Wlastimil Hofman



Madonna with Starlings, 1909, Wlastimil Hofman                          

History teaches us. Art history does too, though the message is usually a great deal more subtle. In general, one of the most consistent lessons art history teaches us is that art and war don't mix. Art is fragile, sensitive, a pleasant pastime, a luxury coinciding with excess wealth, and flourishing almost exclusively in the presence of peace and tranquility. War is none of those, and in fact, pretty much the antithesis of all of them. Quite apart from the general bounds of creative expression, art history teaches us that war has a devastating effect upon artists and their work. War is traumatizing and its psychological impact shows up in the work of virtually every artist whose life it transverses. Even if the artist sees little or no combat, even if he or she is far removed from its immediate horrors, as Rhett Butler observed to Scarlett O'Hara: "War changes people."

 

Self-portrait with Two Figures, 1925, Wlastimil Hofman.
Groups of three are common in Hofman's work

War changed the Polish artist, Wlastimil Hofman, but with a twist. Rather than traumatizing him, it tempered him, strengthened him personally, and honed his skills. Being Polish and living in Poland with a Jewish wife, one might not be surprised to find that Hofman was an artist victim of the war. Though intimately involved in the conflict as a civilian, Hofman possessed the intelligence, foresight, courage, and strength of character to not just endure and survive the massive military, political, and social upheavals of Eastern Europe during World War II, but to emerge from it as the preeminent Polish painter of the post-war era.

 

Madonna, 1909, Wlastimil Hofman, one of serveral from that period.

Portrait of the Artist's Wife, 1917,
Wlastimil Hofman

Wlastimil Hofman was born in 1881 in Prague, the son of a Czech father and Polish mother. When he was eight, the family moved to Krakow. There Hofman grew up to attend, first the Krakow Academy of Fine Arts, before moving on to Paris and the Ecole des Beaux Arts. Upon graduating in 1904, Hofman began painting a series of peasant madonnas (top). His 1909 Madonna (above) is typical. He first showed his work in Paris, followed by exhibitions in Munich, Amsterdam, Rome, Berlin, Prague, Vienna, and Warsaw. In 1912, a former instructor at the Krakow Academy helped him obtain a teaching post at his old alma mater. When WW I broke out, he and his wife, Ada, fled Krakow, first to Prague, then to Paris. After the war, around 1921, they returned to Krakow for the next eighteen years until the rise of German Nazism. Inasmuch as Ada was Jewish, they wisely decided to once more flee Krakow and what they (but few others) foresaw as almost certain death.

 

Old Age and Youth, 1922, Wlastimil Hofman. Old age is a recurring theme and
image in Hofman's work. Strangely, there is virtually no overt reference
to war in any of Hofman's paintings.  It's as if it never happened.

The only problem was, they fled in the wrong direction--east--out of the frying pan into the fire of Russian-controlled territory. Hofman barely escaped capture by the advancing Soviets, though he saw and helped many of his countrymen who hadn't, even going so far as painting their portraits on rough cardboard, then sending them to the soldiers' loved ones. His efforts along this line number in the hundreds. As others in the same straits perished, Hofman joined the Polish Legion, not much of a fighting force, but one which managed to escape the war, traveling though Istanbul to Haifa, then Tel Aviv, finally arriving in Jerusalem in 1942. There, Hofman and his wife spent the remainder of the war.

 

And Lead Us Not into Temptation (Triptych), 1956, Wlastimil Hofman

After the war, Hofman returned to Krakow for a short time, then, in 1947, moved to an obscure little town of about 7,000 in mountains of southwestern Poland. There he produced mostly religious paintings for the local church and portraits of local residents, gradually gaining national and international recognition as Poland's most popular postwar painter. He died in Szklarska Poręba (by then a popular ski resort) in 1970 at the age of eighty-nine. Though not exactly a headliner in most art history books, Wlastimil Hofmanhas been given a starring role in the art history of Poland, an artist who first survived (two wars), then thrived.

Impromptu Nativity, Wlastimil Hofman. I guess it loses something in translation.

 

Cleveland Museum of Art

Copyright, Jim Lane

Cleveland Museum of Art (CMA) Atrium looking West.                        
The original 1916 building is at left. (It was a slow day.)                      

The CMA's Classical Revival Face

It had been over thirty years (1981, to be exact) since I'd been there. Much had changed in that time, but the Cleveland Museum of Art (CMA) still ranks as one of the top museums I've ever visited. In the time since my last encounter, the physical layout had more than doubled in size. I'm just guessing, but I suspect the collection has likely quadrupled during that time. Today, their collection of art and artifacts numbers some 44,000 pieces (I asked). However, just as is the case in virtually every other art museum in the world, only a small fraction of that is on display (in CMA's case, about 4,100 items). All I can say is, they must have some hellaciously large storage vaults downstairs (or somewheres).
 



The CMA's contemporary face, it's older facade all but obscured at right.
Notice  the two-story "glass box" at center-right, which displays
the transitional phases of 19th-century European sculpture.

Despite the fact that the main structure is a Classical Revival marble mausoleum built in 1916, the museum seems as modern and functional as any built in the past twenty years. Perhaps the most spectacular, and welcoming addition has been the enclosed central atrium (top) located in back of the old original structure and surrounded on three sides by galleries, the requisite gift shop, a restaurant (called Provenance for some unfathomable reason), offices, escalators, special exhibit halls, parking garage, and all the other amenities expected and demanded by the artsy crowd today. My wife, who is walking adverse, and in any case, definitely not a museum type, loved the bright, expansive, atrium environment where she hooked up her laptop to one of many convenient wall outlets and spent four hours happily lost in her own world of bean-counting minutiae (she's a tax preparer).

 

Cupid and Psyche, 1817, Jacques-Louis David.

From my first visit to the museum, I remembered only one painting, Jacques-Louis David's Cupid and Psyche (above), dating from 1817. It was still on display and as memorable as I'd remembered it (for it's openly erotic overtones, I suppose). This time, the most memorable work I saw was by the contemporary American artist, Mark Tansey, titled Soft Borders, 1997 (below), painted in 1997, I presume. Unfortunately, works in the contemporary collection (after 1900), which is quite a huge pile of art, are not permitted by the museum to be photographed. So, just as they'd hoped, I bought a large poster of it ($24) which I have absolutely no place in my home to frame and hang. Look at it closely. At first glance, the monochromatic red oxide painting appears to be a rather fascinating textural work of the Abstract Expressionist genre. But in fact, it is a fairly realistic piece depicting four eras of human exploration of a rocky canyon--from early natives painting on the rock face; to explorers traveling via horse-drawn wagons; to modern tourists with their motorhomes and SUVs; and finally archaeologist of the future examining all the above. The work (or the viewer's head) must be rotated to various angles in that each eras is on a different picture plane with "soft borders" from which the work draws its name (the soft borders are actually hard rocks, but let's not quibble over details).

Soft Borders, 1997, Mark Tansey. The early natives are at lower left (right side up). Rotating the painting clockwise, the 19th-century explorers can be seen in the dark area (upper-left, as seen above,) then rotating it again, the future archaeologists are right next to them in the light area (upside-down in the above orientation), while the 20th-century "explorers" and their vehicles can be seen at bottom right.
 

I explored the place for around four hours (all my tired legs and feet could endure). My primary interest in any art museum is American and European art (all eras). I skipped all things Asian, Pre-Colombian, Native American, and African, not because they are of lesser importance in the overall realm of art, but because I've learned (from painful experience) to enjoy everything, even art, in moderation. Thus I missed a lot, but there's also such a thing as too much of a good thing. The museum's collection in each of those areas is well-rounded and relatively deep, displayed in such a manner as to allow close inspection, while avoiding the feeling of being overwhelmed by sheer volume.

The Crucifixion of St. Andrew, 1606-07, Caravaggio

Perhaps the most fascinating exhibit/event I saw when we visited last week was the museum's newest acquisition, Caravaggio's Crucifixion of St. Andrew (above) dating from 1606-07. The work was displayed while under restoration by the museum's Conservator of Paintings, Dean Yoder. He has worked on it already for about a year, painstakingly removing layers of varnish and the dirt they have attracted over the past four-hundred years. He is now just starting to repair the damage such cleaning has revealed, and in the process trying to gain insights into the unique manner in which Caravaggio worked without under-drawings. The museum hopes to complete work on the restoration in time for their centennial celebration in 2016.

Copyright, Jim Lane

Making a fashion statement, northern Italy, circa 1575.
(CMA's Armour Room).

 

Karl Hofer

Grosser Karneva, 1928, Karl Hofler, from the Wiemar period.

It's a measure of how relatively unimportant art, artists, and especially painters, are in today's world that seldom do they have to endure persecution by their government, social goups, religious groups, or even individuals. Only rarely do we read in the news or on the Internet of a figure in the arts (usually the performing arts) being criticized for something they've done or (more commonly) said. That's good, I guess, such freedom of creative expression being the life's blood of the arts. Except that it isn't. Not today, not any more. The fine arts are literally drowning in freedom of expression, almost hoping their work might be controversial enough to warrent at least fifteen minutes of fame. Yet, it seldom happens. Today, only videos go viral, only motion pictures get noticed, only the most shocking and disgusting works in any of the other arts stand a ghost of a chance in being noticed. Even the best motion pictures have a shelf life of more than a few weeks on the box office charts. Viral videos usually have a lifespan of more than a few days.

  

Tessiner Landscape, ca. 1928. Karl Hofer

 

Karl Hofer, Self-portrait, 1928

During the 1930s, Karl Hofer had his entire career destroyed in less than a year. The German artist, born in 1878, had been painting for about thirty years. He was not a member of any notable group of other artists such as Die Brucke (The Bridge), and by no means, at the top of his profession as an artist. But his works were selling, were in demand, and gaining some notice in the then world of German Expressionism. He had a comfortable job as a professor at Berlin's High School of Fine Arts. He'd traveled broadly throughout Europe, even spending extended periods in Paris and Rome, where he soaked up classical influences and the work of Cezanne and the Fauves. Then, in 1937, Adolph Hitler declared Hofer and his work to be "degenerate." Then in 1941, Hofer's wife Mathilde, was accused of being a Jew, then sent to her death in a concentration camp. Hofer's Santa Denunziata (below, left) suggests a fear that artists might be next on the list to be exterminated.

 

The Wind, 1930, Karl Hofer, a winner in America's Carnegie Competition.



Santa Denunziata,
1941, Karl Hofer

As a "degenerate" artist, Hofer found himself in good company, although he could hardly be considered the lightning rod for Nazi persecution that Otto Dix, Max Beckmann, Marc Chagall, or George Grosz became during this period. Yet his work, like theirs, was confiscated, often destroyed, and banned from display. Overnight, his work disappeared from museum and gallery walls. Despite this, in 1938, one of his paintings, The Wind, won a gold medal at the Carnegie International Exhibition in the United States. Hofer's work is heavy with phantoms, ghosts, and horrific skeletons, the aftermath of the devasting lingering psychological impact from his service in World War I, when he served in the French army.

 




Night of Ruins, 1947, Karl Hofer

Despite not being a part of any expressionist group, Hofer, even after the war, even after much of his work had been destroyed, came to be seen as one of the leading German Expressionist. After the war he got his old job back teaching art to German youth, except that after the war he became president of the school (quivalent of principal in the U.S.). In that position he and the newly prevailing Abstract Expressionist of the time found themselves locked in a prolonged dispute as to the validity of art produced by the new breed of expressionists his paintings had spawned. His Fruit Still Life (Apple in a Bag), created in 1946, marks a transitional work from the old to the new, receiving much the same critical aclaim as his best work before Hitler did him in. Karl Hofer died in 1955.


Fruit Still Life (Apples in a Bag), 1946, Karl Hofer 

 

Hot Air Balloon Art

A recent hot air balloon Rally in San Diego

Early balloon designs befoe 1800.

A few weeks ago, my daughter-in-law (a former Marine) took her first hot-air balloon ride. She and our son live in Arizona where hot-air ballooning is more than just a passing fad. A few days later she read of a hot air balloon becoming entangled in power lines, crashing, and killing its occupants. Asked if she planned to take any more such aeronautical jaunts, the answer was a resounding "NO!" The sport/hobby is not for the weak of heart or those weak in the wallet. I wouldn't mind trying it, but like my son's wife, probably only once. I'm not exactly lighter than air even though I've been accused a few times of being full of hot air. In any case, the diagrams at right illustrate an early scientific explanation of the how and why as well as a few suggestions as to balloon design. It's basically a propane torch, an air bag, and a wicker basket. If that doesn't sound reassuring, you're in good company.



Balloon painting.from around 1900, artist unknown.




Ascent of the Montgolfier
balloon, Versailles, 1783

The first hot air craft dates as far back as 1783 (right) when the French Montgolfier brothers persuaded Francois Pilatre de Rozier and François Laurent d'Arlandes to put all their legs in one basket, then untethered the whole thing allowing it to drift off into the skies over the royal palace of Versailles while Louis XIV presumably enjoyed the spectacle immensely. For the next two-hundred years, hot air ballooning made great technical strides but any connection to art had mostly to do with paintings of balloons (above) and the decorative embellishments of the broad expanse of nylon separating the hot air inside from the cooler air outside, allowing the balloon to lift off. Then, around 1970, perhaps taking their cue from Macy's Thanksgiving extravaganzas, ballooners were no longer satisfied with even the most colorful creations, began crafting shaped envelopes.

 



Forbes Balloon patterned after his Normandy chateau

Has NASA tried this?

One of the biggest balloon rallies in Europe takes place at Balleroy, France, not far from Malcolm Forbes' lavish Chateau de Balleroy, a replica of which which he had made into a balloon (above). After setting several distance records, Forbes started something of a fad, adding a new element to hot air ballooning. Since then, the sky has literally been the limit where shaped balloons are concerned. The only other limitations seem to be costs, the imagination of their owners, and perhaps their sense of humor.

Locomotives are not quite what one first thinks off as anything so light as a balloon.

Vincent rises to
new heights.

From French chateaus, there evolved locomotives (above), space shuttles (above left), all manner of cartoon-like animals, and, of course, balloons designed to advertise. Even Vincent van Gogh made the cut, his portrait head floating among the clouds, literally turning heads of those gazing up from below. Quite apart from the sculptor's art in putting together such floating images, there's a rather complex bit of aeronautical engineering involved as well. Such crafts, if they're to be flown, are quite literally a matter of life and death. A traditional cone topped with a spherical shape is ideal, a rectilinear French chateau is a different matter. Their parade cousins are tethered to a team of handlers trying to prevent the helium-filled inflated sculpture from rising more than a few dozen feet into the air.




Floating Turtles?
 

Floating Elephants?
Peanuts, not Dumbo

The hot air shaped balloon today employs a design theme. Yet, not only are they not tethered, but they must be stable enough, once airborne, to be piloted and at the same time protecting those in the basket below, all while soaring thousands of feet into the sky. That's pretty serious art, giving new meaning to the old saying, "art is not a matter of life and death--it's more important than that.


So this is where babies come from...and how they may arrive.



Heinrich Hofmann

Resurrected Christ, 1867, Heinrich Hofmann, of questionable authenticity and           
visual accuracy.             

Heinrich Hofmann,
Self-portrait, ca. 1850

One of the peculiar elements having to do with art, is the fact that an artist's work can be immensely popular and familiar, yet the artist remains relatively unknown. For example, who painted Washington Crossing the Delaware? Who sculpted the seated statue of Lincoln in the Lincoln Memorial? What architect designed the St. Louis Arch? Who wrote the song, Happy Birthday to You? Each of those creative endeavors are instantly recognizable. You're probably humming the song mentioned above at this very moment. Yet you probably couldn't name the creator of any of those works if your life depended upon it. I'm not going to list them here. I want you to have to look them up if you're curious. That way, you're more likely to remember them. One more painting I'm sure you've seen, Christ in Gethsemane (below, right); who painted it? If you said Heinrich Hofmann, having read the title above or the one below the image, that's cheating, but I'll give half a point for presence of mind.

 

Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane,
1890, Heinrich Hofmann (now at
Riverside Church, NY.)

Some artists falling into the "known but unknown" category I'm talking about were what's known in the recording industry as "one hit wonders." The Washington Crossing the Delaware artist would fall into that category as would, I suppose, the writer of Happy Birthday to You. Some unknown artists despite their highly familiar work, simply never were famous (like the guy who invented the "smiley face"). Hofmann falls into neither such category. He created nearly a dozen (maybe more) paintings depicting the life of Christ. He was quite popular and famous in his own lifetime. Instead, he falls into the category I call, "gone and now forgotten." Of course, Hofmann is not alone in this category, either as a painter of Christ or in having been largely forgotten. Quick, name one other painter of Christ in the past two-hundred years.




A typical Hofmann portrait predating
his religious works.

Heinrich Hofmann was German, born in 1824. He grew up in a very "arty" family, his father painting in watercolors, his mother giving art lessons before she was married and his two brothers also showing exceptional talent. In 1842 Hofmann entered the Dusseldorf Academy of Art and thereafter studied under a number of local professionals. He also spent several years studying in the Netherlands, France, and Belgium, as well as Munich and Darmstadt in Germany. Around 1848, Hofmann settled in Darmstadt to become a portrait painter. There he found that his family's political connections served him well in obtaining high-profile (and lucrative) commissions. His popularity led him to Dresden and Prague where he rendered several other portrait images such as the one at left.

The Arrest of Christ, 1858, Heinrich Hoffman, one of his earliest religious works.

Portrait of a Young Jesus, ca 1881,
Heinrich Hoffman

Then in 1854 Hofmann's mother died. Heartbroken by her death, he painted his first image of Christ, The Burial of Christ (now lost). Thereafter he traveled to Italy, first to Venice where he studied the works of Bellini and Giorgione, then to Padua where he found works by Giotto, and finally to Florence and Rome. Eventually he went to Dresden and a position at the Academy of Art there. Though he continued painting portraits, more and more during the latter years of his career Hofmann devoted himself to rendering images of the life of Christ. Having studied carefully the Renaissance masters, Hoffman came to his new-found devotion to religious art steeped in tradition, yet marrying it with northern European instincts to form a style all his own. He was the leading edge of a resurgence in interest in a new type of religious art, largely Protestant, and more personal than that of the monumental church-directed art of the 16th and 17th centuries. Hoffman set about creating, in a sense, a new biblical translation that, being visual, was much more universal than relying on the many languages of just Europe alone.

Jesus in the Temple, 1881, Heinrich Hofmann.
Portrait of a Young Jesus (above, left) is based upon this painting.

Christ's Image, 1894, Heinrich Hofmann,
now part of the Riverside Church collection

The list of Hofmann's religious works is not long, but its contents were highly influential as other artists also turned to the life of Christ for inspiration (and with the invention of color lithography, print reproduction royalties). Artists such as Warner Sallmon, John Everett Millais, Edouard Manet, Christen Dalsgaard, and William Holman Hunt all were influenced to some degree by Hofmann. Hoffman's paintings span the entire second half of the 19th-century, including (in chronological order), The Arrest of Christ (1858), St. Mary with Christ Child and Apostles (1860), The Resurrected Christ (top, 1867), The Adulteress Before Christ (1868), Christ Preaching at the Sea of Galilee (1875, destroyed during WW II), Jesus in the Temple (above, 1881), Christ and the Rich Young Ruler (below, 1889), and his beloved Christ in Gethsemane (1890). In 1894, Hofmann painted his final religious work, Christ's Image, originally intended just for himself, to hang over his bed. It is now hangs with three other Hofmann paintings at the Riverside Church, in New York City. Heinrich Hofmann died in 1911.

Christ and the Rich Young Ruler, 1889, Heinrich Hofmann. His famous Christ at 33 is based upon this painting.

Resurrection of Christ, 1867,
a period reproduction upon which
the Resurrection painting at top
is likely based (or vice-versa)..

Since Hoffman's death (and the lapsing of copyright protection) a blizzard of Hoffman reproductions (many quite poor) has blanketed the religious art market. One reason is that some of Hofmann's works were church altarpieces and thus only available for reproduction in copied form. Some (bottom) are even of doubtful attribution. His Resurrected Christ (top) dating from 1867 is one such example. Although it seems to be a work by Hofmann based upon an altarpiece, I've included it here, but I cannot ascertain with any certainty its visual accuracy. Many Hoffman reproductions were printed quite cheaply as "Sunday School" images and have faded considerably (bottom). Some prints, said to be by Hofmann and labeled "Vintage 1955," are, at best, poor copies based upon these cheap reproductions from the late 19th or early 20th century. I have not included any such images here. They appear to be much to colorful to be accurate representations of Hoffman's work.


Last Supper, though purportedly
by Hofmann, I could find no
record of any such painting.

The Ascension, also said to be
by Hofmann, an even worse
reproduction than the one at left.

 

Eliot Hodgkin

Interior at La Brande,
1962, Eliot Hodgkin

"I like to show the beauty of
things that no one looks at twice."
                                    --Eliot Hodgkin

With some minor exceptions, such as the German artist, Albrecht Durer, artists have always tended to paint "important" stuff. I've always contended that all artists paint only what's important to them, or the people paying them in many cases. But one has to notice before one "sees," and evaluate before one creates art. Somewhere along the line, 99.9999% of all the stuff around an artist gets summarily rejected as not worthy of the artists time, materials, and efforts. Photography has reduced this percentage a little and motion pictures a little more. The ease, simplicity, and low cost of video may have that percentage as low as 99%, but our environment is so rich with stuff the chances of any of it rising to a level of importance as to induce an artist to preserve it for their prosperity or posterity is abysmally low.



Large Leaf 2, (date unknown), Eliot Hodgkin. It looks to have been an agonizing death.

October, 1935, Eliot Hodgkin,
before he discovered tempera.

The British painter Eliot Hodgkin made a career of noticing the inconsequential, seeing it quite minutely, evaluating its relative beauty, then rendering it in tempera (after 1937) with an almost microscopic fidelity few artist have ever matched (or even wanted to). For those familiar with the contrary delicacy of egg tempera painting, his skill and mindset is all the more remarkable. Dating back almost two thousand years, this painting medium consisting of powdered pigment, egg yolk, and just a tad bit of water, is probably the most demanding, least forgiving type of  paint and painting ever devised by man. In fact, so arduous was it that with the advent of oil painting around 1500, it almost died out. Yet, anyone who has ever tried to scrub dried egg yolk off a slippery porcelain breakfast plate quickly understands why Roman paintings in this medium dating back to the time of Christ, continued to stand up quite well.

 

Gull's Eggs in a Box, 1918 (the date based upon two sources), Eliot Hodgkin.
Yes, he was only fifteen at the time.

Eliot Hodgkin, ca. 1930.

Eliot Hodgkin was born in 1905, in the Berkshire area of England (west of London, where Windsor Castle is located). The Hodgkins were a highly intellectual Quaker family. He was an only child, and based upon his Gull's Eggs in a Box (above), dating from 1918, quite the child prodigy. If the Hodgkin name rings a bell, it's probably because Eliot's uncle, Dr. Thomas Hodgkin, an early advocate of preventive medicine, was also the first to described the symptoms of the cancerous lymphoma disease, which  now bears his name. The Hodgkins were also related to the 19th-century painter and art critic, Roger Fry. The Abstract Expressionist painter Howard Hodgkin is a cousin of Eliot Hodgkin. With branches also bearing educators, architects, historians, politicians, and other British notables, researching such a family tree is an exhausting exercise.

 

Courageous and Old Victory, 1932, Eliot Hodgkin, one of his last oil paintings.

Red and White Currants, 1959, Eliot Hodgkin

Coming of age in the early 1920s, the handsome Eliot Hodgkin received a proper upper-class British education, first at Harrow, then in London at the Byam Shaw School of Art and at the Royal Academy Schools. During the early years of his career, Hodgkin painted in oils, his first one-man show being in 1936. But his personality was such that he came to detest the slow drying time involve. So, around 1937, at the suggestion of painter and writer friend, Maxwell Armfield, he turned to tempera. These were not the tedious egg tempera of the Early Renaissance masters. By the 1930s such paints were sold in tubes just like oils, and even had just a tiny dab of oil in their formula. Had Hodgkins deserted oils some twenty years later (he lived to be 82, dying in 1987) he might have found acrylics more to his liking.

 

The Haberdasher's Hall, 8 May, 1945, Eliot Hodgkin.
Hodgkin worked in British Intelligence during the war years.



Max's Baby Shoes, 1946, Eliot Hodgkin

Though there are a smattering of landscapes and interiors in his work (top), even a couple portraits, the vast majority of Hodgkin's paintings would fall within the definition of still-lifes (virtually all his works done in tempera). Highly contrived, almost scientifically arranged, Hodgkin's still-lifes would not be easily confused with those of any other 20th-century artist. You won't find any violins, books, tankards, drooping documents, keepsake stationery, or smoking paraphernalia, such as one might encounter in a Harnett effort cluttering up the still-lifes of Eliot Hodgkin. They're relatively small, their content isolated, their edges crisp and well-lit. There are some flowers, lots of leaves (long dead and newly deceased), seeds, fresh fruit, even a seeming fascination with old bottles arranged in neat rows. One gets the feeling he was a neatness freak and a stickler for details. He married in 1940, fathered a son (Max) in 1941, and painted the baby's tiny shoes in 1946 (above, right). By 1979, Hodgkins was forced to stop painting due to his poor eyesight. In seeing his work, there's little wonder why.

Cathy's Little Bottle Collection, 1977, Eliot Hodgkin.
He also did a slightly smaller still-life about the same time utilizing his pill bottles.