Pope Portraits

International portrait artist Igor Babailov
is seen finishing his portrait of Pope
Benedict XVI.

When a pope quits for the first time in six-hundred years, that makes news. I'm a news junkie. I don't spend all my time writing about art and artists. However, whenever I can, I like to combine the two, which set me thinking about art and popes, specifically papal portraits. Let me tell you, over the past two millenniums there have been (pardon the irreverence) some doozies. I've used the phrase, good, bad, and ugly so many times it borders on becoming trite, but believe me, this is a case when it's exquisitely appropriate. Starting with the most recent papal portrait (2010) by the Russian trained, American artist, Igor Babailov of Pope Benedict XVI, The Truth, the Way and the Life (left) is not just good, but excellent. He also painted Pope John Paul III, titled Believe (2004).

Pope Alexander VI. In 1492, he is
said to have "bought" the papacy.

The designation for the worst papal portrait of all times goes to an unknown artist painting what many would consider the worst pope all time, Alexander VI, the infamous Rodrigo Borgia (right). The artist should have been excommunicated (by all accounts, the same could be said of the pope). It also fits in the "ugly" category remarkably well. However, when it comes to ugly, it would be hard to match the painting of Pope Formosus by French artist, Jean Paul Laurens, painted in 1870, some one thousand years after the pope died (below). That fact, however is of little consequence in that he depicted the pope as dead, propped up on his throne in the ludicrous "Cadaver Trial" of 897 in which the deceased pope was disinterred by his successor, tried, found guilty of perjury, his body burned, reburied, disinterred a second time, and then thrown in the Tiber. Whew...the most hated pope of all time?

 

Le Pape Formose et Étienne VII, 1870, Jean Paul Laurens



Pope Anicetus,
Antonio Circignani

The Catholic church counts 265 popes starting with the apostle Peter. Although many painted images of St. Peter exist, it's highly unlikely any of them could be considered portraits. The same could be said for most, if not all, of the popes for the first two or three centuries, though one, a fresco of the second century pope Anicetus (left, 155-166), said to be painted by Antonio Circignani (AKA Pomaramio) is so well done and distinctly natural it might well be considered the first authentic papal portrait. It's also the first papal portrait to be attributed to a known artist. Several very known artists have painted popes. Their works have risen to the level of fine art superseding the papal personage of their sitter. Some of the artists, Raphael, Titian, Velazquez, among others, are household names. The popes they painted...not so much (bottom). Raphael's Portrait of Pope Leo X (1518-19, below, right) is a group portrait including two influential cardinals (the power behind the papal throne, perhaps). Titian gives us a similar, somewhat sinister grouping in his portrait of Pope Paul III with his Grandsons (1546, below, left).

 



Pope Leo X with Two Cardinals,
1518-19) Raphael
 

Pope Paul III with his Grandsons,
1547,Titian
 

 



Three of the best from the most famous papal artusts, each influencing the next
(a) Raphael, Pope Julius II. 1511. (b) Titian, Pope Paul III. 1543. (c) Velázquez,
Pope Innocent X. 1650.

  

The Greatest Artist Alive Today

 

Steven Spielberg filming Lincoln.

I've often written about my admiration for the man, including him on my list of this century's most influential artists, however it occurred to me just this morning that I'd never actually given the man his due, despite having written about hundreds of lesser creative minds. (Not that he needs me to tout his accomplishments.) To begin, his first professional art endeavor cost $500. He made a profit of one dollar. It was a science fiction adventure film called Firelight. This first commercial "success" was later to inspire a second attempt, his somewhat more successful, Close Encounters of a Third Kind. Since then, Steven Spielberg has made three films which have set box office records in their time, Jaws, E.T. the Extraterrestrial, and Jurassic Park. Collectively, his films have earned $8.5 billion. Forbes estimates that he's been able to hang on to $3.2 billion of that--not bad for a kid who shot his first film in 8mm to earn a boy scout merit badge.

 

The Oscars are only the beginning.

Of course making lots of money in the movie business is not necessarily the mark of a great artist. Even his Academy Awards for Schindler's List (1993) and Saving Private Ryan (1998), while certainly indicative of the high regard in which he is held in Hollywood, would not, taken alone, elevate him to the lofty realm of my "Greatest Artist Alive." A great artist must move people. Many years ago I taught a survey course at a local community college--Introduction to Film. Schindler's List was one of the newer films shown and discussed in class. The final scene in which the descendants of those on Oskar Schindler's list each laid a stone on his grave in Israel caused me to choke up with emotion in class. That had never happened before. For many WWII veterans, Saving Private Ryan had the same effect.

 

The film that earned Spielberg his first dollar.

Steven Spielberg was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1946 to Jewish parents, his mother a restaurateur, his father a very early computer engineer. He spent his childhood in New Jersey and Scottsdale, Arizona, where he began playing with motion pictures as a teen, filming model trains and cowboy epics. More than just earning a photography merit badge, by the time Spielberg graduated from high school in Saratoga, California, he was an eagle scout. After high school Spielberg studied film and theater at USC and Cal State, though it wasn't until he became famous that USC awarded him an honorary degree. (Nothing if not persistent, 35 years after starting, he finally earned a degree from USC.) A stint as an unpaid intern at Universal Studios got his foot in the industry door. A short time later, Spielberg became the youngest director ever signed to a long-term studio contract.






Spielberg directed Peter Falk in
the premier episode of the TV
series, Colombo. The show
ran for seven seasons.

Spielberg paid his dues directing episodic TV, Marcus Welby,  Night Gallery, Owen Marshall, and Colombo. From there he moved on to a number of made-for-TV films, which led to his first feature film, Sugarland Express, though the film fared poorly at the box-office. Then came the shark attack. Jaws was a film maker's worst nightmare, technically challenging, over budget,  behind schedule, and more than once nearly shut down. However, $470 million and three Academy Awards later, the film was an enormous hit. Spielberg went in search of a "bigger boat." He turned down King Kong and Superman in favor of his own screenplay, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, nominated for six Academy Awards and winning two. The Indiana Jones series and E.T. followed, cementing Spielberg's name in the history books as among the top two or three money-making film artists of all time.

 

No one ever deserved it more.

On a par with D.W. Griffith, David O. Selznick, John Ford, Orson Wells, Stanley Kubrick, and Alfred Hitchcock, Stephen Spielberg not only entertains, but makes an impact on the world outside Hollywood's hills. He's tackled the Holocaust, the slave trade, the Civil War, WW II (both in Europe and the Far East), racial injustice, artificial intelligence, not to mention a rampaging Tyrannosaurus Rex or two. Beyond all this though, the mark of a truly great artist is seen in those artists of similar caliber which he or she influences. The mark of Spielberg can be seen in the work of James Cameron (Titanic), Quentin Tarantino (Pulp Fiction), Ridley Scott (Black Hawk Down), and Steven Soderbergh (Erin Brockovich), among others. Moreover, the man hasn't lost his touch, his most recent film, Lincoln is nominated for 12 Academy Awards. Spielberg has promised to make the movie available free of charge to high schools and middle schools once it comes out on DVD.

Spielberg's Lincoln--I've seen it; I highly recommend you do too.

 

 

The White House

Perhaps not the most beautiful shot of the White House but it does give an excellent
feel for the place--a luxurious country estate in the middle of a bustling city.

If one were to make a list of the most important or the most beautiful buildings in the United States, the big, white, Georgian mansion at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, DC, would be near the top of either list. I've been there three times, the first in 1963 when it was the home of Camelot and the Kennedy's. The second time was some five years later when the Kennedy nemesis, Richard Nixon occupied the place, and then again, a year or so later with my wife-to-be. Back then all one had to do was line up at the East Wing and you where literally home free. Times change. So has the Executive Mansion, as it was first called back in 1792 when the cornerstone was laid by George Washington, himself (on a site he'd personally selected).

Charleston County Courthouse, 1791, James Hoban, architect.

Hoban's design entry in the competition seems to be simply a more grandiose version of his Charleston courthouse. Having won the competition, Washington influenced Hoban to employ a two-story façade.

James Hoban designed the place. Hoban was an Irish architect from South Carolina at a time when American architects (of any caliber) were as rare as the proverbial hen's teeth. Washington probably met Hoban during a southern tour shortly after becoming president. Hoban's Charleston, SC, courthouse (second image) is remarkably like his submission in the design completion which Washington had a strong hand in judging (directly above). At Washington's behest, Hoban's revised design was less palatial.



Thomas Jefferson's design competition submission was influenced by Palladio's Villa Rotunda.

Latrobe's west elevation bears the hallmarks
of Jefferson as much as Latrobe.

However, the White House we know today is as much influenced by our third president as our first. Thomas Jefferson, in fact, entered (anonymously) the same design competition as Hoban with a domed design (above) not unlike his Monticello. Despite having not won the completion, as president, Jefferson commissioned Capitol architect Benjamin Latrobe to design the north and south porticoes, although neither were built until the 1820s.

Mrs. Harrison's proposed White House additions

During the late 1800s the U.S. presidency began to outgrow the White House. With the election of President Benjamin Harrison in 1888,  came his wife, Caroline, who was much displeased with what she found in moving into the historic structure. Immediately she called upon architect, Fred Owen to propose no less than three possible remedies, (1.) a whole new White House on Sixteenth Street, (2.) relatively minor additions to the residence, and (3.) extensive, three-story wings that would have forever changed the appearance of the mansion, giving it a central courtyard and a  Beaux Arts palace-like ambiance (above). Mrs. Harrison died of tuberculosis during her husbands term in office, and fortunately, her grandiose plans died with her.

1950--building a new White House inside the old.

The need, however, persisted into the new century, and when the inevitable wings sprouted, during the early 1900s, more level architectural heads at McKim, Meade, and White prevailed, maintaining very much the original, graceful appearance and proportions hammered out by Hoban, Washington, Jefferson, and Latrobe. During the Truman administration, the place was literally gutted and rebuilt from the inside out into the modern home/office we know today. With the addition of the pleasant Truman Balcony (below), which eliminated the need for ugly awnings behind the pillars of the south portico, little has changed on the outside, while inside, the White House has taken on the additional roll of a living presidential museum with portraits and artifacts of every president and his family who have ever lived there...as well as one who never did.

President Obama enters the south entrance of  White House, March 30, 2012.

 

Barbie Art

Art of Barbie Exhibition poster, 1999

Want to feel old? Try contemplating this. Barbie is fifty-four. Barbie who? Barbie Mattel of course, or at least I presume that's her last name. No one in my family was ever a big fan of the young lady so I'm really not sure. My sister had one, and a little suitcase full of clothes, but by today's standards, that could be deemed a mere tokenism. Today, a collection of less than forty is considered "all things in moderation." Collections numbering upwards to a hundred are not too uncommon. What with Ken and Muffy or Buffy, or whatever the hell her way-too-many friends are called, the proper preteen today needs an entire clique of them just to look her friends in the eye and hold her head up with the rest of them. Although Barbie is largely passe in terms of "political correctness" these days, there was a time when ardent feminists would "see red" at the mere mention of her name. At any rate, after more than fifty years, there's little doubt she's become an American Icon.



Probably not what Mattel had in mind.

What would Leonardo say?

When Barbie turned forty back in 1999,  Mattel sponsored a "Art of Barbie" exhibit (above). Talk about asking for trouble. That's akin to pasting a "kick me" note on the back of each showcase box. Given the fact that her figure is already little short of obscene...or at least highly suggestive...the possibilities boggle the mind. Mattel pulled from the exhibit a piece by British sculptor, Marc Quinn, reputedly featuring a decapitated Barbie smeared with bloody paint (as the British might say). Quinn reportedly created the piece in jest (given the fact that his previous works include his own blood). I'm not sure if British law has the equivalent of our First Amendment, but if previous U.S. lawsuits are any indication, Mattel is not known to have a sense of humor where its precious family of female flesh and polyvinyl is concerned.

Picasso would love her.

The show opened at London's Natural History Museum.  Natural history? And why not in the U.S.? Given the outrageous streak of offensive creativity the upstart pack of male British artists were into at the time, the show, was literally in their backyard. It seemed designed as bait to attract media attention more than a serious attempt to explore the legend of Barbie as a social phenomena from a creative point of view. Ostensibly, the doll makers hoped to attract the world's top artists and designers to explore "modern interpretations of the world's most famous doll." Rachel Whiteread entombed Barbie in a concrete block for the exhibit while fashion designer, Alexander McQueen cast our beloved American preteen sex symbol as Joan of Arc.  Mattel made the exhibit a charity function by auctioning off the various pieces with the proceeds going to AIDS victims and their families. 

 

Venus di Milo Barbie

Andy Warhol: Why didn't I think of that!

Whether or not Barbie and gang belonged in a natural history museum (at forty or fifty, she's well into middle-age, but hardly in the same league as dinosaurs), there's no doubt she's been a cultural icon, and as such, certainly fair game for artists bent on mocking, distorting, or even destroying such iconography. Perhaps most interesting is the number of artists who have married the Barbie icon to the work of iconographic artists such as Leonardo, Vermeer, Warhol, and Picasso. There's even a Venus di Milo Barbie.

Mariel Clayton's lovely Barbie a la Vermeer.

 

Art Afloat

Art gallery aboard Norwegian Cruise Line's Norwegian Gem.

Some of the best contemporary art to be found in the world today is not in expensive urban galleries or necessarily behind the gated walls of suburban private estates with their private art collections. Visiting these outstanding, museum-quality art galleries is not cheap. Admission charged can run into the thousands of dollars. But, there are certain side benefits included in the price at the door--like a free vacation. If you haven't guessed by now, I'm talking about cruise lines and their habit of covering up their bare walls with expensive art. Some of the most outstanding art I've ever seen has been in these floating art galleries, taking me (somewhat rockily at times) at around 25 miles per hour to historic cities so I could visit other art museums. And just to be fair, some of the worst art I've ever seen has been during such "moving" experiences.

 

No, it's not the King of England,
it's me along with Bacchus aboard
the S.S. Norway, 1993

I suppose it all started with Cunard hung a portrait of the king (or maybe Queen Victoria) at the top of the grand staircase on one of their early transatlantic liners, maybe back as far as the mid-1800s. Once you begin moving ships using steam rather than sails, certain improved amenities quickly follow. Our first cruise was on a neat little ship having a sort of "yacht-like" profile in 1988. (The ship is still in service, by the way.) At that early date near the birth of modern-day cruising, I don't recall much art. That was not the case some five years later aboard the S.S. Norway (formerly the S.S. France). Art abounded, though much of it was somewhat mundane, as I recall. By 2001, aboard Royal Caribbean's Grandeur of the Seas, the art collection had taken center stage, being touted as one of the major attractions aboard the company's ever-growing fleet of mega-ships (the bigger the ship, the more and better art.)

 



Stair art, main dining room, Grandeur of the Seas

By the 21st century, virtually all cruise lines were boasting of multi-million-dollar art collections on each of their ships, though in my own experience, I think Royal Caribbean has better taste in art than most of its competitors. That extends to the aesthetic qualities of their ships as well. Such cruise lines attract a wide variety of seagoing vacationers. Admission to such art galleries can run as low as $35 per person per day and as high as twenty times that. Thus the collection selections reflect a similar broad range of tastes. Being an artist and having come from a lower middle-class background to hobnob with a lower upper class crowd, my own taste are equally broad, which, no doubt, accounts for much of my love for these nautical art galleries. By the same token, I have virtually no love at all for the ubiquitous art auctions which cruise lines foist upon their passengers, other than perhaps their rather slanted dispensation of a little art history. Though they sometimes sell originals by virtually unknown artists, most of their "big name" art is in the form of so-called limited edition prints, which are mostly a huge rip-off (especially as art investments).

 

From abstract expressionism to folk art, cruise line collections have
something for every taste.

Don't go on a cruise expecting to see paintings by the old masters. The Louvre seldom lends work to cruise lines (like never). Most of the artists to be encountered are still alive and well and living...well, virtually all over the world. Cruise line collections are nothing if not eclectic in every sense of the word. Although I wouldn't count him as an "old master," you do sometimes see minor works by Picasso (he was so prolific, even cruise lines are able to snag a few pieces now and then). However, in most cases, if you recognize the name, it's a reproduction. But if you don't recognize the name, you can often expect some of that artist's best work (cruise lines pay artists top-dollar). Virtually any medium that will float can be found. Sculpture is often hollow fiberglass to reduce weight, but I've seen a few intriguing bronze pieces as well (also hollow). I've seen cruise line art so powerful in its presence as to completely dominate the entire room. Sizes (in the corridors, for instance) range from pocket-size to lobby installations rivaling the Mayflower in size. And like their shore-bound counterparts, these floating art museums are often just as artistically spectacular as the art they contain, becoming, in a real sense, floating works of art themselves.

Royal Caribbean's Navigator of the Seas, a floating art gallery and a work of art itself.

 

Architecture and Painting

While architecture serves to preserve
painting, the reverse is also true as
seen here in a fresco from the
Villa of Publius Fannius Synistor,
Boscoreale, Italy, ca. 50–40 BCE

Being a painter, I suppose I'm more prone to writing about painting than any other art form. However, as my regular readers will attest, I also like motion pictures, sculpture, interior design, photography, and architecture. The other day it occurred to me that without architecture, we would have little in the way of painting (or most other art forms, for that matter). It's true. Did you ever wonder why we have very little painting still surviving that is more than 1,000 years old? That's because there's little in the way of usable architecture surviving today that is more than a thousand years old. And inasmuch as painting was almost solely a means of decorating interior architectural surfaces until about the time of the Early Renaissance, it's plain to see the connection between the two. Moreover, whether painted on walls or merely hung on them, paintings need architecture to preserve, perfect, and define their being.

St. Withburga, 654 AD, St. Nicholas Church,
Dereham, England. Though obviously
in poor condition, the art survived
because the church survived.

This fact also accounts for why so much surviving art from earliest times is religious. For the most part, only religious architecture survived wars and political upheavals while at the same time being seen as worthy of the tremendous efforts needed to preserve it from the ravages of time. And in preserving the outer shell, the inner worth is also preserved. One has to wonder how many churches, chapels, even cathedrals have been preserved as much for the great art they contained as for their religious worth. And if this is true in the religious realm, think how it must be doubly true in secular architecture where the initial purpose of a structure's being built, its style, and its practical features, are often outdated in less than a century. Many such structures, from the outside at least, appear to us as architectural monstrosities, yet because of the art housed within them, they still stand, now museums, inns, restaurants, and other tourist destinations.



The Sistine Chapel which Michelangelo, Bramante, and others considered demolishing.

In at least one case, the painters' art even saved an architectural structure. Around 1508, the initial architect of St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, Donato Bramante, wanted to tear down the Sistine Chapel and build a new, and no doubt better, private chapel for His Holiness Pope Julius II. They consulted Michelangelo, in Rome working on the Pope's tomb at the time. Even he conceded that the poorly proportioned structure, built just a generation before as much as a fortress as a chapel (the walls at the base are some six feet thick), had no redeeming architectural qualities whatsoever demanding its preservation. And what art there was on its walls at the time was mediocre at best (by Renaissance standards) and in relatively poor condition.



The Sistine Chapel today--did Michelangelo "fix" its architectural problems?

However, in the midst of starting a new cathedral and facing the upcoming demolition of the old St. Peter's Basilica as the new one literally rose around it, the Pope had neither the stomach for tearing down such a perfectly good church (built by his uncle, Pope Sixtus IV) nor the money for putting up a replacement. So instead, much to Michelangelo's dismay and distress, the Pope commissioned (indeed demanded) that he "fix" the errors of the chapel's original architects by decorating the ceiling in such a manner as to minimize, if not totally conceal, them. It was a fortuitous decision for painting, if not architecture, and a much cheaper alternative given the little Michelangelo was paid for the task. Though he got off to a very reluctant, rocky start, over the next four years, the Renaissance sculptor turned painter rose to the occasion and succeeded beyond anyone's wildest dreams (perhaps even his own).

From the outside, the fortress-like architecture of the Sistine Chapel masks any hint
of the art masterpieces inside.

 

Vincent Di Fate

Vincent Di Fate Self-portrait

Almost two years ago I wrote regarding "the end of time." Well, so far we've been lucky. However, the trite expression, "All good things must come to an end," still seems to generally hold true. The key figure in my earlier discourse was the artist, Vincent Di Fate, and his London gallery composite show on the topic. However, there's much more to Di Fate's art than doom and gloom. It's ironic that an artist concerned with the end of time actually devotes most of his time to painting the future. Vincent Di Fate is one of America's premier science fiction artists. Whether you're a devotee of sci-fi art or not, you've probably encountered his illustrations on the covers of dozens of science-fiction paperbacks over the past four or five decades on bookstore shelves.

 

Di Fate's book covers alone trace his development as an artist.

Actually, Di Fate has written three books himself (above), not science fiction but non-fiction, one on science fiction itself (Infinite Worlds) a second called Catalog of Science Fiction Hardware, and one on Science Fiction Art (his own). Coming from an artist of his caliber and long experience, all three are subjects he knows well. In a time when science fiction very readily turns into science fact, Di Fate's visions have held up well over the years. His 1970s space stations don't look exactly like the 21st century conglomerations now in orbit, but they bear more than a passing resemblance, and any major differences will likely be rectified by time. Drawing the future, like writing about it, not only takes time but is literally all about time. How much time, of course, depends upon time's ever-present partner, money.

 

Star Search, 1984,
cover by Vincent Di Fate

Vincent Di Fate and I share more than just an active interest in art and in the future (though I've only painted one "spacey" painting in my whole life, a depiction of U.S. astronauts on the moon). We share the same year of our birth--1945. Thus our working careers have corresponded almost exactly. From there any similarities fade. He's written three times as many books as I have, earned during his lifetime far more awards (and rewards), and he's much more famous. He's also a better artists, but we won't dwell on that. If one were to describe Vincent Di Fate's work in a single word it would be "fantastic." That's true, given the word's traditional meaning, but also in describing his content. Science Fiction is, after all, fantasy art, from which the word derives. Fantasies involve people. It's pretty hard to write science fiction without people (human or otherwise). And though Di Fate's interest and expertise in sci-fi hardware often dominates his work, his figures may be even more fantastic than their rockets and robots. Though doomsday scenarios sometimes raise their ugly heads in science fiction, Di Fate's art is overwhelming futuristic, and thus optimistic, despite the "end of the world" fears writers occasionally thrust upon him. Optimism--that's another thing he and I share.

Like myself, Vincent Di Fate has tried his hand at lunar art, though he apparently got
around to it before I did...or before the astronauts even landed--depicting the moment science fiction became science fact.