"Art Now and Then" does not mean art occasionally. It means art NOW as opposed to art THEN. It means art in 2020 as compared to art many years ago...sometimes many, many, MANY years ago. It is an attempt to make that art relevant now, letting artists back then speak to us now in the hope that we may better understand them, and in so doing, better understand ourselves and the art produced today.
Giovanni Antonio Canal, Portrait of Canaletto, Antonio Visentini
In these, the first decades of the 21st century, we take travel and tourism for granted. What with planes, trains, and automobiles, not to mention motor homes, and cruise ships, even the "middle classes" can save a reasonable amount and take a week-long vacation almost literally anywhere in the world (or at least anywhere in the world the middle classes would want to vacation). Actually the term "vacation" is very much a 20th century term. Before it came the term "tour" which now, ironically, usually means a vacation side-trip of some sort. And "touring" was largely a manifestation of the upper-classes. For Americans, Europe was the most common touring destination, usually starting in either England or France, and ending in Italy. Germany and Holland were somewhat less popular. In Italy, the mandatory stops were Venice, Florence, Naples, and Rome. The bathers went to Capri. The adventurous headed for the picturesque beauty of the Italian Alps.
The Doge's Palaceand the Riva degli Schiavoni, 1730s, Canaletto
What has all this to do with art? Well, often the art and architecture of France, and Italy especially, were the main drawing cards for these tours. And, in an age before picture postcards and genuine Italian/Chinese souvenirs, many of these wealthy globe trotters carted off the real thing--original oil paintings, Roman artifacts, sculpture, even whole rooms and buildings. It was a "buyer beware" market of course, and many an eighteenth and nineteenth century "robber baron" found themselves, when they got home, having paid good money for bad copies, but then, perhaps they got what they deserved.
St. Stephani Plaza at Midday, 1735, Canaletto also worked hand-in-hand with an engraver, Antonio Visentini, to satisfy the market for less expensive Venetian souvenirs.
In the area of painting, an entire cadre of painters (also engravers for the economy-minded) developed to satisfy the "Grand Tourist" desiring to take home a painted memory of Venice, Rome, or Naples. And in spite of the fact that they were essentially cranking out large-scale, high-class, picture postcards, many of them were really quite good. One of the best was Giovanni Antonio Canal, better known as Canaletto. Born in 1746, in Venice, his work became so popular with British clients, his dealer (yes, even back then there were agents) arranged for him to spend nine years painting in England, the views of London and the nearby countryside presumably to satisfy those touring the British Isles. A typical Canaletto painting is not large, perhaps in the range of about 18"x30", no doubt to make them easy for the 18th century "tourist" to take home. And when we see them in reproduction today there is a very definite "picture postcard" quality to them--perfect perspective, perfect "sunny day" lighting, dramatic angles, and almost endless, exquisite, minute detail--all this on barely 4 square feet of canvas.
Westminster Bridge Under Construction from the South-East Abutment, 1747, Canaletto, from his years in London, which he found similar in many ways to Venice (except that the streets were less moist).
Portrait of Francesco Guardi, 1774, Pietro Longhi.
Ever since my wife and I visited Venice, Italy, in the spring of 2013, I've had a special interest in Venetian painting. First and foremost, that means Canaletto, but also Titian, Veronese, Giorgione, Tintoretto, and of course, the Bellini brothers. Except for Canaletto, that means lots of religious paintings, naked women, portraits, and a good deal of history painting. Venice has a lot of history to paint, by the way. Then today I came across the Venetian paintings of the 18th century artist, Francesco Guardi. Guardi is kind of a romanticized Canaletto, and considered the last of the great Venetian painters (a lot of artist today in Venice would take issue with that but...). In any case, Guardi painted Venice in decline, no longer ruling a considerable maritime empire, its lagoon becoming murky with wastes, its once glorious palazzos starting to sink into the mud, its canals lacking in upkeep, its population declining (as it still is today).
Copyright, Jim Lane
Guardi's obligatory view of San Giorgio Maggiore contrasts sharply with my 2013 photo, yet underscores the timelessness of this historic and strangely beautiful city.
What I find most interesting about Guardi is that, despite the decline, there is an atmospheric truth in his numerous Venetian scenes. Canaletto is supernaturally pristine, bright, hard edged, architectural, and superficial. Guardi is none of that. His Venice is soft, gentle, cloudy, and, as I said before, romantic. The contrast is all the more noticeable to me, having been there, lived and breathed the same ambience as Guardi, yet come away with photos (above, below, and at top) that tend to be kind of a cross between Canaletto and Guardi.
Copyright, Jim Lane
This is a scene peering between the Campanile and San Marco's. Street vendors in tents still peddle their souvenirs today, 243 years later.
Turn around at the foot of the Grand Staircase below, and this is what you see, today the exit from the Doge's Palace.
Guardi didn't paint only Venetian landmarks and waterways. He painted the life and times of the Venice he knew. When important kings, queens, popes, and prelates came to the city, Guardi was commissioned to paint them (he painted them, in fact, whether commissioned or not). His Coronation of the Doge (below), from 1770, is seen against the backdrop of the Grand Staircase in the courtyard of the Doge's Palace. It's not changed one iota in 243 years (despite having been underwater more than a few times since Guardi plied his trade. More than that, though, his paintings allow us a peek into the rich, high-ceilinged interior rooms of the palace as they hosted concerts and public audiences with city officials. Little has changed, though Guardi (and other artists as well) often tend to exaggerate heights. Guardi's Campanile in Piazza San Marco always seems more slender than it really is. The same is true of his interiors, though only slightly.
Copyright, Jim Lane
Coronation of the Doge (above, left), 1770, Francesco Guardi
Guardi was born in 1712 and died in 1793. He came from a painting family. His father died when Francesco was four but before he died, he's taught Francesco's older brother Gian Antonio (who, himself was just a lad of thirteen) how to paint. Gian Antonio, in turn, taught Francesco. Another older brother, Nicolo, was also a painter and it's believed the three worked interchangeably on various commissions they received. Ironically, it is "little brother," Francesco, who is most highly regarded today. His Nighttime Procession in Piazza San Marco (below) from 1758 is one of few, perhaps the only nocturnal painting of Venice.
Nighttime Procession in Piazza San Marco,1758 , Francesco Guardi. Of all the vistas provided by Piazza San Marco, this seemed to be the artist's favorite.
Audience Granted by the Doge, 1766, Francesco Guardi. The room is some three stories tall and the size of a basketball court.
On the night of December 28, 1789, the oil depot at San Marcuola caught fire. Though well into his 70s at the time, Guardi rushed to the scene, set up his easel, and painted the fire. He had plenty of time, perhaps even plenty of light (it was a BIG fire). Judging by the fact he painted at least two other similar versions with daylight (one is seen below), the fire appears to have continued well into the next day. I'm not sure what, exactly, they used oil for in that day and age--lighting perhaps...heating?
Fire at the Oil Depot, San Marcuola, 1789, Francesco Guardi. Local firefighters, if there were any, would have been helpless against such a conflagration. Strangely, all historic references to this event refer only to Guardi's paintings.
When we think of landscapes, what usually comes to mind is an image of bucolic peace, quiet and plenitude where nature and beauty are one and where never is heard, a discouraging word...you know the rest. But in the latter half of the sixteenth century, there grew up a genre of painting called "perspectives," and this type of landscape painting had little to do with any of the above. In fact, we've long since ceased calling them landscapes at all (or perspectives either, for that matter) but cityscapes. Although, in the last hundred years or so, city planners (now there's an oxymoron) have taken it upon themselves to try and merge these two very different environments, in theory, if not in fact. Only the Impressionists were ever very good at depicting such efforts in paint (above, left). And even at that, they mostly captured but a brief moment in time and space--a fleeting glimpse of Paris and a few suburbs before the city managed to beat down much of the countryside greenery planners tried to implant along its grand boulevards. In the city, nature has often been reduced to grass struggling to grow between cracks in the sidewalk.
The Effects of Good Government in the City (detail), 1338, Ambrogio Lorenzetti
The city is no newcomer to art. Painters have painted cities for almost as long as there have been cities. In fact, most painters have always lived in them. Walled cities, sometimes even bearing identifiable landmarks, have appeared as backgrounds in paintings since medieval times. Ambrogio Lorenzetti may have painted the first true cityscape as far back as 1338 with his The Effects of Good Government in the City (above) in which he depicts the interdependence between the city (Sienna in this case) and the countryside--farmers bringing in their produce to sell in the city, where its inhabitants trade their manufactured goods for food, wool, and flax. As the title indicates, Lorenzetti emphasised the social order rising from good urban government and free trade.
The Dam with the New Town Hall in Amsterdam, 1688, Jan van der Heyden
But it was the Dutch who raised the painting of the benevolence of classic good order and good government to the level of high art. It was they, too, who first introduced the term "perspectives" to describe such art. And, it's not difficult to see why in Jan van der Heyden's The Dam with the New Town Hall in Amsterdam (above), painted in 1688. Even today, the painting would challenge the best efforts of the best draughtsman/artist in managing its angled view on what is now the Royal Palace and the exceptional detailing of the massive classical edifice while correctly proportioning the city's other major landmarks and its citizens as they go about their business in the town square. All his life, van der Heyden specialised in such detailing. There's not so much as a single tree or blade of grass in sight--not even a tulip.
Piazetta,Venice, Looking North, 1730, Canaletto
But even van der Heyden's Dutch tendency for stickling details pales in comparison next to that of Canaletto's Venetian scenes. Reproductions of his 1730 The Piazzetta, Venice, Looking North (above) could pass for 20th century picture postcards despite its having been painted more than a hundred years before such technology existed. The lighting, the restrained use of colour, the perspective, the seemingly infinite, razor sharp focus, the natural "busyness" of the scene seems incredible as we remind ourselves that it is, in fact, actually a painting. Quite frankly, Canaletto's work has much to do with both post cards and photography. They were, in fact, large, souvenir images painted by the hundreds specifically for the tourist trade (albeit rich tourists) who came to see what was even then considered one of the most beautiful, romantic, and unique cities on earth. And recent studies have brought to light the extensive efforts Canaletto employed in creating such works. The paintings were drawn, if not painted, from inside a portable, room-sized, camera obscura by highly trained (and no doubt very patient) draughtsmen (we could hardly call them artists), and then turned over to studio assistants and apprentices for the actual painting. Canaletto, of course, oversaw the whole enterprise and no doubt lent his hand to the all-important finishing work, but in large part, these incredible painted images were the output of a surprisingly sophisticated art factory.
In America, before she took up huge flowers, Georgia O'Keeffe was painting huge buildings (below, right). John Marin (below, left) was abstracting them in watercolor, and Joseph Stella was bridging the gap between cities with his (and Roebling's) Brooklyn masterpiece of art and engineering. Despite the absence of natural vegetation, or even human presence, in many such works, as the cities have spread with unrestrained exuberance north and south, east and west across this country, they've come to represent so much of what America is that it seems now to be a bit arbitrary to maintain any kind differentiation between the rural and the urban scenes. More and more they seem to be simply somewhat different angles painted of the same American landscape.
His name is Marco. He sets up in the shade of the prestigious Academia Museum in Venice. I bought one of his oil paintings (below, left).
Photo by Jim Lane
Marco's art, in the fine tradition of Venice's Canaletto.
I think I should make myself clear from the start, I'm talking here about those artists who sell their work on the sidewalk, not those who draw their work on the sidewalk. If you're interested in that sort of thing, check out "Pavement Art" (06-02-13). Having just returned from the damp city of Venice, my memories of the hard-working, talented journeymen artists who eke out a modest survival competing with one another for tourist euros on the "streets" of this fascinating city are quit are fresh. I have a very sympathetic, or empathetic (take your pick) feeling for such talent. Although I've never set up my painting display on a city sidewalk, I've spent many a long, hot, summer day under similar circumstances in more city parks than I like to recall, pursuing similar remuneration for my own work. It takes a special kind of artist to endure, or perhaps even enjoy, such an existence. I'm not one of them. I always limited such sales efforts to no more than a half-dozen shows per year, I seldom "enjoyed" the experience. Moreover, I've not done so now for more than a decade (it's not a marketing ploy I'd recommend for aged artists).
Photo by Jim Lane
The Lindos Acropolis, 2010, on the island of Rhodes, my first street vendor art investment.
I'm not sure how prevalent such street art vendors are in the U.S. but all over Europe, these hearty souls are as much a part of the landscape in tourist areas as t-shirt and postcard sellers. They're cut from the same cloth. Only their prices mark these artists as a breed apart. The Venetian canal scene (above, left) is 8 inches by 12 inches and cost thirty euros. Of course, you could buy several t-shirts and a whole stack of postcards for that, except you wouldn't have an "original" work of art (usually oils or watercolors) and you wouldn't have the satisfaction of helping support the local art economy. Sure, each artist likely turns out dozens of similar (perhaps nearly identical) versions of each best-selling scene, and he or she likely does one such as mine in an hour or less. However, let me be the first to tell you, the time involved in selling such work is ten times (or more) that of creating it.
Photo by Jim Lane
Shade is at a premium, rain and wind always a threat, boredom goes with the territory, but the scenery is nice, and the colorfully dressed international tourists, a modest distraction. One or two sales each day can make it all worthwhile.
Artists catering to tourists have a long tradition. Though he may not have displayed his work in front of San Marco Basilica, the Venetian artist, Canaletto, painted it so many times he could likely have rendered it from memory. He, too, pursued tourist dollars (well, lira, actually) as wealthy 18th century Englishmen and others embarked on what was then called the "Grand Tour" of the European continent (Americans were rare until the 19th century). Venice was considered a "must see" stop for all such cultured gentlemen (and ladies too, if accompanied by such gentlemen). The market then was different. Canaletto didn't have to compete with cheap postcards and his works were considerably larger, occupying a substantially higher price niche. Yet his style, his super-realistic renderings of the Campanile, San Marco, the Doge's Palace, the Grand Canal with its picturesque gondolas, and the then brand new San Giorgio Maggiore, were not that far removed from the work of Marco (top) in spirit, if not in price.
The Piazzetta Looking North, 1730s, Canaletto. The tourist garb has changed; the sidewalk cafes are missing; but far greater than the differences are those features of St. Mark's Square which are totally unchanged today.
In this century, we take travel and tourism for granted. What with jet planes and cruise ships, even the "middle classes" can save a reasonable amount and take a week-long vacation almost literally anywhere in the world (or at least anywhere in the world the middle classes would want to vacation). Actually the term "vacation" is very much a twentieth century word. Before it came the term "tour" which now, ironically, usually means a side-trip of some sort. And "touring" was largely a manifestation of the upper-classes. For Americans, Europe was the most common touring destination, usually starting in either England or France, and ending in Italy. Germany and Holland were somewhat less popular. In Italy, the mandatory stops were Venice, Florence, Naples, and Rome. The bathers went to Capri. The adventurous headed for the picturesque beauty of the Italian Alps.
What has all this to do with art? Well, often the art and architecture of France and Italy especially, were the main drawing card for these tours. And, in an age before picture postcards and genuine Italian/Taiwanese souvenirs, many of these wealthy globe trotters carted off the real thing--original oil paintings, Roman artifacts, sculpture, even whole rooms and buildings. It was a buyer beware market of course, and many an eighteenth and nineteenth century "robber baron" found themselves, when they got home, having paid good money for bad copies, but then, perhaps they got what they deserved. In the area of painting, an entire cadre of painters (also engravers for the economy-minded) developed to satisfy the "Grand Tourist" desiring to take home a painted memory of Venice, Rome, or Naples. And in spite of the fact that they were essentially cranking out large-scale, high-class, picture postcards, many of them were actually quite good.
Grand Canal and the Church of the Salute, 1730, Canaletto
One of the best was Giovanni Antonio Canal, better known as Canaletto. Born in 1746, in Venice, his work became so popular with British clients, his dealer (yes, even back then there were agents) arranged for him to spend nine years painting in England, the views of London and the nearby countryside presumably to satisfy those touring the British Isles. A typical Canaletto painting is not large, perhaps in the range of about 18"x30", no doubt to make them easy for the 18th century "tourist" to take home. And when we see them in reproduction today there is a very definite picture postcard quality to them--perfect perspective, perfect sunny day lighting, dramatic angles, and almost endless, exquisite, minute detail--all this on barely 4 square feet of canvas.
Bernardo Bellotto's San Giorgio Maggiore (left) San Giorgio today (right)
As a practicing "Europhile," it's always fascinating to explore the work of post-Renaissance artists with a similar predisposition toward painting virtually anything that doesn't move so long as it looks old and might be architecturally significant. The Venetian painter, Bernardo Bellotto, was one such artist. This type of painting is called Vedute, which translated means "views." Having just returned from Venice a few weeks ago, I first encountered his name and his work there in the city of his birth (1721). Little Bernardo was fortunate from birth. His mother was Fiorenza Canal, the sister of the famous urban landscape painter Canaletto, whose work is practically synonymous with Venetian art. Bernardo grew up to study in his uncle's workshop where he picked up all the best traits in his master's repertoire, though his palette is significantly darker and colder than that of his uncle. For us, perhaps the most important trait he picked up was his uncle's wanderlust. Canaletto ended up painting almost as much of London as he did Venice.
Copyright, Jim Lane
In Florence, surprisingly little has changed from Bellotto's vedute of the Signoria,
painted in 1745, and my photo from 2001.
In 1742, at the tender age of 21, the accomplished painter headed to Rome where he used what he learned from his uncle to record the look and feel of that great city. He was not above also using his uncle's name from time to time as well, sometimes signing his work Bernardo Canaletto. Hey, a career in art is a rough road, a guy's gotta play the hand he's dealt. Bernardo Bellotto stayed in Rome a couple years, painting all the important tourist venues of that time, then headed north, literally painting his way up the boot of Italy through Florence, toward Milan, eventually ending up in Dresden, (Germany today, but then part of Poland) where he found an appreciative benefactor in King August III. His work there preserved the beauty of the city lost during the extensive fire bombing of WW II.
Bellotto recorded the before and "during" as the old Kreuzkirche in Dresden was mostly demolished in being "renovated."
From Dresden he move on to Vienna, Austria, at the invitation of the Empress Maria Theresa where he recorded that city for posterity as well. Then he moved on to Munich, then back to Dresden. When his friend, the king, died, he headed for St. Petersburg, Russia, at the invitation of Catherine II. He made a brief stopover in Warsaw to greet the new Polish King Stanislaw August Poinatowski. The "brief stop" turned into a sixteen-year stint as the court painter. Bellotto died in Warsaw in 1780, having never made it to Russia. However his paintings later did. After WW II they were returned to Poland where they were referenced in helping restore the city of Warsaw after its near destruction during the war.
Copyright, Jim Lane
It would appear Bellotto (left) with his camera obscura, may have had much the same problems as I did with my digital camera in capturing Rome's Pantheon. His juxtapositioning of the drum to the portico is skewed to the left. My version involved the knitting together of five separate images.
In comparing Bellotto's paintings of European urban "views" then and now, one comes to realize that Rome isn't the only "Eternal City" in Europe. I shot photos of many of the same vistas Bellotto painted. In fact, Bellotto may have used a camera-like contrivance called the camera obscura, (almost certainly used by his uncle) in accurately depicting Rome and the other cities he visited. Camera obscura, by the way, means "dark room," and may have been at least somewhat portable. By "portable" I mean it likely took two grown men to move it and probably consisted of a box-like framework covered with canvas. Take it from me, my digital "contrivance" is a vast improvement.
Copyright, Jim Lane
Bellotto's Doge's Palace waterfront from around 1740 (left) and where we ate lunch, roughly the lower left corner in Bellotto's painting.
One of the best kept secrets amongst artists is the degree to which they rely on photos in doing their work. And here I'm not just talking about the occasional use of pictures from a "grab file" but photos from which most or all of the painting is rendered. Today, portrait artists are most open regarding their use of photos though still quite reticent usually in divulging just "how" they use them, and not without good reason. Most individuals commissioning a portrait consider photos a convenience as much as does the artist. After all, without them, both would be tortured by long, tedious settings from which only the best models and the best artist would emerge from the ordeal with great paintings. Beyond that though, artist make sure few people are aware if they use any kind of projection device to enhance speed and accuracy. Though most artists no longer feel "guilty" in this form of "cheating," some still continue to condemn it, especially when in the hands of the clumsy practitioner. In terms of the general public, an artist drawing from a projected image is still very much frowned upon. It seems to them to somehow destroy the mystical magic of "drawing."
A cutaway drawing dating from the Renaissance detailing the workings of the Camera Obscura
It may come as a surprise to some, but a couple of the most admired artists in history seem to have relied almost totally on projected images in the drawing stages of their paintings. In the mid-1600s, Jan Vermeer was probably the first to actually USE such labor-saving methods as his sole means of drawing upon his canvases. But the device he used was not new by any means. The Italians had first experimented with it during the Renaissance. The "contraption" he used was a wooden framework set against a wall with a wooden top and dark curtains hung on the other three sides. The canvas was mounted on the wall, and a plank with a tiny, rectangular hole in it was mounted on the front of the frame to allow a small amount of light into the cubicle. The size of the hold determined the sharpness of the image while the depth of the cubical determined the size of the resulting, projected image. The image, of course, came out upside down on the canvas, but that was of little consequence.
The Milkmaid, 1660, Jan Vermeer
The device was called the camera obscura (dark chamber). One of the hallmarks of Vermeer's work included a wall of windows on the left in most of his paintings through which bright sunlight was admitted--a prerequisite for using such a device. Holland being the world center at the time in the production of lenses, it's quite likely his camera obscura pioneered their use as well. A hundred years or so later, the Venetian artist, Canaletto used a similar device. Or more precisely, it's likely his assistants did. It takes no great artistic skill to use such a visual aid beyond some basic instruction and a little trial and error. The sheer quantity of Caneletto's output alone would have dictated their use. Beyond that, the consistent quality of his renderings of the Venetian cityscape gives further evidence of his reliance on such technology. Believe it or not, there was even handheld, portable camera obscura (a canoe-like contraption which fit over the artist's head and shoulders), for drawing on location. What can I say? Another art "secret" bites the dust.
Imagine rendering a detailed painting of Times Square on New Year's Eve, or a similar scene of a Presidential Inauguration in oils on canvas. Everything must be there in infinite detail, from the hot-dog vendor in the foreground to the lady atop the Capitol dome in the background. Even if the canvas was measured in feet rather than inches the task would still be mind-boggling...at least to modern day artists. Of course today, with photography, no one would bother, even though the use of photographs would make the task quite a great deal less difficult. But one artist, the Venetian painter, Giovanni Antonio Canal, best known by his signature, Canaletto, did just such a painting.
The work is entitled Return of the Bucentoro to the Molo on Ascension Day. It was painted in 1732, and not only did the artist accomplish everything outlined above, but this painting is not at all unique. He made a habit of it, building a very successful career around just such enormously detailed works. The painting is large, nearly 12 by 14 feet, but into it is crammed such exquisite detail, such ornate decoration, such a wonderful sense of movement and activity, that the effect is nothing less than breathtaking. It's all there, all the architecture including the mint, the library, Sansovino's towering Campanile, St. Mark's Cathedral, The Doge's Palace, arrayed in glorious sunshine against what can only be called a truly Venetian sky. And that's just the background.
Return of the Bucentoro to the Molo on Ascension Day, 1732, Caneletto
The real action is on the water as the Doge's barge moves along the Grand Canal accompanied by a flotilla of other ornately carved and gilded gondolas all heavily populated with figures from rowers to royalty. Every figure has a highly decorated costume, a face, and is actively involved in some activity. In fact, everything appears to move, flags wave, the water glistens, the boats glide in what seems to be a painted extravaganza to end all painted extravaganzas. Every detail is done from on-site drawings yet the whole perspective is straight from Caneletto's imagination. There is no building or quay where he could possibly have set up an easel and painted the magnificent celebration. Today, Venice is, without doubt, the most romantic city in Europe, perhaps the whole world, and if this artist wasn't singlehandedly responsible for making it so, he can be said to have at least played a major role in fostering that image.
About three months ago my wife and I spent a week in London, England. London was the last major European capital which I had not visited. Some people when they visit London go "bar-hopping" (or pub-hopping), which requires, of course, no great effort--the pubs are everywhere...everywhere! However, I have never been one to imbibe. Instead, in visiting, Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, St. Petersburg, and other major art centers, I go museum hopping. Having taught about art for almost thirty years, I think I should check to see if I knew what I was talking about. Like Paris, London has so many art museums even in narrowing down the most important ones to five was quite a challenge for a six-day schedule. I shot lots of pictures just for the purpose of sharing them here, only to find that a number of videos which cover these revered art venues far better than my best efforts with my beloved pocket digital. I'm using both here, and in covering the art of a city like London, you can expect more in images than words. My choices began with the venerable British Museum in Bloomsbury area of London, followed by the National Portrait Gallery, the Tate Britain (the original), and the Tate Modern a mile or two down the Thames. My museum hopping concluding with a look at the Crown Jewels Museum within the walls of the Tower of London (see map below).
The London museum trail. Our hotel is marked with an "H". I neglected to mark the Tower of London, but it sits at the far right overlooking the Thames.
The British Museum is the oldest existing museum in the world, dating from 1753, which makes it older than the Louvre. It's also where some of the oldest art in the world is displayed, dating back to prehistoric Egypt. In fact, the British Museum is second only to the Cairo Museum in the quantity and depth of its holdings. However, the star of their eight-million-piece collection is the Rosetta Stone, discovered in 1799 and dating from 196 BC. Under the same roof can be found the Elgin Marbles, a sculptural grouping which once crowned the tympanum of the Parthenon in Athens. (Greece just called. They want their rocks back.)
The Elgin Marbles, kidnapped in 1801 by Thomas Bruce, 7th Earl of Elgin.
In the middle of the British Museum is the modern-day (2001) Great Court, the central focus of the museum, which encompasses the space once occupied by the British Library. Today, only the circular reading room of the library is preserved (below). This domed area covers about two acres of cafes, souvenir shops, monumental sculpture, and classical, facades. It serves as a hub for accessing the various historic periods. Admission to the museum is free but everywhere can be found receptacles for a donation (usually five pounds).
The British Library Reading Room was "home" to such important literary figures as Sun Yat-sen, Karl Marx, Oscar Wilde, Bram Stoker, Mahatma Gandhi, Rudyard Kipling, George Orwell, George Bernard Shaw, Mark Twain, Vladimir Lenin, Virginia Woolf, Arthur Rimbaud, Mohammad Ali Jinnah, H. G. Wells, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Trafalgar Square on a rainy afternoon. The dome of the National Gallery can be seen at far left.
The National Gallery, founded in 1824, houses a collection of over 2,300 paintings dating from the mid-13th-Century to 1900 (give or take a few years). Like the British Museum, admission is free. The National Portrait Gallery, right next door is free too, unlike such Museums in other European cities. It differs too from comparable museums in continental Europe, in that the National Gallery was not formed by nationalizing an existing royal collection. It came into being around 1824 when the British government bought 38 paintings from the heirs of John Julius Angerstein, an insurance broker and patron of the arts.
The Tate Museum is located a little ways south of Westminster Cathedral, overlooking the Thames between the Lambeth and Vauxhall bridges. The museum is also admission-free and boasts the works of British painters such as Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Sir John Everett Millais, Andre Breton, Richard Anuszkiewicz, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Roy Lichtenstein, Pablo Picasso, Francis Bacon, J.M.W. Turner, and the photographer, Nan Goldin. The Tate Gallery is one of the largest museums in the U.K and part of the Tate network of galleries which includes the Tate Modern, the Tate Liverpool, and the Tate St Ives. It is the oldest gallery in the network, yet the youngest of the five major London galleries, having opened in 1897. It houses a sub-stantial collection of the art of the United Kingdom since Tudor times, and in part-icular has large holdings of the works of J.M.W. Turner, who bequeathed all his own collection to the nation.
The Tate Modern, just down the river and on the opposite side, (and directly across from St. Paul's Cathedral) is about as opposite as its parental counterpart as one could imagine. It is housed in a former power station, in the Bankside area of the London Borough of Southwark. The Tate Modern holds the national collection of British art from (approximately) 1900 to the present day along side international modern and contemporary art. I found it quite comparable to the Pompidou Center in Paris and the Museum of Modern Art in New York (except for the fact that, once again, admission is free).
Copyright, 2018, Jim Lane
The Tate Modern is said to be the largest all brick structure in the world.
As with the other museums of modern art mentioned above, the visitor must come to the Tate Modern with an open mind. And even at that, there will be many works you don't like...or even detest. Valiant creativity and experimentation abound, but then too, so does conceptual art. Here the modern and the post-modern have drawn up a fragile ceasefire. Here you'll find work by John William Waterhouse, David Hockney, John Singer Sargent, Salvador DalÃ, and Henri Matisse, next to Tracey Emin's unmade bed. As for myself, I visited as much to see the building as its contents. Ever since Wright's New York Guggenheim, most such new museums fall into that category, often overwhelming visually the art within. But, what the hell, it's free.
Copyright, 2018, Jim Lane
At the Tate Modern, one can literally descend into a Modern Art abstraction.
The Bankside Power Station, was originally designed by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott, and built in two stages between 1947 and 1963. The power station closed in 1981. The brick-clad structure was roughly divided into three main areas each running east-west--the huge main Turbine Hall in the center, with the boiler house to the north and the switch house to the south. For many years after closure Bankside Power Station risked being demolished by developers. However, a grassroots campaign to save the building came up with suggestions for possible new uses. In April 1994 the Tate Gallery announced that Bankside would be the home for the new Tate Modern. In July of the same year, an international competition was launched to select an architect for the new gallery. Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron of Herzog & de Meuron won the competition. The £134-million conversion to the Tate Modern started in June 1995 and was completed in January 2000. The Tate Modern attracted more visitors than originally expected so in 2004, plans were drawn up to expand the museum. These plans focused on the southwest of the building in order to provide 5,000m2 of new display space, nearly doubled the original amount.
In visiting London, if one gets "burned-out" tromping through endless art museums (each of which deserve a full day of art appreciation), there's one museum unlike any other in the world--the Imperial Crown Jewels Museum located behind the ancient, historic walls of the Tower of London. The infamous tower is among the oldest buildings in London, dating back to the 11th-Century. It is located on the north banks of the Thames roughly across the river from the Tate Modern. Just over its stone ramparts can be seen the iconic Tower Bridge (below).
The monarch and her exquisite headgear. The coronation crown weighs some two-and-a-half pounds.
In visiting the site, I was torn between touring the original White Tower, absorbing all its tragic history of British political and religious intrigue, and ogling the crown jewels. This museum, by the way, is NOT free. (Guarding the royal trinkets costs a lot of pounds.) The tower's endless stairways to the top quickly led us to bail. The crown jewels are all on one dimly lit level, the displays sparkling with theatrical lighting and centuries of extravagant luster. Pity the queen having to decide which diamond-encrusted, solid-gold, endlessly-polished crown to wear. Actually, only one (pictured above) is worn regularly, and then only once or twice a year.
I had long wanted to visit London, its museums, and historic venues. My patient, loving wife...not so much. As I wore myself out ingesting all the museum art I could see, she remained at the Park Plaza Westminster Bridge Hotel during the day, relaxing, looking forward to a night on the town, including dinner at a British pub or fine dining at a posh restaurant capped off with a West-End musical--School of Rock, Kinky Boots, and her favorite, Momma Mia. Getting around London is easy if you don't mind the cab fare. Forget about renting a car. London streets are a horrendous maze of narrow, confusing, driving-on-the-"wrong"-side-of-the-street madness. By the same token, the London Underground is world renown, but the map looks like a diagram for my desktop's motherboard.
Copyright, 2018, Jim Lane
This gallery in the Tate gives some idea as to what it was like to go "gallery hopping" in the past--floor to ceiling, wall-to-wall art.
Master Crewe as Henry VIII, 1775, Sir Joshua Reynolds. Can you imagine a parent doing this today?
