Mikhail Vrubel

Mikhail Vrubel's greatest masterpieces.

Those who study history, sociology, and psychology will tell us that the human organism is highly adjustable to the changing dynamics of life and the environment provided such changes come gradually over a period of at least one or two generations. Change coming too rapidly is jarring, sometimes fatally so, as in the rapid changes brought on by wars. We can say therefore that mankind adjusts to, and even welcomes, evolution but tends to resist revolution. Moreover, when forces stymie gradual progress (for whatever reason), again and again we find they are only postponing the effects of change and as a result, setting the stage for cataclysmic, jarring changes which they are ill prepared to handle. The prime example of this would be the fifty years of American history leading up to our Civil War, only to be followed by another hundred years of growing pressure for equality as to civil rights. Today, we in this country are still struggling to adjust to that revolution.

 



The Judgement of Paris, 1893, Mikhail Vrubel.

Another example of this evolution-revolution paradigm took place around the turn of the century in Russia. During the reign of Catherine the Great in the latter half of the 18th-century, Russia totally missed out on the Renaissance, leaping from a feudal society into the 19th century Age of Enlightenment in one bound. Much of the art in between was insignificant or a variation on the icon art of Andrei Rublev, for example, of which Russia should rightly be proud. The icon and that sense of folklore religiosity, plus the Eastern (or Orientalist) sense of the exotic continued to influence Russian art afterwards, but it was balanced by Western influences, and sometimes overwhelmed by them.

 

Pan, 1899, Mikhail Vrubel

Many Russian artists up until, and even after, the revolution were either of foreign extraction or spent a great deal of time in cultural centers like Paris and Rome. The international influence becomes crystal clear when a Russian impressionist work is placed next to a French one. The Internationalism we sometimes bemoan today has a very long history. Nevertheless, the Russian character, speaking from a post-postmodern context, is evident in the works of the finest Russian artists of the nineteenth century. Indeed, many formed a coalition against Western influences, aiming to capture the realism of the countryside and its people. One artist, who explored this melancholic tendency against Western influence, was Mikhail Vrubel. His art is simply extraordinary, and will take you, like the greatest in Russian literature, to depths that both educate and endanger your sensibility. His Seated Demon (top), for example, has in its color psychology and the posture of the central character something unsettling. The figure is not so demonic, it could be you or the artist, and yet there is a madness in the composition which is difficult to define. There is an unresolved tension in the muscular torso and the feminine sculpted face. The same is evident in the colors employed.


Vrubel's wife was the famous opera singer, Nadezhda Zabela.

Mikhail Vrubel was born into the family of a military lawyer. He graduated from St. Petersburg University in 1880 with a law degree, but then entered the Academy of Arts the very same year. Vrubel referred to his Academy years In his 1901 autobiography, as the happiest in his life as an artist. For that he was indebted to professor Pavel Tchistyakov, who was famous for his method of teaching painting and drawing. Among Tchistyakov’s pupils were such outstanding painters as Vasily Surikov, Viktor Vasnetsov, and Vasily Polenov all of whom thought very highly of their teacher. Vrubel owed much to the Academy and never shared the distaste towards it felt by many prominent painters of the time. Vrubel’s art, was academic in a sense, based on the cult of the model and drawing. His Academy drawings on classical subjects are striking for their elegant workmanship.



Descent of the Holy Spirit on the Apostles, 1885, Mikhail Vrubel

Demon (ceramic), 1894, Mikhail Vrubel

Even during his training, Vrubel was not a devoted follower of the Academy style. Along with an expressiveness and rich imagin-ation, his works, even then, reveal a taste for improvisation, frag-mentary composition, his charac-teristic “unfinished” manner pecul-iarly fused with classical style and monumentality. In 1884, Vrubel was asked to take part in the restoration of the Old Russian murals and mosaics in the 12th century Church of St. Cyril in Kiev (above). The knowledge Vrubel acquired in the process con-tributed to the development of his style as a painter. In St. Cyril’s Church, Vrubel executed new murals in place of the lost ones, The Descent of the Holy Spirit Upon the Apostles (Pentecost) and Three Angels Over the Body of Christ. Later, he was commissioned to paint icons for the iconostasis of the church, which he did in Venice where he spent several months in the years 1884-85. In Venice, Vrubel was particularly impressed by the medieval mosaics in the Church of San Marco and the Early Renaissance paintings of Giovanni Bellini and Cima da Conegliano. While in Venice Vrubel’s palette acquired strong saturated tones resembling the iridescent play of precious stones. During his time in Venice, Vrubel produced four large icons, including The Virgin and Child. He drew the face of the Virgin from the studies of E. Prakhova, wife of A. Prakhov.

The Virgin and Child, 1884, Mikhail Vrubel
 

The Girl Against a Persian
Carpet, 1886, Mikhail Vrubel

Back in Kiev Vrubel started to work on the first version of The Demon, an illustration to Mikhail Lermontov's 1890 poem of the same name. The Kiev versions of The Demon, both the pictures and sculptures, have not survived. In fact, Vrubel rarely took pains to preserve his works, being more interested in the process of creation than in the result. Other works of the Kiev period include the large canvas Portrait of a Girl against a Persian Carpet and The Oriental Tale dating from 1886. The latter inspired by The Arabian Nights, and Hamlet and Ophelia. During this period, Vrubel also created numerous watercolors with flowers. The murals, can-vases, and watercolors painted in Kiev have little of the Art Nouveau style, which appeared only in Vru-bel’s works of the Moscow period.

Fortune Teller, 1895, Mikhail Vrubel

The Swan Princess,
1900, Mikhail Vrubel

Vrubel tried various artistic media, including ceramics, majolica (a type of painted ceramics), stained glass, architectural masks, stage sets, costume design, and even architecture. In his search for a lucid beautiful style, his talent showed in everything he did. This search eventually cul-minated in the founding of the Russian Art Nou-veau. With its roots in Russian Neo-Romanticism, the most characteristic feature of the Russian version of this style is its cult of beauty – melancholic, enigmatic and refined. There is a tendency toward the synthesis of arts in everything, from book illustration to theater per-formance, and décor. Art Nouveau was never confined to easel painting or sculpture alone. It found its way into people’s houses becoming an essential part of interior decoration and their lives. The somewhat affected mannerism generally typical of the style, also manifested itself in Vrubel’s works of the Moscow period. Vrubel’s best Moscow works include the Fortune-Teller (above) from 1895, Lilac (below) dating from 1900, Pan from 1899, The Swan Princess, painted in 1900 as well as several portraits including The Painter’s Wife in Empire Dress, from 1898.

Lilac, 1900, Mikhail Vrubel

In 1896, Vrubel heard the opera singer Nadezhda Zabela, and fell in love with her voice immediately. After the performance they got acquainted and, half a year later, married. At the time Vrubel, being less known, was often referred to as the husband of the famous opera singer Nadezhda Zabela. They settled in Moscow, where Nadezhda began singing in Mamontov’s Private Opera. In the dwindling years of the 19th-Century, Vrubel designed dresses for his wife, both for the stage and for real life, drew stage sets, and designed costumes. Later, he resumed work on the Demon theme. In 1901, he started his large canvas Demon Downcast (lower image, top). Exhibited in 1902, the painting overwhelmed the audience and won real fame for the artist. The painting, charged with motion, is strongly decorative. Striving to improve his masterpiece, Vrubel, became increasingly unbalanced. He repainted the Demon’s face, his sinister eyes and his lips, twisted by pain numerous times. He insisted on repainting the picture even after it was on display, until he suffered the first of what would become a series of mental breakdowns.

Six-Winged Seraph (Azrael), 1904, Mikhail Vrubel.

Portrait of the Poet
Valery Briusov,
1906, Mikhail Vrubel

Having recovered, Vrubel never again revisited the Demon theme. While in the hospital, he painted a great deal from life--portraits, landscapes, still lifes, as if in the hopes of rejuvenating the faded palette of his art through the painstaking study of the real world. These works include numerous portraits of the artist's wife, a portrait of their little son, several self-portraits, and finally, his remarkable Pearl Oyster (below) from 1904 where the mystifying play of the mother-of-pearl is rendered with the virtuoso brush of the artist. Alongside these works, Vrubel produced many versions of The Prophet, inspired by the Pushkin’s famous poem of the same. In one of the versions, the Prophet’s face is actually a self-portrait while the figure of the Six-Winged Seraph (above) is apparently Azrael, the angel of death. Though not so famous as the Demon Downcast, it stands as one of Vrubel’s greatest achievements. In 1906, when Vrubel was hospitalized in a mental clinic, he continued to make studies for the Prophet and even his rapidly developing blindness did not keep him from his art. At the same time, Vrubel executed the Portrait of the Poet Valery Briusov (above), destined to be his last work. During the last four years of his life, Vrubel's mental episodes became more frequent and greater in duration. Though the true cause of his illness is unknown, it is speculated that he suffered from porphyria (a disease affecting the skin and nervous system. He died in April, 1910, at the age of fifty-four.

Pearl Oyster, 1906, Mikhail Vrubel

Fine Arts Museum in Vrubel's native city
of Omsk is named after him.

 

Charles Verlat

Buffalo Surprised by a Tiger, 1853, Charles Verlat

In many cases, the only difference between a famous painter serving as a bookmark in the tomes of art history and those who are little more than footnotes, is not the qualities of their work, but the peculiarities of their lives. Vincent van Gogh, for instance, died virtually unknown. Despite the prices paid for them at auction today, most of his paintings display the struggles of a virtually untrained artist trying desperately to teach himself to paint. Although he had some formal training at various periods in his early life, for the most part we might term him "The King of the Self-taught Artists." This allows for the argument as to whether he succeeded because he was an apt pupil or an inspiring teacher...or both. In any case, his struggle for self-fulfillment was the stuff from which legends are made. After his death, van Gogh's family made the most of those struggles, publicizing them, and eventually reaped the rewards in doing so.

 

Academically trained with a polished style and technique, Charles Verlat was a competent, but in no way outstanding painter.

In contrast to van Gogh we have the Belgian painter, Michel Marie Charles Verlat. Born in 1824, he was roughly a generation older than van Gogh (born in 1853). Charles Verlat spent his early years in Antwerp. He was a pupil of Nicaise de Keyser, and studied at the Antwerp Academy. About 1849 he went to Paris, where he worked under Ary Scheffer. In 1855 he won a gold medal at the Exposition Universelle at Paris with his Tiger Attacking a Herd of Buffaloes (similar to the painting, at the top). In 1866 he was appointed director of the Academy at Weimar, where he painted some of his finest portraits, notably those of the grand-duchess of Saxony and of the musician Liszt.

 

Bull Defending himself Against Wolves, Charles Verlat

Young Girl of Bethlehem,
1875, Charles Verlat

Soon after his return to Antwerp in 1875 he visited Palestine, and brought back a large number of interesting pictures, including Vox Populi, The Tomb of Jesus, and The Flight into Egypt. In 1885 Verlat was appointed director of the Antwerp Academy. Other important works by Verlat are the panoramas of The Battle of Waterloo and The Treaty of San Stefano, Christ between the Two Thieves, Bull Defending himself Against the Wolves (above), Oxen Ploughing in Palestine, Godfrey of Bouillon at the Siege of Jerusalem, and Sheep-Dog De-fending the Flock. He executed a series of orig-inal etchings, published in a book in 1879. Charles Verlat died at Antwerp in 1890 at the age of sixty-six.

 

Today, Charles Verlat may be best remembered for his "monkey paintings."

Bebe, Charles Verlat

By all standards of the late 19th-Century, Charles Verlat was a suc-cessful artist--far more so that van Gogh, in fact, during his own lifetime, at least. So why does van Gogh's work, if you can find one for sale, burn up the boards at Christie's and Sotheby's while Verlat's massive history paintings hang virtually ignored and forgotten on mus-eum walls, or worse, gathering dust in their basement vaults? Part of the reason is, of course, that history painting has been supplanted by other, more vi-able art media. But the major difference lies in the artists' persona. Van Gogh's life and death were tragic, while Verlat, well trained, respected, well traveled, led a relatively long, very average, com-fortable life, having reach-ed the top of his profession (more or less) teaching, painting portraits, and painting history, none of which bears much similarity to the work of Vincent van Gogh.

Mare and Foal, 1845, Charles Verlat.

Verlat lived a relatively boring life painting equally boring paintings, except perhaps, for his silly monkeys (a gimmicky content fascination which makes it still more difficult to take the man seriously as an artist). Van Gogh never painted a monkey during his entire career. And, as a result of his refusal to bend to public tastes, lived from hand-to-mouth most of his adult life supported by his long-suffering brother, Theo. Van Gogh is endlessly enigmatic, yet at the same time, thanks to his letters to Theo, virtually an open book. A struggle to maintain one's sanity in the midst of acute loneliness while at the same time surviving on a tight budget lifts Vincent to the level of enduring fascination few other artists have ever attained. And that is why his work has become as legendary as the life he lived.

Diptych, Charles Verlat

Portrait of Fido, Charles Verlat

 

Renaissance Cities--Alexandria, Egypt

An artist's conception of the Alexandria Lighthouse,
one of the seven wonders of the ancient world.

About seven or eight years ago my wife and I cruised the Eastern Mediterranean aboard Royal Caribbean's Navigator of the Seas. One of the stops I looked forward to most was the two days we would spend in Egypt. We docked in Alexandria, toured the city, then on the second day, I took a two-hour-long bus ride to Cairo. To say the least, the trip was a real eye-opener. It was the first time I'd ever visited an Islamic nation, also the first time I'd ever toured a third-world country. Over the past several years I've written about some of the great cities on the Renaissance, many of which reached a sort of high-water mark around 1480-1520. Until now, I've not included Alexandria in that, though it had once been the second largest (after Rome) and in some ways the most important city in the world. But, by the time of the European Renaissance it was neither. By the 16th and 17th-centuries it had deteriorated to the point of being hardly more than a small, North African, fishing village.

 

Alexander's Alexandria is seen in the grid of "blocks" (in black) while the ravages of later centuries can be seen in brown.

A coin bearing the likeness of
Alexander the Great.

Today, of course, Alexandria Egypt is a modern, thriving, and to a limited extent, one might even call it beautiful, but...only in comparison to Cairo, which I have to say is undoubtedly the ugliest city I've ever visited. Alexandria today, as with many other cities, has its eyesores. It's a cos-mopolitan city with varied cultural influ-ences--Greco-Roman, French, Turkish, Arabic, British--all reflecting the various military and political forces Egypt has endured since Alexander the Great first planted a city there in 332 BC. Under Greek rule, the city grew and took on great importance as a trade center. Later the Ptolemy Dynasty saw it reach a height of intellectual importance unrivaled at the time--as in its world famous library.

A modeler's conception of the Alexandria Library complex, about 100 AD.

It was in Alexandria that Aristarchus became the first person to declare that the earth revolves around the sun, a full 1800 years before Copernicus. It was here, in Alexandria, that Eratosthenes proved that the earth was spherical and calculated its circumference with amazing accuracy, 1700 years before Columbus sailed on his epic voyage. It was in Alexandria that Hipparchus established the first atlas of the stars and calculated the length of the solar year accurately to within 6.5 minutes. His colleague, Callimachus, the poet described the texts in the library and organized them by subject and author, becoming the father of library science. Here Euclid wrote his elements of geometry, the basic text studied in schools all over the world even today. Herophylus identified the brain as the controlling organ of the body and launched a new era of medicine. Manetho chronicled the pharaohs and organized Egyptian history into the dynasties we use to this day. Zenodotus and the grammarians established the basics of literary scholarship with their meticulous writings on the Homeric texts of the Iliad and the Odyssey.

 

Alexandria as seen from its harbor side during Roman times. The causeway to the island of Pharos has now become a land mass.

So what, aside from numerous earthquakes (which brought down the famed lighthouse) and several centuries of invading armies eager to take Alexander's magnificent port city as a prize of war, what was responsible for the decline of this one-time capital of Egypt? Three factors came into play. First, in the 12th century, Cairo became the capital of Egypt, taking with it much of the wealth and prestige of former years. Second, following the city's recovery from the devastation of the bubonic plague in the mid-14th century, Alexandria was able to profit from the growth of the East-West spice trade, which flowed through Egypt. However the Portuguese discovery of a sea route to India in 1498 was a severe blow to the city’s fortunes and to the ruling Mamlūk state, causing the eventual loss of the spice trade.

Alexandria at its peak during the first millennium AD.

With the Ottoman defeat of the Mamlūks in 1517, Egypt’s status shifted to that of a province within a wider empire, the rule of which fell to the Ottomans. And finally, for centuries, the Nile delta's westernmost outlet fed into Alexandria allowing ready commerce between trading vessels bearing commodities, luxury items, and art from all over Europe to be offloaded and then transported in smaller crafts serving the entire Nile valley. The third and final blow came when, under Ottoman rule, the canal linking Alexandria to the Rosetta branch of the Nile was allowed to silt up, strangling the city’s commercial lifeline. Thus, by the time Napoleon invaded Egypt in 1798, Alexandria had been reduced to a small Ottoman port, barely more than a fishing village. One could imagine his taking one look at the "city" that lay before him and muttering to himself "Pourquoi s'embêter?" (Why bother?)

Alexandria's ancient Roman amphitheater dates from the 4th-Century AD. The theater had been buried due to the digging of the Mahmoudiya Canal at the end of the 19th-Century, linking Alexandria to the River Nile. It was not until 1960 that it was rediscovered by accident during excavation for an office building.

In that most of the evidence of Alexandria's onetime greatness has been destroyed by earthquakes, invading armies, shifting economic factors, or simple outright neglect, there remains only one major link with the city's distant past which is open to tourists today--the Catacombs of Kom el Shoqafa. The ancient necropolis consists of a series of Alexandrian tombs, statues and archaeological objects of the Pharaonic funeral cults along with Hellenistic and early Roman influences. This historical archaeological site is situated in the village fishing port of Rhakotis, the oldest part of Alexandria. In descending the 99 steps (35 meters) into the carved bedrock, I was a bit ill at ease. That's over 114 feet straight down into the ground. What if there was another earthquake? The catacombs had been lost during the defense of the city in 1850. They were rediscovered, again by accident, as late as 1900, and even then, not opened to the public until 1995.

The lowest level is perpetually flooded with groundwater.

The Catacombs of Kom el Shoqafa are were first carved into bedrock by a single wealthy family who still practiced the old pagan religion as a funerary site. They were built during the late first century AD. (the period of the Antonine emperors). With subsequent generations the site was expanded well into the 4th century AD. and used as an active burial ground by adding corridors and floors. This could explain why so many chambers were hewn from the rock. Not much is known as to how the underground complex came to include in its final stage over one hundred loculi (niches) and numerous rock-cut sarcophagus tombs.

Alexandria underwater, Egyptian sculpture and the remains of the Alexandria Lighthouse

If you journey to Alexandria to see art in the traditional sense, you'd best bring your scuba gear along. Much of the Cleopatra VII, Julius Caesar, Mark Anthony era Roman portions of the city now rest about 35 feet underwater in the Alexandria harbor. In 1994 the first discoveries were made known of a number of relics, statuary, and buildings in the harbor of Alexandria. These have been steadily excavated by Professor Jean-Yves Empereur and his team as they continue to bring to light the lost renaissance of Alexandria.

Alexandria's 400-meter Stanley Bridge, one of the
few authentically Egyptian structures in the city.

 

Edmond Verstraeten

Although Verstraeten never painted water lilies, Monet was not the only Impressionist to have his own garden.

When we think of a particular painting style or movement, we naturally bring to mind the intrepid pioneers who braved the ridicule, poverty, and despair of going out on a limb in becoming the first to break down the walls of the past in order to inject new life into whatever novel approach they may pursued. I'm thinking of Impressionism in this case, though much the same scenarios can be found in many other art eras, or quite apart from the arts, in science, philosophy, music, and literature as well. In the case of Impressionism we first think of Monet, then Renoir, Degas, Pissarro, Sisley, Morisot, Guillaumin, and Bazille. They made up the first generation. Unfortunately, though they contributed much to the movement, we seldom consider those of the second generation. Notice, they were all French.

Verstraeten's brand of Impressionism bordered very closely to what we might call Abstract Impressionism.

The second generation included painters both unknown and well-known painters such as Mary Cassatt, James McNeill Whistler, John Singer Sargent, Theodore Robinson, John Henry Twachtman, William Merritt Chase, Childe Hassam, Edmund C Tarbell, Frank Benson, and Edmond Verstraeten. There's not a Frenchman amongst the lot of them; and in fact, they were all Americans, except for Verstraeten. He was Belgian. Obviously, some embraced Impressionism more avidly than others, while some made greater lasting contributions to the style than others. Edmond Verstraeten was one of the latter. Probably, the reason the name is as unfamiliar as his art has to do with the fact that he was Belgian, painting around the turn of the century right next door to France, often in a manner so Impressionistic as to make Monet and others of the first generation seem downright academic.

 

One might be tempted to say Verstraeten looked a lot
like Santa Claus the day after Christmas; but in fact, he
also bore a strong resemblance to Claude Monet.

Edmond Paul Marie Verstraeten was born in 1870 in Waasmunster, Belgium (about halfway between Ghent and Antwerp). in 1896 he married Augusta Reynaert. They had ten children. Edmond Verstraeten was a Luminist and pointillist painter of portraits and still lifes, but specialized in landscapes. Although he was a student of Jean Coosemans and received advice from Franz Courtens and Jean Rosseels, he was mostly a self-taught artist. He worked in Tervuren and Genk from 1890 until 1894, but mostly in the area of the Durme near Waasmunster. Verstraeten’s first important exhibition in 1894 was very successful. He was invited to the exhibitions of 1904 and 1911 by the avant-garde group "La Libre Esthétique" (Free Aesthetics). He travelled to Russia in 1906 where he met with the famous writer Léon Tolstoy. Verstraeten was actually a Realist painter who evolved, under the influence of his artistic friend, Emile Claus, toward Impressionism a more personal and powerful Luminist use of color.

 

Verstraeten seems influenced by the thoroughly British clouds of John Constable seasoned by a bit of Turner, van Gogh, and Monet.

Verstraeten never attended any academy; he wanted to stay himself; he wanted to be free. However, other sources insist that the painter did, from time to time, partake of Academic instruction, though he was nothing in the way of a prodigy. His first painting was taken to the Academy of Antwerp. It was badly painted, with a poor quality oil, and was termed a failure. For the most part, Edmond Verstraeten did not follow the same path as his classmates. He wanted to follow his own path, do his own ideas, to remain free in making his own choices. It was a determined attitude that marked most of his life.

 

Like Monet, Verstraeten often

Probably around 1900, Verstraeten had a house in the countryside (the Dommel) built on a hill in an impressive park of several hectares, where there were trees of all kinds. The painter himself has talked a lot about his house. He describes it: "My house is very high, close to the sky, far from cities." Built of red brick in a Flemish style, (above) the house has a homey look, though it may not be much of an architectural masterpiece.

 

The title is unknown but German and Austrian influences are plainly evident.

The freedom Verstraeten sought allowed him to better confront the greatest painters in the world. In 1906 he visited the great museums of Russia via Germany and Austria. On another trip Verstraeten also visited Italy, returning through Vienna and Germany. A third time, accompanied by Jozef Muls, he visited the museums of Germany again. He loved the art of the Italians very much. He noted that the "...Germans were a bit heavy in painting, but he loved them anyway."

The Despairs of Peacocks in the Snow, Edmond Verstraeten

In 1907,  Verstraeten made a public presentation in the village hall of Brussels. He displayed for the first time The Despairs of Peacocks (above). The painting is now on display at the town hall of ST NIKLAAS. The municipality of St. Nicklass asked for a credit to buy the painting. A loan of 5000 francs was granted. However, while waiting to be able to pay the balance on the painting, its value had reached 10,000 francs.

Verstraeten paints "effets de la neige", a favorite of Monet also.

A year later, along with several other Belgian painters such as Victor Gilsoul and Léon FREDERIC, went to the exhibition of the year of the "National Society of Fine Arts" of Paris. Verstraeten received the title of "Winner of the Show." Like The Despairs of Peacocks, the snowy painting winning first prize was one of several grouped as "Symphony of (or in) Snow." There's some conjecture as to which one actually bears the title.



During the latter years of his life, Verstraeten began posing family members in his garden.

Edmond Verstraeten will forever preserve the image of the man of nature. He wanted to know how the wind could behave in nature. He was very fond of sunlight. The painter kept with him a business card. He placed it in plain view. On a map, he wrote that he was sad not to have been able to shake his hand after visiting his magnificent exhibition. That man was Claude Monet. Verstraeten wrote as he painted. He wrote a novel under the title The Dark Days of Ida. He showed his novel to Professor Franz de Backer in 1914. From de Backer came the enthusiastic reply: "I see you [have] a great future; I believe you will soon publish and become famous." Verstraeten died in 1956 at the age of eighty-six. His novel was never published.



Nice Nightlights, Edmond Verstraeten.
(That's "Nice" as in the city on the
French Riviera.)

 

December Paintings

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Although I love the month of December, there are several problems with choosing and highlighting paintings representative of that month. First of all there's Christmas. I could fill several pages with outstanding yuletide art. Today I'll try to limit myself to one (okay, maybe two). Second, when one chooses December art the painted landscape is almost always covered with the white stuff--God's means of decorating for the season. The problem is that the same paintings used in December could also do quite well in January and February. That leaves only children and pets decked out for the holidays--trite...ever so trite. So, in the hope of avoiding a boxful of last year's Christmas cards, I'm going to try and break that mold.

Attack on Pearl Harbor, Daniel Lee Hawk. In memory of all the brave men and women who missed Christmas, December, 1941.

"A day which shall live in infamy." It's not the type of art likely to appear for the month of December on any calendar, except that of a veterans group, perhaps. Our family paid our respects at Pearl Harbor in June, 1994. There were no Christmas lights to compete with what we saw and felt. One can hardly imagine the sadness back home that Christmas as military families mourned their losses and prayed for the safety of the survivors of the surprise attack.



Snow, yes, but not about Christmas or
Christmas card material.

For some people, the joy of Christmas grows less and less joyous as they grow older. Even though most parents enjoy giving their kids gifts, the fact that, days, weeks, or months before they have to choose those gifts, and worse still, choose some means of paying for them. That can quickly turn Christmas from a joy to a burden, especially when nine out of ten people are faced with the same activity at the same time. Christmas Shopping (below) by John Falter illustrates that dilemma.  

Christmas Shopping, John Falter. The visual clues suggest this painting dates from the post-war 1940s. If shopping was that hectic then, think how far we've come in the past sixty years.

Santa Claus, Meadow Gist

Santa Claus has long been the personification of Christmas. Art-ists have played no small part in that. However, for many, their love for the jolly old elf may have slipped a few notches once they started becoming Santa Claus. Changing places and becoming Santa has never bothered me. I still believe in Santa Claus, even when he came to strongly res-emble my wife. I've painted Santa several times over the years, but the portrait of Mr. Claus by Mea-dow Gist (left) far exceeds any I've ever done.

The Mystical Nativity, 1500-1501, Sandro Botticelli.

Of course, the real spirit of Christmas comes from God in the gift of his son, whether bestowed in December or during the warmer months earlier in the Palestinian calendar. Sandro Botticelli, in creating his The Mystical Nativity (above), around 1500, was probably not the first to paint a Christmas nativity, his certainly seems to be one of the most thorough. At a time when only the nobility and the evolving middle classes could read (if and when they had the Gospel scripture available). Both in terms of earthly and heavenly beings, Botticelli has his birth of Christ well-populated.

I could find no title for this 1950s Post cover, so make up your own. It's not easy creating a Christmas greeting without Santa. Perhaps that's what Rockwell discovered as well.

What would Christmas be without a Saturday Evening Post cover with a bright and cheery Christmas greeting, not just from Rockwell but the entire Post staff. In his early years, Rockwell very often painted stylized figures of Santa. However, as time past he either grew tired (or burned out) drawing old St. Nick, or he discovered he could wish the world a Merry Christmas without the help of Santa Claus, as seen above.

It's fun to watch at a distance, I just wouldn't want to be there in person.

And finally, what would December be without its final midnight fling when father time tells us all, "Congratulations, you made it through an other year." And what better place to deliver such a joyful message than New Years Eve's American headquarters at Times Square in New York. If Christmas is a December holiday for children, then New Year's Even is one reserved for adults (of drinking age, of course).

 



The Nutcracker Suite Ballet,
2010, Cheryl Whitestone