Henryk Siemiradzki

Alexander The Great And Physician Philip of Arcarnania, 1870, Henryk Siemiradzki

One of the most valuable assets an artist can possess is a vivid imagination. The American Scholar, William Arthur Ward, once said, "If you can imagine it, you can achieve it..." He went on to comment as to achievement: "Plan purposefully. Prepare prayerfully. Proceed positively. Pursue persistently.” I always enjoy finding an artist with a vivid imagination. Of course that alone, without a concerted, concrete calling to create that imagined world, is a recipe for frustration, at best, starvation at worst. Without Ward's alliterative four-step pronouncement of practical presentation, we'd have no tall tales told, no paintings produced, no plays presented, no audiences amuse (I can alliterate too). A vivid imagination is like strong drink; without a cup it simply runs off onto the floor, suitable only to be slurped up by a drunken dog. The Polish painter Henryk Siemiradzki had a vivid imagination. I was going to say that Siemiradzki must have taken Ward's words and made the most of them, but in that Siemiradzki died in 1902 and Ward wasn't born until 1921, perhaps the reverse is true--Ward may have been inspired by the Polish painter to so prodigiously pontificate.

 

Talisman, 1880s, Henryk Siemiradzki

I've always considered myself to have just such a vivid imagination, but despite being an artist, mine has always tended toward the literary rather than the visual. Siemiradzki produced large scale, highly detailed, paintings of Greco-Roman life as well as biblical scenes composed straight from his imagination with little more than a talented hand, a perceptive eye, and exceptional academic training. He did what I could never do, which is pretty much the reason any artist impresses me. Now, having said that, Siemiradzki was a product of the Polish academic world of art, which, while it denotes a strong background in figures, composition, drawing, lighting, color, and painting technique, it also carries with it a penchant for sanitized eroticism, syrupy sweet pastoral idealism, exaggerated heroism, fabricated mythology, and aesthetically adjusted history. Siemiradzki's Talisman, (above) is typical of his Academic sweetness. Despite having all the natural talent an artist could ever wish for, and having absorbed all the practiced teachings of previous art generations, Siemiradzki's paintings are also burdened with most of worst traits of academicism to be found in 19th-century painting, in Poland or anywhere else in the western world.

 

Christ and the Sinner, 1873, Henryk Siemiradzki

Henryk Siemiradzki Self-portrait, 1877

Henryk Siemiradzki (your guess as to pronunciation is as good as mine) was born in 1843. His father was a military physician. Siemiradzki came from a small village near Kharkov (eastern Ukraine near the Russian border). Although he started painting in high school, young Siemiradzki was guided (or forced) into becoming a science major at the Physics-Mathematics School of Kharkov University. He's said to have studied the natural sciences there with great interest, even as he also continued to paint. After graduation in 1864, having fulfilled his father's wishes, the would-be artist headed for St. Petersburg and the Imperial Academy of Arts where he was to study painting for the next six years. He graduated there, winning a gold medal for his Christ and the Sinner (above), which allowed him to further his studies in Munich and Rome. There, in the Eternal City, he fell under the spell of Roman antiquities and set up his studio. It must have been a big one. Seldom are any of Siemiradzki's paintings less than the size of wall murals or theater curtains, which became his specialty and the work for which he is most remembered.

Christ in the House of Martha and Mary, 1886, Henryk Siemiradzki

Prodigal Son, Henryk Siemiradzki

In addition to his Christ and the Sinner, from 1873, Siemiradzki went on to paint at least three other exceptional works based upon biblical passages. His Christ in the House of Martha and Mary (above), dates from 1886 when his work was at the height of its popularity. Siemiradzki's Prodigal Son (left) is of uncertain chronology. However, Siemiradzki's Christ and the Samaritan Woman at the Well (below), is reliably dated as having been painted in 1890.

Christ and the Samaritan Woman at the Well, 1890, Henryk Siemiradzki

Joan of Arc Kneeling before Angel,
Henryk Siemiradzki

Except for their gigantic size, most of Siemiradzki's biblical theme paintings with their tired, academic nuances could easily be termed "Sunday school" art, or likely inclusions in various high-end Bibles as art illustrations. His Joan of Arc Kneeling before Angel (right) is a notable exception--religious, but not biblical. Some of Siemiradzki's Greco-Roman paintings might well have offended staid, 19th-century, Victorian morality had it not been for longstanding Academic acceptance of female nudity so long as it could be reasonably termed "classical" by some measure. Frina at Poseidon's Festival in Elevsin (below) from 1889, falls into this category. If it was pagan mythology, especially if the title somehow implied that the image reflected the decadence of some long ago pagan civilization, virtually any naked body, (the more the merrier) was considered socially acceptable, up to and including the depiction of male (but never female) genitals.

Frina at Poseidon's Festival in Elevsin, 1889, Henryk Siemiradzki.

Detail from a painting in Chiesa di
San Stanislao in Rome

Siemiradzki's other major strength as an artist fell in the realm of portraiture. Though portrait artists today are considered to be at or near the pinnacle of the painting profession, in Siemiradzki's time they were a notch below history painting and the religious and mythological works associated with that type of work. It's likely that Siemiradzki was good at portraiture because he had to be. Very often portraiture was the "bread and butter" of such artists' existence. Moreover each of the dozens of life-size figures in most of Siemiradzki's paintings was, in essence, a portrait, as seen in the charming young face detail from a painting in Chiesa di san Stanislao Roma (left). Siemiradzki's Siesta Patrician (below) provides both a portrait of an ancient civilization as well as those who created it and lived it in their daily lives. The portrait on a palette (bottom) is one of Siemiradzki's more unusual works, a prime example of the runaway imagination linked to the work ethic traits William Arthur Ward proclaimed so logically.

Siesta Patrician, 1881, Henryk Siemiradzki

 

Portrait of a Woman on a Pallet, 1887, Henryk Siemiradzki

 

Millard Sheets

Golden Gate Passage, ca. 1950's, Millard Sheets

For over thirty years, my wife and I did art shows, starting in the spring and ending just days before Christmas each year. When the crowds were good, when sales were good, they were kind of fun to do. When both those factors were lacking, they were boring, depressing, and distressing. One thing good about either type of show was that it kept me in touch with the buying (and not buying) public. It wasn't hard to realize what people liked and what they were willing to pay for in decorating the rooms of their homes (not always one and the same thing). I was fortunate in that, as a canvas painter, I was operating at the high end of the local art market. Not only that, I carried with me a relatively large inventory spread over a great variety of content areas from portraits to cute little kitty cats. In between was some depth of landscapes, genre, children being children, still-lifes, etc. Although I could have, what I didn't stock were watercolors. There were good reasons for that. Such works are fragile, framed or unframed, heavy (when framed under glass) unimpressive and difficult to display when unframed, every bit as much work as a canvas painting, not to mention technically quite challenging. The most important factor, however, was that the buying public simply did not (and I assume, still does not today) respect such works on paper as they do the more substantial and impressive looking canvas painting. Thus, prices were less.

Fisherman's Wharf, San Francisco, 1965, Millard Sheets

Having said all that, I have only the greatest respect for watercolor artists such as Millard Sheets (top). Having painted with watercolors in college and gained some degree of facility in the medium, I came to know how cantankerous and unforgiving such waterborne pigments can be. It always irked me somewhat, in watching an expert in handling such a herd of cats bleeding and blending around on wet paper how easy they made it look. Depending upon the artist's style, watercolors demand every bit as much drawing skill as canvas painting, and if the artists works on location (as many still do) come laden with the baggage and environmental discomfort that entails. Give me the heated/air-conditioned, bug free, wind free, weather-controlled luxury of a comfortable, indoor studio any day. Believe me, watercolorists earn their money. Their major problem is getting paid for their efforts. I don't know if the California based artist, Millard Sheets had that problem, but I'd guess he did, it goes (as they say) with the territory.

 

Fisherman's Wharf, San Francisco ca. 1950, Millard Sheets

Millard Sheets

However, if you're good...I mean really good (as Sheets obviously was), you rate gallery representation which takes away much of the marketing hassles...for a price, of course. Unlike myself, Sheets was fortunate to live in the Los Angeles art hotbed (as opposed to southeastern Ohio). Except for New York and possibly Chicago, there's nowhere else in the U.S. where art in general, and watercolor in particular, is so richly admired. Moreover, as can be seen by the representative sample of his work seen here, Sheets not only knew how to paint, he knew what to paint. In essence, he painted California. Having been there last year, that's a very big wonderland of content from which to draw. Sheets was born there in 1907. He had a ringside seat in growing up, especially in the post WW II years as the state exploded in population and urban development. Freeways were built, L.A. high-rises replaced orange trees, golf courses spread like algae, agriculture catapulted from a few Napa vineyards to make the state the fruit (and vegetable) basket of the nation. Sheets lived, saw, and painted all that.

Sunset Tenements, 1930s, Millard Sheets

Angel's Flight, 1931, Millard Sheets

Not all of Sheets' watercolors depict the hyperactive tourist landmarks and extreme natural beauty of the California experience. The sudden, rapid growth of the state, starting in the late 1940s, and the years since, inevitably left blighted areas such as the colorful Sunset Tenements (above). Yet, not far removed, Sheets painted passengers arriving at Los Angeles International Airport in 1951, shortly after it was designated LAX (below). His dizzying Angel's Flight (left), from 1931, hints at soaring heights the city was to reach, both physically and figuratively during Sheets' lifetime and career in painting it all. Besides Los Angeles, Sheets seems to have fallen in love with the city of San Francisco as well. (What artist hasn't?) His Golden Gate Passage (top) is one of the best artist's renderings of the bridge I've ever encountered (and I saw quite a few during just the few days we spent in the city). Fisherman's Wharf, as depicted by Sheets, in large part no longer exists. It's long been replaced with chic seafood restaurants, souvenir shops, and amusement park like entertainment.

Night Arrival DC-6 Airplane, 1951, Millard Owen Sheets.
This scene was featured in the United Airline 1951 Calendar.

Even more impressive than Sheet's calendar DC-6 watercolor was a much larger piece of airport art painted by Sheets in in the late 1980s. This one was painted on canvas glued to a sheet-rocked wall in Terminal C of the San Jose Airport. It was Millard Sheets' last work (below), completed by his assistants after his death in 1989. The work depicts scenes from early life in California’s Santa Clara Valley, including images of the Ohlone Indians, Spanish settlers, and American pioneers. In 2010, as Terminal C faced demolition, ARG Conservation Services was retained by the San Jose Public Art Program to assess the feasibility of moving and preserving the 18-foot by 30-foot mural, long a community favorite. The firm performed an exploratory investigation, removing a small section of the mural’s canvas to assess the interior of the wall. They then outlined procedures for the removal of the mural. The beloved mural was successfully removed and re-installed in a new terminal of the airport the following year.



San Jose Airport Mural, 1989, Millard-Sheets

Besides airport terminals, the largest collection of Millard Sheets' watercolors can be found inside the Millard Sheets Center for the Arts at Fairplex, Pomona, California (below). Works there feature Sheets' broad interest in locale's far removed from the big cities. Sheets' San Dimas Train Station, from 1933, captures the lonely, depression desperation rampant in the California hinterlands, but so typical of small railroad stops all across the country.

Millard Sheets Center for the Arts at Fairplex, Pomona, California.

San Dimas Train Station, 1933, Millard Sheets

Mostly, however, Sheets painted the best the west had to offer, from Sun Valley Skiers (Idaho) to concerts at the Hollywood Bowl. He even ventured to the state's "next door" neighbor to the west, visiting and painting Diamond Head Beach, Hawaii, before the state became a state. In his painting, Navajos, Sheets not only captured the stunning beauty of Monument Valley (Utah/Arizona) but that of its colorful, native inhabitants as well. And finally, what kind of portrait of California would it be without the iconic footnote featuring the states biggest tourist attraction (bottom). Disney had his Snow White and Snow White had her castle, the iconic centerpiece of Disney and his land. But despite all this, my guess is the cartoon artist/entrepreneur not only knew of Millard Sheets, but may have even envied his work.

Sun Valley Skiers, ca. 1950s, Millard Sheets

Symphony Under the Stars, 1956, Millard Sheets

Diamond Head Beach, Hawaii, 1950s, Millard Owen Sheets



Navajos, Millard Sheets

Disneyland, Anaheim, California, Millard Sheets

 

Logo Designers

One-hundred years of corporate evolution.

I have long contended that the most important artists today are not the many painters, sculptors, and other creative individuals who enrich and beautify our daily existence. No, the most important artist today are those who make our daily existence comfortable--designers. Yet these creative geniuses are undoubtedly the least recognized artists on the planet. If I were to reel off a list of even the most successful, the most important, the most influential designers who ever lived, aside from those with their own fashion houses, chances are you'd not recognize a single one of them. Let's try: Rob Janoff, Jim Schindler, Robert Noyce, Gordon Moore, Raymond Loewy, Frank Mason Robinson, William Durant, Saul Bass, Paul Rand, Milton Glaser, Howard Dietz. Recognize any of those names? Probably not; but when I show you their artwork, that you'll recognize in an instant. These men were all logo designers.

One of the most recognizable logos on the planet, designed by (depending on who you ask) William Durant (founder of General Motors) or Louis Chevrolet himself.

Some, such as William Durant, Gordon Moore, and Howard Dietz are credited with designing only one logo--that of the companies they helped found or worked for. Others have designed dozens, perhaps hundreds of company trademarks we see almost daily. Like most of the other artists I write about, many of these designers are now deceased. Likewise many, perhaps most of their designs have been evolved by other designers in this field. Companies change; they merge; they struggle to maintain a modern, contemporary image. Their Logos do as well (top). The original Chevrolet "bowtie" is said to have been based upon a design observed on wallpaper in a Paris hotel room once occupied by the Swiss racing icon, Louis Chevrolet, founder of Louis Chevrolet's Chevrolet Motor Car Company. As for Durant, it's unclear whether he designed the symbol, bought it (along with Chevrolet's company), or just stole it. Keep in mind that was more than a century ago. Chevrolets have seen far more changes since then than have their logo designs.

Frank Mason Robinson's iconic design has changed little in the past hundred years.

MGM's logo dates back to 1916. The
updated logo is from the 1960s.

Some of the world's most recognizable logos are, indeed, quite old--much older than Chevrolet's hotel wallpaper, in fact. Said to be the world's most recognized logo, in any language, in virtually every country on earth, the Coca-Cola script logo was designed by Frank Mason Robinson as far back as 1885 (above). Likewise, with a few minor variations, MGM's Leo the Lion is almost as old. Originally designed by the studio's chief publicist, Howard Dietz, in 1916, a roar was added in 1928.The studio's Latin motto "Ars Gratia Artis" (Art for Art's Sake) came in 1932; while color was added around 1939. The Stylized lion (left) was a 1960s attempt to update the logo. It lasted exactly three movies before studio executives reverted to good old Leo.

The famed "Golden Arches" are fairly recent addition to the company's familiar logo.

Even some companies founded in relatively recent years have seen their logos change rather drastically. McDonald's (above) is a prime example. The earliest logo, dating from 1948, was based simply on the sign out front. The "tubby chef, Speedy" logo came in 1953 designed by the McDonald brothers themselves, Richard and Maurice. The Golden Arches didn't appear until 1962 when Ray Kroc bought the business. It was the work of designer Jim Schindler, inspired by architect Alan Hess, who designed McDonald's first franchise outlet.

Maybe they should have considered old Mr. Newton munching on an apple.

With the advent of the digital electronics age, companies founded in the 1970s and 80s, such as Apple and Intel, have gone through at least three different logo refinements. The original Apple logo, (above left), designed by Ron Wayne, features Isaac Newton in an antique etching. It would seem to fall under the "what were they thinking" category. Rob Janoff soon set Apple's founders, Jobs and Wozniak straight with his bitten apple. The bite was added so it wouldn't look like a cherry. The earliest version of Intel's logo (below) began with a “dropped-e” design, created by Robert Noyce and Gordon Moore, the company’s co-founders. When the company became a market leader in the field of PCs during the early 1990’s, the Intel logo came with the popular “Intel Inside” slogan. Once Intel became a major player in the computer industry, the “dropped-e” logo was thrown out in favor of a “swoosh” around the company’s name with the new slogan “Leap Ahead.”

Minor changes can make a major difference.

Graphic designer, Raymond Loewy, is credited with having invented the original BP (British Petroleum) shield logo around 1979, amended in 1989 (below). The current BP logo was designed by the famous San Francisco brand consultancy firm, Landor Associates. It is based upon Helios, ancient Greek god of the sun, and features a green and yellow sunflower epitomizing energy in its various forms. It was introduced in the first quarter of 2000. Landor also came up with a new slogan: “Beyond Petroleum”. Ten years later, the environmental group, Greenpeace, ran a competition for a new BP logo following the company's disastrous oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The oil giant's pretty green and yellow sunflower came away creatively besmirched (bottom).

It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.

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Logo design as a form of protest.

Sylvester Shchedrin

Marina Grande, Capri, 1827, Sylvester Shchedrin

It's always interesting to encounter paintings done by other artists depicting locations I've visited, especially if I've also painted the same or similar scene. In the spring of 2001 and again in 2012, I visited the Isle of Capri located in the Bay of Naples, Italy. Since then I've painted four different scenes of this incredibly beautiful resort island--three of it's main harbor, Marina Grande. Given the chance, I'd go back, shoot some fresh material, and paint a few more. My feelings for the island's picturesque beauty are apparently quite similar to those of the Russian painter, Sylvester Shchedrin.

Copyright, Jim Lane

Marina Grande, Capri, 2001, Jim Lane

Before you sigh, "not another Russian artist," let me promise you this guy was different. First of all, though born in St. Petersburg, he spent most of his short, thirty-nine years painting elsewhere, primarily in Italy. Second he left an indelible mark not just upon Russian art, but western art as a whole. And finally, Shchedrin painted, almost exclusively, Italian landscapes. His Marina Grande, Capri (top), from 1827, is, of course, quite different from what I painted (above) in 2001, but the ambiance is very much the same. I've been unable to account for the apparent reversed discrepancy between my point of view and that of Shchedrin other than the fact we may have been contemplating opposite sides of the rocky outcrop guarding the harbor. Inasmuch as he was painting in plein air, he may have, for one reason or another, consciously reversed the composition (not too likely, but a possibility).

View from Petrovsky Island (at Tuchkov Bridge and on Vasilievsky Island in St Petersburg), 1811, Sylvester Shchedrin

Sylvester Shchedrin Self-portrait, 1816

Sylvester Shchedrin was born in 1791, the son of the famous sculptor Feodosiy Shchedrin, rector of the Imperial Academy of Arts. Semion Shchedrin, also a landscape painter, was his uncle. Apparently young Sylvester had more than his share of the family's "art gene" in that he entered the Imperial Academy at the tender age of nine. Of course, having a father running the school, not to mention likely teaching his son to draw from the time the child could hold a pencil, undoubtedly helped. Also, his uncle was one of his teachers. He graduated in 1811 at the age of twenty having won several awards including the Large Gold Medal for his painting View from Petrovsky Island (above) which allowed him a scholarship to study abroad. However his departure was delayed for some seven years due to the Napoleonic Wars.

Old Rome, (left) contrast with New Rome, Castel Sant'Angelo (right), both from the 1820s.

It wasn't until 1818 that Shchedrin finally arrived in Rome. There he studied the old masters as well as painting landscape views of ancient ruins (above, left) and "new" landmarks (above, right). Shchedrin's New Rome, Castel Sant'Angelo was so popular he painted some eight or ten slightly different versions of it. From Rome, Shchedrin moved on to Naples where he presumably fell in love with Capri. In any case, when his stipend from the Russian Imperial Academy ran out in 1823, Shchedrin decided to stay on, working as a freelance artist. His success enabled him to travel about Italy, searching the Italian countryside for suitable scenes to sketch and paint. His painting, Lake Albano (below), from 1825, is considered his greatest masterpiece as he relaxed the boundary between subject and background, and moved from using formal colors to natural color not far removed from the impressionists half a century later.

Lake Albano, 1825, Sylvester Shchedrin

Shchedrin's landscape interests tended to center upon harbors, cities, and caverns or grottos, ancient landmarks (below, right), especially scenes on or near the water. His fascination with caves and grottos (below, left), of which Italy is well-endowed, found him moving landscape painting in a direction no other artist (Russian or otherwise) had ever attempted.


Shchedrin's romantic "cave paintings"
from around 1825-26.

Like Capri, the Coliseum in Rome has
changed considerably in the nearly
two-hundred years between
Shchedrin's visit and my own.

As time passed, Shchedrin's work became so popular he was unable to keep up with the demand. Among his most popular subjects were grape-laden trellises or arched terraces overlooking the sea decorated with pleasant peasants lounging about such as seen in his Terrace on the Seashore (below), from 1827. Toward the end, as his health declined during the late 1820s, Shchedrin's landscapes became darker, more macabre, as seen in his Moonlit Night in Naples (bottom) from around 1827.


Terrace on the Seashore, 1827, Sylvester Shchedrin

Sylvester Shchedrin died in November, 1830 while living in Sorrento. His health having been fragile for quite some time, his workload more than he could manage, and travel being what it was two-hundred years ago, Shchedrin was never able to returned to Russia; though some of his paintings did. However far more of his art can be found in Italian museums than in his homeland.



Moonlit Night in Naples, ca. 1827, Sylvester Shchedrin



 

Joseph Severn

The Deserted Village, 1857, Joseph Severn

Joseph Severn Self-portrait

As a teenager growing up I often had repeated to me the old adage, "A person is known by the company they keep." I think the implication was that my parents didn't much like some of my friends but lacked the courage, or had the wisdom (I'm not sure which), not to make their specific objections known. They probably realized doing so would make little difference, and probably be counterproductive. (Some of my friends smoked and drank beer when they could get it.) They were right, of course; eventually my friends and I got each other into trouble, but that's another story. I went off to college and the air force, then got married. They went off to the army and got married. We all changed as we grew older, I undoubtedly more than they. We still run into one another every few years, but now, my friends are such that my parents would heartily approve. The British painter Joseph Severn is, today, much better known by the company he kept than for his own work, mostly painting portraits. Specifically he was very good friends with the poets, John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Portrait of Shelley Writing Prometheus Unbound,
(painted posthumously, 1845) Joseph Severn

John Keats,1819, Joseph Severn

I would like to think that even those with little love for poetry, specifically the Romantic odes of 19th-century English poetry, would at least recognize these two names, if not their works. In that I'm probably being overly optimistic in that regard, let me briefly outline their relationship. All three men were born within three years of one another, Shelley being the oldest, was born in 1792, Severn in 1793, and Keats in 1795. All three were second generation Romanticists. One of Severn's bigger and better works, The Deserted Village (top) is from 1857, well after the other two had died (Keats in 1821, and Shelley a year later). Severn lived to be eighty-five, dying in 1879. Keats was twenty-five when he died, Shelley was thirty. All three were laid to rest in the same Protestant cemetery in Rome just a few feet from one another. In life, Keats and Severn were close, especially as Keats health deteriorated during his final months in Rome. Shelley, who greatly admired Keats, wrote a poem about him after his death titled, Adonais. Severn, knew and admired Shelley but they were, at best merely acquaintances. Well after Shelley's death, Severn painted a posthumous Portrait of Shelley Writing Prometheus Unbound (above), dated 1845.

Ariel: Where the Bee Sucks, 1826-36, Joseph Severn

As one might notice from Severn's portraits, all three men appear rather effete, some might say effeminate looking, though there's no indication any of them were homosexual. Severn and Shelley were, in fact married (and not to each other), while Keats had at least two female romantic entanglements. Severn was the father of seven children, three of whom became artists (Joseph Arthur Palliser Severn, Walter Severn, and Ann Mary Newton). Upon the death of his children's mother, Severn went on to marry Joan Ruskin Agnew, a cousin of the famed English critic, John Ruskin. Shelley's wife, Mary, was a famous poet in her own right, surviving her husband by thirty years while going on to write Frankenstein. Percy Shelley is, perhaps, best remembered for his Ode to a Grecian Urn. Aside from his portraits of Keats, Severn is well-remembered for his Ariel: Where the Bee Sucks (above), from around 1826-36. All three men died virtually penniless.

John Keats, 1821-23, Joseph Severn

The greatest irony regarding Joseph Severn is that, despite being a reasonably adept painter, he has long been best remembered for his numerous paintings of his friend, John Keats. A pale, rather starry-eyed rendering (above, left) perhaps best captures the man's likeness, while Severn's posthumous portrait from 1821-23(left) best captures Keats' spirit, character, and personality. It's uncertain when and where Severn and Keats first met, perhaps as far back as childhood (Severn, Keats, and Shelley were all born in London). In any case, Severn and Keats had long been the closest of friends when the two of them boarded a ship sailing for Rome in mid-September of 1820. Keats hoped to improve his health there in a warmer climate. Though undiagnosed at the time, Keats was suffering from Tuberculosis. It was a long, torturous journey as they weathered first a monstrous storm, and then were becalmed, arriving in Naples in late-October. By the time they made it to Rome a month later, any thought of a warmer climate had become laughable. The two rented an apartment along side the Spanish steps overlooking Bernini's Barcaccia fountain.

John Keats in his Last Illness, Joseph Severn

While in Rome during the winter of 1820-21, Severn sent letters about Keats to their mutual friends in England, who then shared them with other members of the Keats circle, including the poet's fiancée, Fanny Brawne. These almost daily letters now represent the only surviving account of the poet's final months. Today, they are used as the primary historical source for biographers of Keats's dying days. Severn nursed Keats until his death in February 1821, three months after they had arrived in Rome. Following Keats' death, Severn remained in Rome where he was able to launch a successful artistic career, becoming a versatile painter there during the 1820s and 30s. His repertoire grew to include miniatures, altarpieces, landscapes, frescoes, historical and religious scenes, as well as subjects from the Bible, Greek mythology and Shakespeare. Severn's paintings of Italian genre scenes became very popular with British visitors generating numerous commissions for his work. Severn was instrumental in helping to establish the British Academy of the Fine Arts in Rome.

Ophelia, 1860, Joseph Severn

Upon returning to England in 1841, Severn found himself struggling desperately to earn enough money to support his growing family by painting portraits. Even though Severn exhibited some fifty-three paintings at the Royal Academy between 1819 and 1857, he was never able to match his early artistic success in Rome. By 1853, he was forced to flee his creditors for the Isle of Jersey. Later, in 1861, Severn was appointed British Consul to Rome during the ferment over Italian unification at a time when Garibaldi seized the Kingdom of Naples, all of Southern Italy, and Sicily, annexing them to the new Kingdom of Italy. Although the official position of the British government regarding Italian unification was neutrality and nonintervention, Severn often took diplomatic actions his superiors saw as exceeding his mandate as Consul. On several occasions, he was rebuked by the Foreign Office eventually resulting in his forced retirement as Consul in 1872. Ironically, Severn's death a few years later went little noticed while the literary reputations of both Keats and Shelley had grown ever more prominent in the decades following their deaths.

Doge Antonio Grimani Kneeling before Faith, (after Titian), Joseph Severn.