Thursday, October 11, 2018

Bartholomaus Spranger ( 1546 to 1611 ) ... witty self-portrait ... and another, sadder one, affectionately engraved for him by Aegidius Sadeler
























self-portrait, c.1580

https://www.khm.at/objektdb/detail/1816/



















painted by spranger, then rendered by his engraver, lodger, and friend, Aegidius Sadeler II (Netherlandish, Antwerp 1568–1629 Prague), c.1594

the picture shows spranger with a portrait of his late wife, Christina

from the princeton commentary ...

"Christina Müller was the beloved wife of the Mannerist painter Bartholomeus Spranger. When she died, he painted an allegory in her memory and had it engraved by his friend and colleague Aegidius Sadeler. The elaborate print shows Spranger, surrounded by the personifications of the visual arts. He is pointing to his wife on the right, who is also admired by a putto holding a scull, with one foot on an overturned hourglass. Spranger is ready to follow her but just as Death is about to spear him, Time steps forward to show that the painter’s hourglass is not yet empty.

Inscribed at the bottom of the plate: Priuatas lacrymas Bart. Sprangeri Egid. Sadeler miratus artem et amantem redamans, publicas fecit: et eidem promutua beneuolentia dedicauit. Pragae Anno Seculari .  The private tears of Bartholomeus Spranger are made public by Aegidius Sadeler, who admired his art and his marriage; and dedicates the print to him with sincere affection. At Prague in the centennial year."
click-itty-click, then marvel


https://graphicarts.princeton.edu/2014/06/07/the-private-tears-of-bartholomeus-spranger/

https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/359782

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

symbolic icons in fillums















there is a moment in DAYS OF HEAVEN when the girl carelessly drops a crystal wine glass into a running stream, never to be seen again ... when i mentioned the moment to an acquaintance, he said he "doesn't do symbolism" and i thought, "you're well and truly fucked because symbols are what gives our understanding a deeper colour, and you must be afflicted with a colour-blindness in the soul"

Monday, October 8, 2018

hendrick goltzius

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hendrik_Goltzius


drew ...


















https://www.christies.com/lotfinder/Lot/hendrick-goltzius-muhlbracht-1558-1617-haarlem-the-5812676-details.aspx

here follows the discussion of the drawing in the Christie's sale catalogue ...

When Goltzius was only a year old, according to his friend and earliest biographer Karel van Mander (1548-1606), he fell headfirst into the fireplace and burned both his hands on the red-hot coals. His mother tried to heal his hands with splints and ointments, but he remained in constant pain; and then an officious neighbour, claiming she could do better, removed the splints and bound the child’s right hand in a cloth instead. As a result, the tendons of that hand fused and, for the rest of Goltzius’s life, he was unable to open it properly (K. van Mander, The Lives of the Illustrious Netherlandish and German Painters… with an introduction and translation, ed. H. Miedema, Doornspijk, 1994-99, I, p. 386).

Some thirty years after that childhood accident, Goltzius executed the present drawing of a hand, depicted larger than life-size with monumental grandeur. It has sometimes been suggested that he drew inspiration from the hand of Michelangelo's Giuliano de' Medici in the Sagrestia Nuova at San Lorenzo in Florence, which Goltzius may have known through a cast (Turner, Hendrix and Plazzotta, op. cit.). Alternatively it has been argued that the hand could show signs of Dupuytren's disease: a fixed flexion of the hand where the fingers bend towards the palm of the hand and cannot be fully extended. However, when the curators of the 2003 Goltzius exhibition showed the drawing to the plastic surgeon Dr Frits Groenevelt, without giving him any contextual information, he noted that the deformities were characteristic of burns injuries:

‘The distortions and abnormalities displayed by this deformed hand can be ascribed to burns. The upward angle and bending of the index finger may be the result of a deep burn to the back of the finger and particularly of the skin over the first phalange – the “collar-button phenomenon”. The deformation of the nail bed of the middle finger is also striking, and a sign of a deep burn there. The abnormal position is caused by the excessive traction of scar tissue at the base of this finger. The unnaturally bent position of the little finger and to a lesser extent of the ring finger may be the consequence of a deep burn on the inner side of his hand. The little finger is twisted slightly inwards, and it is also possible (not visible) that the tip of his finger has been amputated by the total carbonization of the tip. The thumb appears to be totally unaffected, allowing us to formulate a hypothesis as to what happened in the accident. The person in question probably fell into the fire with the side of the hand striking the coals, after which the hand was twisted outwards so that the back of the fingers was also burned. Treating the burned hand of a year-old child with splints cannot have had much practical effect on the eventual abnormal position of the hand.’
(New York, 2003-4, op. cit., p. 245).

There is an almost identical version of this drawing in the Teylers Museum, Haarlem, and that sheet is signed and dated 1588 (New York, 2003-4, op. cit., no. 85; Fig. 1). It was cleaned in 1983 and at an earlier date had been trimmed and the four corners cut: although it now measures 9 x 12 ¾ in. (23 x 32.2 cm.), it would originally have been of the same dimensions as the present work. When the two drawings were examined side-by-side at the Teylers Museum in February 2014, no significant differences could be discerned in the hatching and the pen work of the two versions. The dimensions and proportions of the hand itself are the same in both sheets and it is virtually impossible to determine which was executed first. While it has often been stated that the Haarlem drawing came first, on the basis of its signature and date, it is equally possible that it may have been a presentation copy of a pre-existing drawing made specifically for an important patron who commissioned his own signed version of the composition. The existence of different versions is far from unusual in Goltzius’s work: other drawings which had particular personal significance for the artist also exist in several versions, such as the artist’s emblem bearing the motto ‘Eer boven Golt’, of which four autograph versions are known (see Reznicek, op. cit., nos. 195-97 and New York, 2003-04, op. cit., no. 4).

The existence of more than one autograph version of this remarkable drawing is documented from a very early date. In his diary from May 1622, the antiquarian and humanist Arnoldus Buchelius (1565-1641) described two visits he made on a trip to Leiden: first, to the house of the engraver and calligrapher Cornelis Boissens (1569-circa 1635), who was also a collector; and then afterwards to a lawyer named ‘Backer’, who can be identified with Jeronimus de Backere (1585-before 1678). Among the works Buchelius saw in Backere’s house was ‘Goltzius’s hand done with the pen [which] is very pleasingly done, and is also with Boissens. Believe my copy to be after it’. In a forthcoming article, reviewing the documented history of the drawings, Ilja Veldman notes that:

the sheet in the collection of Boissens had been bought by him on 31 August 1612 from the estate of Claes Rauwaert in Amsterdam. That sale was of the art collection of Jacob Rauwaert, a good friend of Goltzius to whom he had dedicated his first print in 1588. Goltzius’s authorship is not mentioned in the sale catalogue, which merely states “1 hant mette pen gedaen” (“1 hand done with the pen”), which argues for its identification with the unsigned sheet from the van Regteren Altena collection.' 
('The history of Queen Christina’s album of Goltzius drawings and the myth of Rudolph II as their first owner', to be published in Simiolus, XXXVII, 2013-14, no. 2)

Dr Veldman therefore argues that the drawing Buchelius saw in Backere’s collection can be identified with the signed version now in Haarlem. It subsequently became part of the great collection of drawings by Goltzius in the possession of Queen Christina of Sweden (1626-1689) in whose inventory it is clearly described (A. Stolzenburg, 'An inventory of Goltzius Drawings from the Collection of Queen Christina', Master Drawings, XXXVIII, no. 4, Winter 2000, pp. 427-8 and p. 435, no. 96). 

As noted in an old inscription on the present sheet, Goltzius used the drawing as the basis for the hand of the apostle Saint Jude in an engraving which is part of a series of the Twelve Apostles (Hollstein 45), published in 1589, the year following the date of the sheet in Haarlem (Fig. 2). Goltzius also drew four right hands in different positions, using black and red chalks, in a drawing executed around 1588-89 now in the Städel Museum, Frankfurt (New York, 2003-04, op. cit., no. 86; Fig. 3). The position and shape of the thumb and fingers of the upper and lower hands are particularly like those in the present drawing, except that in the Frankfurt sheet the hand, although very similar, appears undamaged and the fingers are elegantly shaped. The motif of this hand was also re-used by several artists in Goltzius’s circle, which attests to the renown which the two drawings in the van Regteren Altena collection and the Teylers must have enjoyed. For example, in Jan Muller’s (1571-1628) famous print of Belshazzar’s Feast (circa 1598; Bartsch 1, Hollstein 1), the hand of the king is a faithful copy of Goltzius’s Hand and can be interpreted as homage to the renowned master. Cornelis van Haarlem (1562-1638) also used the hand in A monk and a nun, dated 1591, now in the Frans Hals Museum, Haarlem (P.J.J. van Thiel, Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem, Doornspijk, 1999, no. 112, pl. 68).

The popularity of the motif testifies to the importance of Goltzius’s hand in his own personal myth. His accident with the fire and the subsequent deformity of his hand became such well-known stories precisely because art-historical writers at this date celebrated the artist’s hand as the vessel through which marvellous art was created with pen and burin. Goltzius’s hand became so celebrated across Europe, in fact, that he was forced to conceal it during his 1590 visit to Italy, in order to move incognito among his admiring fellow artists. Van Mander reports a moment of revelation almost like that of Christ at Emmaus, in which Goltzius announced his identity to his travelling companions, Jan Matthysz. and Philips van Winghen, by showing them his monogrammed handkerchief and unveiling his distinctive hand. His hand was therefore not only the means by which his art came into being, but also a uniquely personal signifier.

Executed around 1588, these drawings of hands are amongst the earliest of the so-called Federkunstücke or Penwerken, in which Goltzius imitated in pen and ink on paper the style of his engravings. He subsequently executed works of this type on vellum, as well as on prepared canvases. The technique of the present work, with its curving strokes of hatching punctuated with fine flecks of pen, is very comparable to that in another of these Federkunstücke: a drawing of a Muscular torso seen from behind in the Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence (Bruegel, Rubens et leurs contemporains, exhib. cat., Florence, Uffizi and Paris, Fondation Custodia, 2008, no. 30). While earlier engravers, including the Wierix brothers, had produced works of comparable type, Goltzius became especially renowned in this field, owing to the particular skill with which he worked and the ambitious scale of many of his drawings. His Sine Cerere et Libero friget Venus, for example, which dates from circa 1606 and is now one of the great treasures of the Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg, measures 85 ¼ x 64 ¼ in. (219 x 163 cm.). Van Mander described the enthusiastic response to these works among collectors at the time, and the admiration evidently remained unabated when Buchelius mentioned seeing the two drawings of hands in 1622. With their technical perfection in depicting the artist’s deformed hand, the drawings appear to be Goltzius’s affirmation of his own genius: an extremely personal form of signature, and a vivid demonstration that despite his deformity he was capable of exceptional virtuosity, and one of the greatest draftsmen of his time.

We are grateful to Dr Ilja Veldman for sharing a draft of her forthcoming article which discusses her suggested revised early provenance for the drawing.

























portrait of the sculptor Pierre Francheville


























seated monkey on a chain from the rijksmuseum



























portrait of giovanni bologna



























Sine Cerere et Libero Friget Venus











































he engraved and printed ...
























adoration of the magi
































































































and yet it is said that he only began to paint when he was forty-two !



























































Tuesday, October 2, 2018

Jed Perl's essay on Jacques Callot ... with some extra and additional illustrations as a study aid for newcomers and latecomers such as myself ... clickety-click for the bigger images



i used this link to access jed perl's original article ...

https://newrepublic.com/article/113093/jacques-callot-artist-who-brought-printmaking-its-heights





Jacques Callot's Line Sublime



An Artist's Two-Inch-Tall Creations Brought Printmaking to its Heights

By JED PERL                                                               May 23, 2013



Jacques Callot, The Fair of Impruneta, 1620s

Rarely have life’s sweetness and bitterness been embraced with more even-handed genius than in the work of Jacques Callot.  The seventeenth-century French printmaker finds an ethics of vision—a way of grappling with whatever the world has to offer—in the indomitable force and lucidity of his line.  Revered from his own day down to ours by those who see possibilities for transcendence in the printmaker’s technical know-how, Callot has nevertheless been a fairly minor figure in the art history books, no matter that some of his impressions of the horrors of war are as indelible as Goya’s and that his reflections on the pleasures of the theater and the fairground rival those of Rubens and Watteau.  Within the frequently Lilliputian dimensions of his prints—some of the most famous ones are little more than two inches high—Callot represented beggars, gypsies, soldiers, actors, and the ladies and gentlemen of the court.  He etched Biblical stories, royal festivals, hunts, battles, gardens, landscapes, and seascapes.  Princes and Paupers: The Art of Jacques Callot,” mounted at the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston, is a brave attempt to raise Callot’s profile.  It has been many years since this country saw a major show with a catalogue devoted to an artist I would rank among the peerless image makers and storytellers of European art.  Allow yourself to succumb to Callot’s work and you will experience a concentrated high.

We all know that major work can be done in minor genres, but there nevertheless lingers some almost primitive feeling that the most important visions require a commensurate size or scale.  How many people really believe that an ode by Keats can be as important as a play by Shakespeare?  Or that a song cycle by Schubert can range as widely as a symphony by Beethoven?  Callot, who was born in Nancy in 1592, apprenticed with a goldsmith and had most of his successes under the patronage of a courtly world, so one can assume that he was attuned to the taste for small, precious objects (saltcellars, knives, clocks, and the like) by master craftsmen, of whom Cellini has the most enduring reputation.  The seriousness with which Callot pursued expansive compositions of frequently minuscule sizes—many of his prints with dozens of figures are little more than three inches in any direction—reflected a sophisticated courtly idea that grand visions can be encompassed in tiny dimensions. 


Of course the courtly world was never immune to the power of brute size, and the Baroque taste for grandiosity was in full swing well before Callot died in 1635.  Compared with the titanic square footage of the Maria de’ Medici cycle by Rubens, 
( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_de%27_Medici_cycle
 who died five years later, it is all too easy to regard as a special albeit honorable case the spectacles that Callot fit into extraordinarily small spaces



—for example, The Punishments, a harrowing representation of modes of torture and execution that packs the victims together with hundreds of onlookers on a piece of paper just over eight inches wide. But Callot’s genius for the tiniest etched line is no more a matter of mere virtuosity than Rubens’s genius for the painterly brushstroke. For these artists, virtuosity is a virtue, the elegance tempered by deep knowledge and scrupulous decision-making. 

Callot was one of the great innovators in the still relatively young art of etching. An etching is produced by covering a copper plate with an acid-resistant surface. Lines are drawn into this surface; the plate is etched in acid; the acid-resistant surface is removed. Ink is then forced into the lines etched in the copper; the surface of the plate is wiped clean; and when the plate is run through a press, the etched and inked lines produce an image on a sheet of paper. Callot’s great innovation was to develop a new kind of acid-resistant surface, a hard ground made of oil and mastic, which was less likely to break down in the acid than the earlier soft-wax ground. The result was a line of increasing delicacy and specificity, which Callot further refined with an etcher’s needle with an oval-shaped tip, known as an échoppe, which enabled him to vary the width of the line, allowing it to swell or to taper. 

http://londonfineartstudios.com/etching-survey-history-techniques/callot-echoppe-etching-needle/

These technical innovations liberated Callot to produce a new kind of poetic exactitude; some might see an analogy in the filigreed yet steely movements of a great ballerina’s hands.





There is something uncanny in the experience of Callot’s etchings, because the proliferation of tiny elements generates an image that feels extraordinarily expansive.  At moments, peering into these mind-boggling compositions, we may imagine that we are witnessing a sort of parlor trick—or being asked how many angels can fit on the head of a pin.  This reflects the side of Callot’s personality that is always playing a courtly game.  But the accuracy and aplomb of Callot’s line, even in the smallest intervals, is too heartfelt to be dismissed as an elegant trick.  Callot etches faces less than a quarter of an inch high that register complex human emotions.  And when he etches a figure less than half an inch high, we see a person with a particular physique and demeanor.   The prints beguile us with their almost superhuman suavity, and then pull us up short with a humanity that is by turns frank, boisterous, sardonic, sombre, even down and dirty.



The important exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts (MFA) in Houston was organized by Dena M. Woodall, a curator at the museum, and Diane Wolfthal, an art historian at Rice University, using as its core the works owned by Albert A. Feldmann, a collector who has made a specialty of Callot.  Within the relatively small compass of the exhibition at the MFA, Woodall and Wolfthal succeed in suggesting the extraordinary range of Callot’s work: he produced some 1,400 prints.  Although he began and ended his life in Nancy, the capital of the duchy of Lorraine—Duke Charles III had ennobled his grandfather and employed his father as court herald—Callot spent the years between 1610 or thereabouts and 1621 in Italy.  He was in Rome and then for most of the decade in Florence, working for the Medici court.  His great success in Florence lasted until 1621, when his patron, Cosimo II, died and economies were initiated at court.  Back in Nancy, he made an excellent marriage, received commissions from Louis XIII and the Spanish Infanta, and maintained a valuable relationship with a publisher of prints in Paris.  But with Lorraine torn apart by the Thirty Years’ War and politically unstable, Callot could not but look back on his time in Florence as the halcyon years, or so some believe.



Jacques Callot, The Fan, 1620.

One frustration of the Houston show is that no drawings are included. Although virtually unknown in the United States, they are an essential key to Callot’s powers as a printmaker. He tended to prepare his compositions fully in drawings before committing his ideas to copper. There are some 1,400 of these drawings—as many as there are prints—done in a variety of media, from chalk to ink, and preserved in European collections.







The disciplined freedom of the drawings suggests an athlete in training for the main event that will take place when the etching needle is in his hand.  In the drawings, you can see Callot’s immediate rapport with the world: his graphic attack is bold and experimental, a way of getting down the facts.  Although some of his figures are probably drawn from imagination, others are surely made from direct observation, and all of them suggest how questions of realization and stylization are resolved not through calculated decision-making but through seismographic responses to social and psychic states.  In his drawings, Callot makes judgments about what matters and what doesn’t, and not only in relation to the human figure.  Some of his landscapes, in a broad ink-and-brush technique reminiscent of the dazzling graphic effects of Claude and Poussin, evince their own kind of emotional weather, an extraordinary sensitivity to the particular mood of a time and a place.

It may be easiest to see how the drawings prepare Callot for the pyrotechnics of the etchings in the small prints devoted to one or two figures that have been among Callot’s most admired works over the years.   A. Hyatt Mayor, a curator of prints at the Metropolitan Museum of Art half a century ago, spoke of Callot’s studies of the actors of the commedia dell’arte as “pixilated vignettes.”  One might characterize these crackerjack images as unnatural or anti-naturalistic, considering the fantastical wit with which Callot turns the arms and legs of Pullicinello and sundry comic personalities into configurations suggesting extravagantly twisted, tangled, stuffed, and stretched silken puppets.  Then again, perhaps Callot is only being true to the actors’ wild energies, his exaggerations a transcription of their own inebriated exertions.  Among Callot’s work, the commedia dell’arte figures find their closest cousins, surprisingly enough, in representations of elegant ladies and gentlemen whose outrageous finery, including impossibly overscaled and befeathered hats, bespeaks another kind of performance, albeit courtly rather than comic.  What links courtier and clown is the re-imagining of the self in terms of the elongated extravagances of the Mannerist style, which although born early in the sixteenth century was still setting off exotic shoots and tendrils in courtly circles nearly a hundred years later.  Callot may be one of the last artists to give new life to the old Mannerist exaggerations, suggesting not exhaustion but ebullience, a theatrical extravagance that would reignite hundreds of years later in Seurat’s impressions of the circus and the music hall.



With Callot, whether the subject is prince, pulliciniello, or pauper, surface always reflects substance. Confronted with the extravagant imaginations of courtier and clown, his line becomes appropriately exultant.  And it goes without saying that Callot’s gentle and unsparing studies of beggars and pilgrims necessitate a different kind of graphic attack, so as to demonstrate how the beggar clings to clothes that are like a tent or a shroud—a protection, poor as it may be, against the world’s onslaught.  The Blind Man with Dog, The Old Woman with Cats, The Obese Beggar, and The Beggar with Bare Head and Feet are sunk in their ragged existence, their solitude only emphasized by the whiteness of the paper on which their disquieting images have been stamped.  Here Callot offers no scrap of landscape or distant figures in action that might mitigate the beggar’s isolation. 





While some might dismiss these as studies of types, they are in fact far more searching, with each face suggesting a complete personality. We sense a whole other side of Callot, a realism that many would say is northern in its essential character, and draws him in these studies especially close to the steady-eyed sympathy that makes Louis Le Nain’s paintings of peasant life among the highest achievements of seventeenth-century France. The boy who looks out from beneath an oversized hat in The Mother with Three Children is close cousin, if not brother, to the children in Le Nain’s paintings, whose straight-ahead gazes, quizzical and relentless, raise questions to which there are evidently never going to be satisfying answers.



Nobody should imagine that Callot, the master of the miniature, feared the grand statement.  In The Fair of Impruneta, a print over two feet wide, he produced a work of mythopoetic richness.  Based on an autumn fair in the Tuscan town of Impruneta, not far from Florence, the print contains more than a thousand figures, arranged in great eddies and waves, the individual linked to the group by some magnetic force, the whole an exploration of the possibilities of flux and flow in human relations.  The church at Impruneta was home to a miracle-working Madonna believed to have been painted by Saint Luke, and so it was a great pilgrimage site around the saint’s feast day in October.  Did such a large number of people ever really congregate at Impruneta?  Perhaps.  

It is also true that the Baroque artists, even when embracing naturalistic possibilities, had a taste for hyperbole, and Callot might have been inclined to italicize the possibilities of this gathering of humanity.   The Fair of Impruneta is a glorious hymn to human energy, appetite, curiosity, and conviviality.  The good and the bad, the innocent and the malevolent, are wonderfully mixed.  All the way to the left, two men help an accomplice drop down a rope from the top of a building, probably in an attempt to steal eggs.  Far below, people gather around the tables of a merchant selling dishware.  There are tents where fairgoers examine a seemingly endless assortment of merchandise.  And there are families, rich and poor, walking along together, conversing with one another, meeting friends.  Callot’s line is quick and deft, the individuals, each perfectly realized, united in overarching, curving, surging movements.



Jacques Callot, The Fair of Impruneta 

One of the riveting episodes in The Fair of Impruneta takes place in the right foreground, beneath an immense, overarching tree. 



Two snake charmers, one with a huge snake coiled around his arm, stand on a platform, seen in stark profile. In front of the platform some forty men, women, and children gather to watch the goings-on on stage. It is not easy to see how all of the members of the audience are responding, as many are in deep shadow; but set against those figures who are mere ciphers are some in full light, and the looks of rapt pleasure on their faces create a thrilling dramatic effect. The only drama in printmaking that strikes me as comparable is Rembrandt’s use of chiaroscuro to highlight the emotional states of figures in his prints; and Rembrandt knew some of Callot’s work, though not necessarily The Fair of Impruneta.  Like Rembrandt and Rubens, Callot had a solid grounding in the principles of large-scale figure composition that had been developing since the High Renaissance, and like them, he found ways to give an organic order to what had perhaps theretofore seemed to many the inherently chaotic lives of the lower regions of society.  The Fair of Impruneta is a riveting realization of the dynamics of the crowd, with the variegated members of society cast together in inherently unpredictable ways, a reminder of that unpredictability being the child who cuts open the purse of a bystander who is watching a lady have her fortune read by a gypsy. 

The Fair of Impruneta certainly has its variegated sonorities. The church itself forms a backdrop to the jam-packed scene, a large, solid, and even stolid presence, its nearly blank façade suggesting religion’s imperturbability. Anything but imperturbable is a scene in the middle distance, where a group has gathered to watch a prisoner submit to strappado, the torture of being suspended in the air from ropes attached to the wrists, causing enormous pain and the dislocation of the shoulders. Perhaps such events could not fail to fascinate an artist entranced by all the victories and vicissitudes of the human body.  



Jacques Callot, The Hanging, 1620s

Over the years Callot returned to the question of human cruelty, climactically in a cycle of eighteen etchings, called The Miseries and Misfortunes of War. Responding to the experience of the Thirty Years’ War, Callot offered the darkest imaginable view of the soldier’s life and personality, with scenes of soldiers committing atrocities, the violence of peasant reprisals, and the poverty and dislocation that can accompany the soldier’s life. 

The most shattering print in the cycle is The Hanging, dominated by a tree with the kind of wide-spreading branches that Callot loved to represent, except now the tree’s branches are full not of leaves but of the bodies of soldiers who have been hanged for the atrocities that they committed.  In the foreground, a tall soldier being sent to his death confronts a priest who is giving him the last rites, and the face of the priest, full of pity, sorrow, and unyielding principle, is as unsentimental a representation as I know of religious experience confronting the vagaries of humanity. This extraordinary little vignette is something that a viewer may discover only over time, for what rivets us is the tree itself, hung with human bodies, the strangest fruits imaginable—fruits malheureux, as the caption would have it. Although there is an elegant serenity about even Callot’s most violent images, certainly with The Hanging he goes as deep as Goya ever did into the monstrous enigmas that war reveals.  That Callot adds a group of men who are casually gambling beneath the spreading branches only adds to the supreme strangeness of the spectacle.

In recent years a good deal of scholarly attention has been paid to the development of printmaking in the Renaissance and the Baroque. Much of this work has been spurred by historians attuned to questions about the death of the author and the original, the work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction, and the increasing ubiquity in museum galleries (heretofore dedicated to painting) of photography and multiple and serial images of many varieties.  Interesting questions have been raised about the deep origins of what some see as an ongoing crisis in the nature of originality in the arts. 

Nobody can doubt that printmaking places the artist in a different kind of relationship with the audience. And Callot’s prints, which sold in considerable quantities and were rapidly distributed over a good deal of Europe, are very much a part of this story.  But I do not believe that they support a view of printmaking as precipitating the de-personalization of the artist, or the artist’s alienation from the work of art. Quite the contrary. Callot’s extraordinary body of work suggests that, in the early seventeenth century, printmaking was infusing new forms of intimacy and immediacy into the visual arts.  The less expensive and more readily available nature of prints, as opposed to paintings and tapestries, offered a way to expand the reach of an artistic vision.  And the vigor and immediacy of Callot’s line could make people feel that they were establishing a personal relationship with the artist’s sensibility. 

It seems to me that Callot sometimes aimed to give a more intimate intonation to subjects theretofore defined through the grandest works of the Renaissance and Baroque periods.


His Great Hunt is a horizontal image a little over eighteen inches wide that encompasses all the boisterous pageantry we know from the spectacular hunt tapestries produced in the sixteenth century.



Among the series called Various Italian Landscapes is a scene of male bathers cavorting near a shoreline ornamented with romantic architecture, which has an impish elegance that brings Annibale Caracci’s playful pastoral paintings to mind.




Callot’s Two Large Views of Paris (large means thirteen inches), done toward the end of his life, are fairly early landmarks in the visualization of a city that artists would be  exploring down to our own time.  



Those who devote all their energies to printmaking will probably always be regarded as second-class citizens in the visual arts. And when the rare printmaker breaks through with a vision as deep and forthright as Callot’s, he may still appear a shadowy figure in comparison with the many great printmakers in the European tradition who were also, and often primarily, painters, among them Dürer, Rembrandt, Goya, and Picasso. That Callot, in his finest works, is right up there with such giants hardly seems to make much of a difference.  But The Fair of Impruneta is every bit as great a work as Picasso’s Minotauromachy, and I would not be unwilling to argue that it is equal to Rembrandt’s Hundred Guilder Print or Three Crosses



It is a fine irony that, in our day, when there is so much interest in the artist as outsider or outlier, the deeply cultivated work of an artist who embraced with all his gifts what is commonly regarded as a secondary art should not be the subject of intense interest.  There have always been those who admire Callot, and they include those who saw to it that he had his day in Houston, but printmaking seems condemned to linger on the fringes of art history, except when it is brought in to declare the end of originality or the death of the aura—which is to say, the end of art history as we know it.
 

The Temptation of Saint Anthony, 1635

In Callot’s etchings the sense of an aura is thrillingly, almost uncannily present.  As he draws us in, closer and closer, he forges the kind of immediate relationship that all formidable artists seek with their audience.  He proves that the widening reach of art is not irreconcilable with art’s intimacy and seigneurial sophistication. If all printmakers are populists, Callot is a populist who is capable of the purest artistic expression. Perhaps that is what makes him an artist that our determinedly dumb-it-down art world doesn’t really want to know. 




Jed Perl is the art critic for The New Republic.




... and any resemblance is purely co-incidental ...

Tristan's Addendum ... 

Callot's family had property at Xeuilley, a non-descript village on a plain
he made this May Day drawing, probably hugely romanticized,


and then this engraving,  perhaps even more so
a comparison will tell you much about his methods, and his genius