of Sydney, Australia. Add to that the gracefully arched backdrop of Sydney's Harbor Bridge (below) along with the spectacular light shows, sunsets, and fireworks reflecting from the opera house's curvilinear white surfaces, and it's little wonder tourist come from around the world to explore and go "oooo and ahhhhhhhh" along with the ever-present "WOW!"

 

No matter the angle or time of day, there's simply no way to take a bad
picture of this modern-day symbol of Australia.

What happens with an architect's visionary ideals far outstrips the architectural engineering capabilities of his time? Usually that means the building stays on paper. But, in the case of Jorn Utzon, sixteen years happened. That was the gestation period from his winning design to that day in 1973 when the queen of England cut the ribbon opening Sydney's new performing arts center. There were those who said it couldn't be done--and they were right--at the time. Utzon and his firm simply had to find a way to do it--which obviously they did. Just as obviously, the iconic curves of the massive shell-like roof was their biggest obstacle.

Two major problems, the roof design (above left) and construction delays and overruns.

The original idea was precast concrete ribs, supporting various concrete parabolic curves, but the fact that no two curves were alike made their casting prohibitively expensive. So instead, after twelve different permutations, the design team turned to computers to model both the concept and the curves. That was the first of may "firsts." Construction had begun on what was termed the "podium" in 1958. By 1961 the project was already over budget and running 47 weeks behind schedule. That's what happens when you start construction before the final design is finished. Actually, Utzon was flying "by the seat of his pants" for most of the project, solving construction and engineering problems as they arose, including a great deal of structural reinforcement to support the great weight of concrete ribs and the innovative ceramic panels making up the final design for the roofs.

The Sydney Opera House main concert auditorium. Utzon's replacement,
architect, Peter Hall, was largely responsible for designing the interiors.

Moreover, the other major difficulty in seeing Utzon's masterpiece to fruition was political, not architectural. The whole project was government financed, originally budgeted for $7-million. Changes in government, changes in specifications, errors, restructuring, and Utzon's 1966 resignation over the supervisory board's non-payment of fees, (some contend he was fired), all resulted in cost overruns and delays. The original completion date was to be January 26, 1963 (Australia Day). The final completion was ten years late at a cost of $102-million ($859-million in 2012 dollars), more than 14 times the original estimates.

The Sydney performing arts complex is nothing if not complex.

What did the Aussies get for their sixteen-year-long effort and millions upon millions of pounds? First of all, though we commonly refer to it in the singular, the Sydney Opera house is really several different performance venues (above). There's a BIG concert hall (seating 2,600), a medium-size, multi-purpose theater seating 1,500 for (opera, and ballet), three other theaters for drama in various configurations, seating from 200 to 500, an open-air forecourt suitable for pop concerts and community events, a recording studio, retail shops, cafes, a bar, and a fancy (very expensive) restaurant. But most of all, the people of Sydney, and in a broader sense, all of Australia, got a proud symbol, a bit less cuddly perhaps than a Koala, but certainly a more impressive national landmark, one of the most recognizable buildings in the world.

Sydney harbor, bridge, and opera house (far left).

 

Robert Colescott

George Washington Carver Crossing the Delaware, 1975, Robert Colescott

Auvers-sur-Oise (Crow in the Wheat Field)
1981, Robert Colescott self-portrait.

Sometimes I think we take art waaay too seriously. I try not to in writing about it, injecting levity, satire, irony, and sarcasm whenever appropriate (and probably sometimes when it's not). Yet, I'm likely as guilty as anyone in erring on the serious side. In my own work, I like nothing better than to come up with a humorous title on some ironic twist designed to make the viewer smile if not contemplate the more profound. I guess that's why I like the work of Robert Colescott so much. He not only doesn't take seriously famous art from the past, he tried not to take his own art seriously. Moreover, he tried not to do that for over fifty years. Born in 1925, he died in 2009.

 

Colored TV, 1977, Robert Colescott

Serving in WW II, Colescott visited Paris, where he first saw many of the art classics he was later to lampoon in his own work. The art bug bit hard. When he returned home, he used the GI Bill to obtained a bachelor's degree from U.C. Berkley, then hastened back to Paris, where he studied under Fernand Leger for a year. Then he returned to U.C. to get his master's degree. Over the next fifteen years, he taught painting at several different California universities. He married five times, divorced four times, and fathered five sons. His teaching style was warm, lighthearted, and much beloved by his students. His painting style was satirical, exuberant, comical, yet sometimes bitter as he explored his African-American heritage in his work. He first came to be noticed as a result of his 1975 George Washington Carver Crossing the Delaware (top), in which he substituted figures from black history for the first president and his white cohorts. Colescott could be equally insightful when painting his own culture as well, as seen in his 1977 Colored TV (above right).

Eat Dem Taters, 1975, Robert Colescott

Les Demoiselles d'Alabama,
Robert Colescott. He holds his
own with Picasso.

Colescott takes on DeKooniing.
The both do ugly women
quite well.

As any good artist should, once he or she discovers a rich vein of content in which to explore, Colescott followed up with more black version of white paintings, including a takeoff on van Gogh's The Potato Eaters. Colescott called his version Eat Dem Taters (above). He mimicked Gericault's Raft of the Medusa with his own Wreck of the Medusa, and Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignonwith his similar painting, Les Demoiselles d'Alabama (above, left). Being a devoted francophile, he painted his own version of Eugene Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People (below). And, he has twice prove he could paint women just as ugly as Wilhem DeKooning (above, right)...DeKooning's women, that is.

Liberty Leading the People, 1976, Robert Colescott. He signed it "Eugene Dulacrow."





 

 

Robert Mapplethorpe

Sonia and Tracy, 1988, Robert Mapplethorpe. Mapplethorpe's art
 at it's best (or worst, depending upon your side in the culture wars).

At the time of his death stemming from HIV/AIDS in 1989, Robert Mapplethorpe may have been the most hated artist in America. Why? His work speaks to that. The same artist who photographed the two figures above, also photographed the two faces below. That sort of juxtaposition, though taken from the broad scope of an artist's life's work, makes people nervous. Dozens of excellent, cutting-edge photographers from the latter decades of the 20th century have shot nudes, and quite a number of them are at least as erotic or homoerotic as those of Mapplethorpe. Likewise virtually every portrait photographer in the world takes pictures of children. But the fact that one photographer does both sets off alarms, even in the sophisticated high-culture world of fine art photography. And yes, before anyone asks, Mapplethorpe did, on rare occasions, shoot nude, un-posed, (non-sexual) images of children.

 

Honey                                                 Eva Amurri

Robert Mapplethorpe Self-portrait, 
1980

Robert Mapplethorpe came from a very ordinary, middle-class family in Queens, New York, one of six children. He studied graphic arts at New York's Pratt Institute but never finished his studies. It was there around 1970, Mapplethorpe first took up photography, not to become a photographer, but to use Polaroid prints he shot himself as part of collages he was making. Actually, very few of these early images actually became a part of his collage work. Instead he reveled in the new found artistic freedom afforded by the fact that with instant photography, there were no darkroom techniques to learn, nor was there any darkroom technician in a position to possibly censor his work. Given the instant feedback the Polaroid camera permitted, his style and technical proficiency in portraiture developed quite rapidly. Within a few years he'd purchased a professional Hasselblad, and was doing high-quality portrait and figural studies of his friends, including his live-in girlfriend, singer-songwriter Patti Smith. They worked together creating art until 1974 when Mapplethorpe decided he was gay. Though separated, they remained close friends.



Arnold Schwarzenegger was among Mapplethorpe's friends and models 
 at his first gallery exposure in New York as seen in this 1976 photo.

Mapplethorpe lived in his Manhattan darkroom studio but worked out of a top floor loft studio borrowed from a friend. He landed his first one-man show in 1977 where he first displayed some of his homoerotic works. Though later quite controversial, at the time, they barely raised eyebrows, perhaps because few people other than the artist's friends in the gay community came to see them. Among those friends, whom Mapplethorpe photographed at the time, were Arnold Schwarzenegger (above), Paloma Picasso, Truman Capote, and Andy Warhol (whom he'd met while studying at Pratt). A photo of Warhol shot by Mapplethorpe a few years later, recently sold at auction for $643,000--the highest price ever paid for a Mapplethorpe image.

Smutty, 1980, Robert Mapplethorpe.
Youthful beauty and androgeny are both major elements in Mapplethorpe's eroticism.

That kind of money comes with name recognition and in Mapplethorpe's case name recognition came with controversy. Homoerotic images, such as the aptly named Smutty (above), some of which Mapplethorpe himself deemed pornographic, are never easy for even the art world to accept. However, the art world knew his name as did what we now call the LGBT community. The rest of the world simply found it easier to ignore an artist whose work they found disgusting to even look at, much less try to understand. That is, until major museums in the U. S. and abroad began mounting traveling shows of Mapplethorpe's work, touting him as one of the most exemplary artist-photographers of the century on a par with Ansel Adams, Richard Avedon, Annie Leibovitz, and Alfred Eisenstaedt.

Thomas, 1987, Robert Mapplethorpe
--classic human geometry reminiscent of Leonardo's Vitruvian Man.

Some of these museums were at least partially supported by tax dollars. And where there are tax dollars involved there are also tax payers and tax-payer-paid politicians all too willing to be shocked and appalled by most of Mapplethorpe's images. Censorship raised it's ugly head as did controversy involving federal funding for the arts. Shows were cancelled. Shows were moved to other venues. Such a howl of protest aroused public curiosity, having the effect of increasing the size of the crowds at museums and galleries brave enough to display Mapplethorpe's work. The critics were largely split along philosophical lines. However, positive or negative, their reviews served to make Mapplethorpe a household name and his art a lightning rod as well as an iconic standard of excellence in the field of figural photography. Today, the Mapplethorpe Foundation aims to manage both elements of their founder's art while raising money for research into, and treatment of, the disease that killed him.

Poppy, 1988, Robert Mapplethorpe. The artist seldom worked in color, but his fondness for flowers was the exception. Black and white flowers are rather...colorless.

Latte Art

Latte art...no, I'm not kidding.

If you were to look down into your morning's first cup of coffee and see the image above, what would you do? Probably you'd either go back to bloody marys for breakfast, or else fire your barrista (unless you were the flirty type). It's difficult to come up with a "new" type of art, but this one is relatively new, dating back only to the late 1980s or early 90s when the "designer" coffee craze began to sweep the U.S. The pioneers in this art form were Jack Kelly and his follower, David Schomer, both of Seattle, both of whom owned coffee shops. They began to play round with espresso topped with foamy milk to the delight of their customers and their cash registers. Inasmuch as espresso originated in Italy, it's likely early forms of what's come to be called "latte art" began there as well. Now however, over the past 25 years, this art form has spread around the world. The Dutch and the Japanese seem especially adept at breaking new...foam...in this regard. There are even international competitions each year.

 

The award-winning Latte designs of Osaka artist, Kazuki Yamamoto. 
See anyone you know?

Just spiral outward, then dissect like cutting a pie.

In the early years the designs were quick, easy, and simple--hearts, a few flowers, web-like creations, and the occasional butterfly. Today, however, you can get faces in your latte, messages, cutesy creatures and creepy critters all of which barely last five minutes before dissolving into your drink and being drunk. Latte artists also sometimes add chocolate syrup and miniature marshmallows for 3-D effects. And if your barrista is good...I mean really good, you might get your own portrait floating around atop your drink. Or if you prefer, perhaps Harry Potter (below, right), Salvador Dali (below), Albert Einstein, or Mickey Mouse. For the arty, camera phones have captured the frothy, floating, foamy features of Leonardo's Mona Lisa and Edvard Munch's The Scream (below, left). Though little kids don't usually drink lattes (nor can they afford them) there is virtually no limit to the list of likely little lads and lasses from the comic pages to delight the kid in all of us.

 



Surreal!

 

Edvard Munch's The Scream                        J.K. Rowling's Harry   

       

There are basically two methods in creating latte art--pouring and etching--usually a combination of both. Pouring refers to the way the foamy milk is poured into the cup of espresso, while etching (usually with a wooden stick or toothpick) involves moving the milk around. It sounds tricky, but really it's not. Try it sometime. Virtually anyone can make an attractive design or a funny face. The tricky part, if you're a barrista, is moving beyond that, being able to replicate more fanciful designs quickly and consistently for your customers and for your tips. Latte art, though temporary, can be very rewarding. Designs vary in complexity from simply "cool" to...how the hell'd he do THAT?                             

Check out the video below to learn how you, too, can be a latte artist: