Joseph Morgan Henninger

Spanish Scenes, 1986, Joseph Morgan Henninger

The line between artists and illustrators today is so thin as to be virtually non-existent. The differentiation comes from the fact that, while all illustrators are undeniably artists, not all artists are illustrators. The "fine arts" world would have you believe that, despite this distinction, fine artists are somehow better than illustrators. Even during the so-called "golden age" of illustrators dating from the final decade or two of the 19th-century up through the devastating impact of television on the print media in the 1960s and 70s, whatever differences there may have been in the two professions were mostly of little consequence and mostly in the minds of art critics, gallery owners, and museum curators having to do with style. In terms of art, what difference does it make who pays an artist, an advertiser or a collector (except for the fact the advertiser may pay more and do so more consistently). Illustrators work under contracts while "fine artists" usually work on speculation ("If you build it, they will come.") Today, even the "finest" fine artists are much like illustrators in that they earn most of their income not from originals, but from print reproduction.

 

Joseph Morgan Henninger, one of many artists producing "beach girls" during the 1950s

Joseph Morgan Henninger, 1990s

Joseph Morgan Henninger was undeniably an illustrator, born in 1909, he died in 1999, just short of his 90th birthday. An an artist/illustration Henninger was fortunate enough to have lived and worked through much of the "golden age" of illustration mentioned above. For an Indiana boy, armed with a four-year scholarship, and graduating from Paris' prestigious Ecole des Beaux Arts, Henninger was in the enviable position of having the background, education, and option to go in either direction. He chose illustration, though not without having also sampled the hand to mouth existence of the portrait painter (in Indianapolis) and muralist (in Phoenix). The real money, however was further west, L.A. and its motion picture industry, where he worked for Hollywood icons such as Disney, Selznick, Vincent Korda, and the big studios, MGM, Columbia, and United Artists. At the same time, he taught classes at the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena. Its hard to say whether producing art or teaching it was his primary profession.

 



Segovia, 1986, Joseph Morgan Henninger,
detail from Spanish Scenes, (top), fourth row down, fourth scene from left.

During WW II, Henningar worked for Lockheed Aircraft producing flying illustrations of their planes. (Hey, there's more than one way to serve your country during wartime.) In later years, enjoying semi-retirement, Henninger produced what is probably his most unusual work--a single canvas titled Spanish Scenes (top), featuring thirty-three watercolor images from all over Spain based upon his "working vacations" in that country. Most of the images were approximately 8 inches by 11 inches. His watercolor view of Segovia, Spain, is seen above. The scenes appear to have been painted on traditional watercolor paper first then repainted on the large canvas with subtle variations. Illustrators do that sometimes.

Then I said to her,  1980s, Joseph Morgan Henninger,
not one of the images included in his Spanish Scenes (top)

 

Jean-Jacques Henner

 

La liseuse, 1880-90, Jean-Jacques Henner. Don't try to focus the image, it's sfumato.

Jean-Jacques Henner Self-portrait,
1877.Very little sfumato here.

Many years ago, as a rank amateur painter, I was told by another artist that there should be no "hard" edges in painting. Being the naive beginner I was at the time, I believed everything any older artist proclaimed. Of course, like all absolutes, especially those involving art, that piece of sage advice, centering on the word "should," was of questionable validity, at best. Later, in college, I learned the meaning of the terms, "sfumato" and "chiaroscuro." Both have to do with the dictum imposed upon painting by my early "influence," and particularly the painting style of the French academic, Jean-Jacques Henner.

 

Henner in his "atelier" as studios were
called in his time

Sfumato has to do with soft edges. I think it derives from the Italian word for smoke--fumo. As Henner and others, both French and Italian, have employed the style, it creates a sweet, gentle, nostalgic quality to their painted ladies. Henner used it in painting men too. Sfumato also tends to minimize anatomical details which may, in fact, be one of its primary painters' purposes (especially in painting men). Painted nudes during the Victorian era (Henner was born in 1829) was a socially acceptable pastime for artists, though just barely (pardon the pun). Academic nudes such as Henner's are sometimes referred to as "sanitized," (though many, painted as commissioned by wealthy male patrons, were ofte quite un-sanitary). In any case, sfumato was a handy instrument in the artist's toolbox for such purposes.

 

One of his last paintings before his death in 1905, The Head of Christ in the Tomb,
1902, Jean-Jacques Henner. Christ was a redhead?

Chiaroscuro was a much broader tool and in painting the human figure. Very little in the way of realism could have been achieved without it. Cubism often came to disregarded it completely. The term referrs to the soft, gradual changes of tones and values as rounded flesh reflects light, giving way to shadow. Seeing the two terms put to use on the same canvas, one may start adjusting spectacles to make sure they're focusing properly. Virtually all of Henner's nudes, and many of his portraits, have me doing that.



The hard-edged Pre-Raphaelite Dreamers, 1870, Albert Joseph Moore.
Note the chiaroscuro, here and in Henner's crucifixion (below).

Christ on the Cross, 1890, Jean-Jacques Henner

Although Jean-Jacques Henner was not the only artist during the Victorian era addicted to sfumato, he was, fortunately, one of only a few. The English hated it. The Pre-Raphaelites such as Albert Joseph Moore and his Dreamers (above) from 1870, rebelled against the effect, glorifying the hard, precise edge in painting their Ophelias, Proserpines, Dianas, and Virgin Marys. Henner minimized details (anatomical or otherwise) while the English accentuated them, though they (and English society) were often more prudish in toying with nude figures. Slightly later, the Impressionists nudes employed sfumto, but not in the dark, bituminous romanticism of academicists such as Henner.

 

Christ Entombed, 1879, Jean-Jacques Henner (he did several versions).

Adam and Eve Discovering the Corpse
of Abel, 1858, jean-Jacques Henner.

Like other French and Italian artists of his ilk, Henner latched on to virtually any "excuse" to employ nude figures in a respectable, often biblical context. His Adam and Eve Discovering the Corpse of Abel (left ) is a quite unique example. I know of no other artist who ever painted such a scene. That's alright, Henner painted at least two other versions himself (some with more sfumato than others). Henner's broad array of crucifixions, entombments (above), and pietas also allowed him to paint respectable male nudes, though his painting of a very elderly, also very naked, Saint Jerome (bottom), dating from 1881, may have been pushing even that envelope too far. A bit more sfumato here would have been nice.

 

Saint Jerome, 1881, Jean-Jacques Henner.
Never sfumato around when you need it.

 

Cake Art

An authentic birth day cake by Michelle Wibowo--save a piece for the baby.

There seems to be some kind of inextricable link between art and food. Whether it's gourmet food presentations, or food still-lifes, or food used as a sculptural medium, or that which is associated with a pastry chef. In the past, I've dealt with all these permutations of gastronomic art. Today, however, it's the latter that has come to intrigue me. We've all marveled at the delicate, tasty art of the cake decorator, everything from a crude "Happy Birthday" in a barely legible scrawl across a homemade surface of butter-cream icing, to towering, over decorated, architectonic, wedding confections made possible by the modern-day miracle of marzipan. Pretty, but one might not want to venture near them, especially in earthquake prone zones.

For those Italians about to travel abroad, a confection emulating the
Vittorio Emmanuel Monument in Rome.

In discussing "cake art" I want to set the bar quite high. I'm not interested in cake decorating (or overdecorating, as the case may be). Anyone, with a little practice and a reasonable case of eye-hand coordination can do that. Years ago, in teaching high school art, I had an optional project which encouraged students to design in class, then bring from home, a piece of edible sculpture. Usually this meant cakes, but veggies, breads, even the creative use of cookies sometimes appeared. Students were to first draw three full-size views (west, north, and top), indicating materials to be used and color choices. There were, of course, disasters--poor engineering, transportation problems, structural failure of materials, or often simply poor planning. Nevertheless, each was accompanied by a "learning moment." There were also some surprising successes. One student even "invented" a new sculptural media--Rice Krispies (aided and abetted by marshmallow creme). The classes loved it. In each case, I photographed the results for the archives. Then, after a suitable period of discussion led by the artist (usually quite brief). we all gathered about to "evalueat" it.

 

For the photo enthusiast, by Patricio Domenech--no camera bugs I hope 

What I want to emphasize here, as then, is that I'm talking about cakes that don't look like cakes. My students were amateurs, of course, but at a professional level, I would expect to hear the words: "That's a CAKE?!" Such creations must, of course, be totally edible and presumably taste good (and in good taste). Even the best examples of most cake artists' endeavors have a tendency to, well...just lie there awaiting oos and ahhs and, flash photos, and finally, ingestion. Cake sculpture, should stand up and demand respect, even beyond the words, "it's too pretty to eat." There should be gasps of disbelief that all but eliminate even the thought of mastication. As with all great art, there should be consummate skill. That goes without saying, but it's the creative element of pastry art which matters most--not how did she (or he) DO that, but the WOW! factor.

 

For the seafood lover, Karen Portaleo's Octopus.

Karen Portaleo's Dog in a Bag.

Karen Portaleo's Pug. Wouldn't you hate
to slice into anything so cute?



 Winbeckler's Elvis cake.

At or near the top of the professional cake sculpture world are two artists. Karen Portaleo and her team at the Highland Bakery in Atlanta, Georgia, have created cake sculptures (above) for the likes of Demi Moore and Sir Elton John among other celebrity clients. They specialize particularly in animal-inspired creations. Karen is self-taught. Roland A. Winbeckler is not. He began decorating cakes in 1971, working in retail bakeries. After 10 years, he started his own company, A-J Winbeckler Enterprises. Working out of Redding, California, he and his wife, Marsha, produce and sell instruction books, offer professional cake decorating classes, and market specialty cake decorating supplies through their web site. Winbeckler may be the most astounding of all cake sculptors. His specialty is life-sized cake sculptures of famous personalities such as Cher, Elvis (left), Marilyn Monroe, Wayne Gretzky, Colonel Sanders (bottom), Princess Diana, and others--for those who look "good enough to eat."


 Roland A. Winbeckler's Colonel cake. But is it "finger lickin'" good?



Bartholomeus van der Helst

Celebration of the Teatry of Münster, 1648, Bartholomeus van der Helst.



Bartholomeus van der Helst,
Self-portrait with Miniature of Princess
Mary Henrietta of Orange, c. 1667

Although photographers today sometimes get involved in shooting groups of people  numbering well over a hundred, no painter would think of tackling such a project. However, back during the so-called "Golden Age" of Dutch painting during the 17th-century, portrait artists such as Rembrandt, in his famous Night Watch, routinely depicted groups of a dozen or more. As I was researching the work of a contemporary of Rembrandt, Bartholomeus van der Helst, I came upon a group portrait, Celebration of the Teatry of Münster (above), from 1648, with about a fifteen faces. That seemed like a lot. A moment later I found Banquet of the Amsterdam Civic Guard (below) from the same year with a grand total of twenty-five faces (this guy was a busy man). I considered highlighting the fact that van der Helst painted the largest group portrait in history (Rembrandt's Night Watch had only eighteen).

 

Banquet of the Amsterdam Civic Guard, 1648, Bartholomeus van der Helst

Not even close. In 1819, the American artist, John Trumbull, painted The Signing of the Declaration of Independence. It contained an astounding 56 separately posed portraits. It hangs in the U.S. Capitol and is some thirty feet wide. Okay, that's got to be the record, right? Wrong! Some nine years earlier, the French painting icon, Jacques-Louis David produced the historic Coronation of Napoleon and Josephine. I'm not certain, but it appears to be more heavily populated than Trumbull's masterpiece, though my eyes are not sufficiently sharp or my patience sufficiently attuned to actually counting them. If someone with eyesight better than mine wants to do a crowd count, be my guest. Let me know what you come up with. It won't be easy. In the case of the coronation, it's hard to tell when to start counting faces as portraits and when to relegate them simply to being facial "blobs" receding into the darkened niches of Notre Dame Cathedral, the setting for the massive history (or propaganda) piece. Photos do not do justice to the enormous scale of these painted groups. It's only when viewed in a museum setting (below) that they begin to impress the viewer as the artist intended.

 

Van der Helst's banquet as seen in the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

Mary Princess of Orange,1652,
Bartholomeus van der Helst

Though not the holder of any world's record insofar as group portraits are concerned, van der Helst was the artist behind several rather unusual portraits for his time. First of all, he was a consummate painter of women's elaborate satin dresses--a fact that may have won him more commissions than his ability to paint faces (right). Van der Helst's family portraits are as fascinating as an informal "snapshot" today, including the family pets (dogs) and children being children. His self-portrait (top left) holding a miniature portrait (painted by himself, no doubt) is somewhat amusing in its blatant attempt to advertise his talents in painting beautiful faces (his own was something of a homely countenance, to say the least).
 

Speaking of less than attractive subjects, van der Helst may, in fact, hold a record (Holbein's Henry VIII not withstanding) for having painted the "fattest" portrait in history, that of Gerard Andriesz Bicker (below) dating from 1639.

Gerard Andriesz Bicker, 1639, Bartholomeus van der Helst. (The subject
 was seventeen at the time.) I wonder if the artist took off a few pounds.

Van der Helst seems also to have been good with children. His Homo Bulla A Boy Blowing Bubbles (below) from 1665, while fashionably "suited up" in his red velvets, seems nonetheless as playful as any young boy today. The "Homo Bulla" from the title refers to Erasmus, who, during the Renaissance, quoted a Latin proverb in a book of his sayings: "A man is like bubbles. Life is short, fleeting and fickle, just like soap." The Dutch were quite fond of vanitas, even in their genre and portrait paintings.

Homo Bulla, A Boy Blowing Bubbles, 1665, Bartholomeus van der Helst.

Born in 1613, Bartholomeus van der Helst seems to have been a highly competitive artist, taking on huge group assignments in the hope of landing individual commission from the various members of the group, sometimes even their entire families. One of his more interesting (not to mention intimate) portrait renderings is that of his wife, Anna de Pire, dating from 1660 (below). In it, the artist depicts her as a romantic figure from the Dutch pastoral play Granida, written in 1605. Presumably it hung in their boudoir.

Portrait of Anna de Pire as Granida, 1660, the artist´s wife.

 

St. Sebastian

St. Sebastian Tended by St. Irene, 1620, Bassetti Marcantonio

St. Sebastian, 1474,
Sandro Botticelli,
one of the earliest.

A person killed for what he or she believes in has traditionally been termed a martyr. Down through the centuries, especially the past five-hundred years, paintings of martyrs (usually of the Christian variety) have proven to be a rich trove of energizing subject matter. Among them, second only to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ himself, one martyrdom stands in second place, far ahead of whichever saint might be in third, as having intrigued artists most consistently (mostly painters but also a few sculptors and more recently, photographers). If you've ever seen a painting of a semi-nude male figure (usually) shot full of arrows, then you're looking at a martyrdom of St. Sebastian.

  

St. Sebastian, 1499,
Albrecht Durer

According to third-century church tradition, however, St. Sebastian, despite what artists such as Botticelli (left) and Durer (right) would have us believe, was not martyred by bowmen. The story of Sebastian begins in Milan during the third century AD when he was appointed a captain of the Praetorian Guard under Diocletian and Maximian, who were unaware that he was a Christian. Later, in Rome, Sebastian is credited with at least one miracle and the conversion of sixteen members of the Praetorian Guard to Christianity. One of his converts, Chromatius, a jailer, set all his prisoners free. Upon hearing of this, Diocletian ordered Sebastian tied to a post and shot full of arrows, according to one account, until he looked like a sea urchin. Another Christian saint, Irene, came to retrieve his body only to discover he was not dead. She took him home and miraculously nursed him back to health--the martyrdom that wasn't a martyrdom (top).

 

St. Sebastian Thrown into the Cloaca Maxima, 1512, Lodovico Carracci

St. Sebastian, 1475, Antonio
Pollaiuolo, considered one of
the best versions, and my
 first encounter with the saint.

Needless to say, Sebastian was more than a little pissed off at Diocletian. Arrows, even when they're not fatal, tend to sting a little. Around 288 AD, apparently thinking, if he could survive one martyrdom, he could survive another, the would-be saint had some rather impolite words with Diocletian as the emperor passed by on the street. The emperor this time ordered that Sebastian be beaten to death by his soldiers. Then, to add insult to fatal injury, his body was unceremoniously dumped into the Cloaca Maxima (big sewer, above). Thus, he's sometimes referred to as the saint who was martyred twice. The interesting element, insofar as art is concerned, being that his actual death is seldom depicted while his supposed death is far more popular. I guess arrows are more romantic than sewers. Diocletian not only made sure his death sentence was effectively executed the second time, but by ordering the corpse dumped in the local privy, he also hoped to make sure the body would never be venerated. However, in an apparition, Sebastian is said to have told a Christian widow where she might find his undefiled body, thus it was buried in the catacombs next to those of the apostles. The discourse doesn't mention which catacombs.
 

St. Sebastian, 1671-72, Giuseppe Giorgetti,
marking the saint's supposed tomb. (The arrows are real.)

St. Sebastian, 1651, Jose di Ribera

St. Sebastian, 1600, El Greco

The story is intriguing, to say the least, which no doubt has something to do with the saint's popularity with artists. Mostly, however, this popularity has more to do with societal restrictions on the depiction of nude (or nearly nude) male figures in art--social morays more than with mayhem and miracles. Almost without exception, St. Sebastian is depicted with only minimal, often quite strategically place, drapery. From that point on, the variations are vast. The number of arrows varies from "urchinal" to but one (sometimes even none). Some depict the event, some the aftermath. Few actually delve very deeply into the religious element or provide much of a story narrative. The figure is nearly always quite muscular, sensually posed, very nearly bloodless, and in varying degrees of pain, literally from "agony to ecstasy." In more recent depictions, any religious element is limited by the title which seems intended to cover all sins.

 

 St. Sebastian, Gian Paulo Tomasi

St. Sebastian, Yannis Tsarouchis.

As the depictions move into the 20th-century (above) any vestige of personal modesty has declined along with the arrow count. During earlier eras, the story was rife with thin, but socially acceptable "excuses" for male nudity, which have always been far fewer in number than those for female nudity. But, as the centuries have passed, such "excuses" have been recognized for their inanity and thus their utility has declined, leaving only the transparency of the titles. The Images of St. Sebastian has gone from sanctified to sexy, often heavy with homoerotic overtones. Moreover, the poor, unfortunate saint has even undergone an artistic sex-change operation (above left). Of course today, nudity is almost passe. Thus the modern version of St. Sebastian (above, right) is modestly clad in his "tighty-whiteys" with maybe one or two arrows remaining. Perhaps Raphael (below) had the right idea.

Apparently only Raphael could resist the urge to paint the martyr in all
his muscular glory. Though titled St. Sebastian and dating from 1502, it is,
 in fact, difficult here to tell which saint he was paintinig, Irene, or Sebastian.

 

Gottfried Helnwein

It's hard to believe this, Helnwein's palette, could facilitate the images below.

The Golden Age (Mother 4), 2003, Gottfried Helnwein.
Recognizing his content does not make it any easier
to understand his message. Even Hyper-realism
sometimes demands thought and understanding.

In my book Art Think (right column), and for years before and after writing it, I've maintained that there are two kinds of art--easy art and hard art. That is, art in which the artist does virtually all the brain work, creating images where the content and meaning are plainly visible, leaving the viewer to simply enjoy the result--that's easy art. Then there is that type of work through which the artist challenges (or even demands) that the viewer (gasp) think--hard art. Pretty much all non-representational art falls into this category, and as one moves from blatant realism toward expressionism, the cerebral power needed to understand and appreciate such work increases gradually to the point only a very small number of "art appreciators" will take the time and energy to do so. Very often such efforts lead to an "I don't much care" reaction and attitude.

 

Head of a Child 14 (Anna), 2012, Gottfried Helnwein.
The enormous size of the artist's work is startling at first (almost abstract), but
not unusual in the realm of hyper-realism, nor does it make his work easier to grasp.

Gottfried Helnwein. His work is hard to
take in large doses (as is always the case).

It's not at all surprising that the over-broad style of Realism falls into the "easy" category, so one would naturally expect that the more realism the easier. Thus, what we now call Hyper-realism would logically be the "easiest" art of all. Perhaps, but not when dealing with the Hyper-realism of the Austrian-Irish artist, Gottfried Helnwein. It's hard to look at Helnwein's The Golden Age (Mother 4) (above, right), and "not care" what the artist is saying. The image is obvious, the content is as compelling as it is heartbreaking--beauty, love, and tragedy rolled into two (not one syringe but two).

Boulevard of Broken Dreams, 1984, Gottfried Helnwein.

Helnwein was born in Vienna in 1948, schooled in the German Expressionism tradition of Hermann Nitsch and Rudolf Schwarzkogler, and Egon Schiele. You may be familiar with one of his earliest works, Boulevard of Broken Dreams (above), from 1984, in which he cast James Dean, Humphrey Bogart, Marilyn Monroe, and Elvis Presley in the roles of Edward Hopper's famous Nighthawks (1941). It's been popular as a poster for decades now. It's not Hyper-realism and the image may require just a tiny bit of thought, but the setting is so familiar, the portraits so iconic, that, coupled with the title, this work falls easily into the category of "easy" art. It may be the last piece Helnwein ever painted that was in any way easy.

Ninth of November Night, 1988, Gottfried Helnwein

One bright spot in a drab childhood.

The artist grew up in post-war Austria, technically behind the iron curtain, a drab, boring life highlighted only when his father brought home a Disney comic book featuring Donald Duck. His friends, Mickey and Donald, have had recurring roles in his paintings ever since (right). However the most consistent images in Helnwein's paintings have long been children, wounded, mistreated, and abused. Though many of his "The Child" series are quite beautiful, some are not. Often painted in low-key colors or black and white, his depictions of juvenile bloodletting are anything but colorless. I've not included any here. They are, quite frankly, hard to take and highly offensive (even repulsive) to the vast majority of those seeing them. One of the difficulties in studying the work of Gottfried Helnwein is that his talents extend almost equally into any number of disciplines, including sculpture and photography. Moreover, those showing and discussing the artist work often don't mention the media, not differentiating between his large-scale paintings and similar photographs. When the message is all important, the media matters little.
Whether paintings or photos, often it's difficult to appreciate their scale of Helnwein's work until the portraits' young subjects (usually girls) are posed before them (below).

Big girl, little girl--about ten times life size.

During the period 1996-98, Helnwein's series of three Epiphany photos brought to Austrian minds an era they were doing their best to forget, the WW II Nazi occupation. In this series, he presents various elements of German society visiting his version of the Madonna and child--Epiphany I depicting German SS officers as the magi; Epiphany II, utilizes civilian images; while Epiphany III depicts grotesquely mangled images of German politicians surrounding the prone body of a young girl laid out on an alter visualizing Christ's Presentation at the Temple. Even when displayed in other countries, whether painted or digitally composed, this series is thought provoking, not because of it's style or the media and technical elements of its creation, but for the power of the artist's message.

Epiphany I (Adoration of the Magi), 1996, Gottfried, Helnwein.

Epiphany II (Adoration of the Shepherds), 1998, Gottfried Helnwein

Epiphany III (Presentation at the Temple), 1998, Gottfried Helnwein.