Archive for Botticelli

Giorgio Vasari – Lives of the Artists

Posted in Books with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 13, 2012 by David McInerny

Anyone who has even a meager appreciation for the creative enormity that was the Italian High Renaissance owes a debt of gratitude to Giorgio Vasari (1511 – 1574). Much like the Romano-Jewish Josephus, whose contemporary writings of the rise of Christianity in the Roman Empire of the 1st century corroborate and enhance much of the writings that emerged from within the early Church, Vasari was both an artist and contemporary of many of the Italian artists he describes in his three volume work. He is largely responsible for our knowledge of the early training, temperaments, artistic approach, technique and lingering legends of the great painters and sculptors of the 15th and 16th centuries.

Much has been written about how and why so much artistic talent erupted virtually at the same time in one small area of the world. I think it is almost as fascinating to consider that there was a contemporary individual who a), recognized that his was an extraordinary time, b) researched  and documented what he witnessed for posterity (historians were nothing new in the Renaissance, but remember Vasari was writing about the present and very recent past), c) was an artist himself, and as such was in an amazing position to assess the talent around him, and d) a collector of the works of his fellow artists, suggesting a certain humility and objectivity in this era of epic egos. Could any better person have been chosen to record the lives and works of creative giants like Michelangelo, Titian, Donatello, Botticelli, Giotto, Raphael, Brunelleschi and Leonardo da Vinci?

Vasari published the initial printing of the Lives in 1550 (dedicated to Cosimo de’ Medici), and it was an instant best seller, spurring a second edition in 1568. Needless to say, it has gone through countless editions since, but I prefer George Bull’s 1993 translation published by the The Folio Society, in part because the artists lives are presented in chronological order, and the reproductions of the paintings are of very high quality.

Even a cursory look at the contents of the three volumes indicates that Vasari revered some artists more than others, if quantity of words and effusive praise count for much. Michelangelo, the great painter, sculptor and architect, receives Vasari’s highest respect with 120 pages (by the Folio Society edition), and it would take a tough critic to contradict his assessment. By why, by comparison, would Sandro Botticelli warrant a mere 8 pages, and the prolific genius Leonardo da Vinci barely 20 pages? Certainly Michelangelo’s bombastic character and tempestuous relationship with Pope Julius II made for good writing, and Vasari’s own life overlapped most closely with Michelangelo’s, but one can’t help but wonder how closely our idea of who were the “rock stars” of the Renaissance match the ideas of those who lived among them. In the end I’m nit-picking, of course, because without this invaluable work our understanding of the motivations and passions of the iconic artists of the 16th century would be lacking indeed. Vasari is a very good and interesting writer, and I would recommend his Lives of the Artists for any student of the shining creative lights of the High Italian Renaissance.

300 Years on the Erasmus

Posted in Fiction, Travel with tags , , on June 5, 2012 by David McInerny

 The low, ochre hills passed by through the window of the train.  Thumbing through the menu, she decided not to eat on the train, but told a passing waitress that she wanted Chianti.  It was unsettling how well – how easily – he had come to understand her feelings.  The day before had changed her feelings about the entire trip, possibly for the better.

***

“Tell me about the woman over on the right.”

April had not noticed her at first, but she was suddenly the most interesting of all of them.  The woman was leaning against her companion, perhaps for support, because she was turned away from the rest of the group, staring up and over her left shoulder.  What transfixed her gaze was not certain, but she seemed out of place with the serenity that seemed to permeate the others.  It seemed she was frightened, or simply crazy.  Why else would she be chewing on a long tendril of ivy?  The old gentleman smiled and gave April something of a crazed look himself.

“Frightened, you think?  I’ll concede she may be trembling, but trembling from excitement.  Do you see a theme throughout the painting?”

“Sure.  Everybody is outside enjoying the weather.  Three ladies are dancing, and the one guy over there is picking an orange.  I wonder about him, though, because he seems pretty disinterested in all the voluptuous women prancing around.”

He laughed softly.  “You are quite right, that everyone is enjoying the weather, but look closer.  Those figures are not just enjoying the weather – they are the weather, or rather, nature itself.   See how the figures blend into scenery? And the ivy in the woman’s mouth you mentioned?  She did not pluck it from the ground.  It is growing from her mouth!”

“What was Botticelli trying to say with this painting?”

“This is where a smattering of Italian would help.  The title is “Primavera,” or “Spring.”  Now the clear pregnancy of this woman, the ivy, and the cupid up here instantly make more sense, yes?”

“Of course.  I wonder why I saw fear on the woman’s eyes and not joy?”

The Italian smiled at her ruefully.  “That, I suppose, is more a reflection of how you are feeling today.”

It hadn’t ended with Tom in fiery Hollywood fashion.  In her most pensive moments, April could admit that it wasn’t even all his fault.  But it was epic enough to propel her to a travel agency and prepare a hasty two-week trip to Europe.  She and Tom had been dating for almost three years, and it was assumed by friends and workmates, and April as well, that they were moving inevitably toward marriage.

They simply hadn’t worked hard enough at the relationship, was her ultimate, pathetic conclusion.  They had made so many assumptions, the worst of which was that they were in love, but they kept pretending until they could barely stand to be with each other, and it was painful for April that it had been Tom who raised the courage to end it.  Her friends had rushed in to comfort her, and demonize Tom, but it rang hollow and false, and she soon found herself on a flight to Rome.  Rome, Florence, Arles, Paris, and London made a full itinerary, but the activity would occupy her mind, she thought.

“Arles is not a typical stop for a first visit to Europe,” the old gentleman said.

She smiled.  “The travel agent almost swooned when I told her that I had studied art in college.  She insisted that I see the town in Provence where Van Gogh lived.  I take the train there in the morning.”

“Smart agent. Wonderful! I was there many years ago, before the fast train.  Maybe the sun of southern France will take you from your melancholy.”

Stunned by his comment, she had strolled with him through the Uffizi, telling him the reason for her travels.  She reasoned through the end of the relationship with him, and he pulled it all out of her without offering any opinions or advice.

“So, you practically have my life story.  What do you think?”

He smiled. “Me?  I’m just a man who told you where the Botticelli room is.  You want me to give you advice?”

“Sure.  What do I do next?”

He paused, and then looked her in the eye.  “What you should do next, is get on that train in the morning.”

“What?”

“You are in the wrong country, my dear.  You are in the epicenter of the Renaissance, where art exploded after the Dark Ages with the likes of Leonardo, Michelangelo, and our friend Botticelli.  For a large part though, their efforts were an attempt to recapture the glory of Greek and Roman artistic ideal that had been nearly lost after years of barbarism.  My point is, this art looks backwards, and you need art that looks forward.”

“That will help me move on with my life?”

“Every bit helps, as you Americans say.  I have lived my entire life in Florence, always with the dome of Brunischelli outside of my window, but I never tire of this city’s art.  I still come here many times every year to be captivat

ed all over again by the achievements of the 1500’s.  You need art that is looking forward, and what better place than Arles, where you can still walk among the sunflowers and windswept trees that Van Gogh painted.

“I think my hotel is on the square with the café he painted.”

“The Place du Forum.  I like your travel agent more and more.”

***

Momentum shifted from one side of the train to another as it turned gently to come parallel with the Rhone.  The intercom announced that the “Erasmus” would arrive in Arles in fifteen minutes.

Interesting, she thought, how the old Italian never asked for her name, or offered his.  She emptied her glass and wished for love in the 1800’s.