Looking to Connect with European Paintings
Visual Approaches for Teaching in the Galleries
Copyright and Credits
Copyright © 2013 by The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
Published by The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
Project team
Written by Elizabeth Perkins, Samuel H. Kress Interpretive Fellow, 2012–2013
Maryan Ainsworth, Curator, European Paintings
Peggy Fogelman, Frederick P. and Sandra P. Rose Chairman of Education
Kathryn Calley Galitz, Associate Museum Educator, Education
Michael Gallagher, Sherman Fairchild Conservator in Charge, Paintings Conservation
Merantine Hens, Senior Managing Editor, Education
Marcie Karp, Managing Museum Educator, Academic Programs, Education
Donna Rocco, Senior Production Manager, Education
Jacqueline Terrassa, Managing Museum Educator, Gallery and Studio
Programs, Education
Design by Adam Squires and Catherine Soulé, CHIPS
Photographs of works in the Museum’s collections are by the
Photograph Studio of The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
On the cover, from left to right, details of: Claude Monet, Camille Monet on a
Garden Bench (2002.62.1); Caspar David Friedrich, Two Men Contemplating
the Moon (2000.51); Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Harvesters (19.164); Hans
Memling, Maria Portinari (14.40.627); as previously, Camille Monet on a Garden
Bench, Two Men Contemplating the Moon, The Harvesters, Maria Portinari
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Credits
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Contents
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5
10
Introduction
Developments in European Painting, ca. 1250–1900
Visual Themes
Illusion
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15
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21
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27
30
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Introduction
Hans Memling, Tommaso di Folco Portinari and Maria Portinari
Willem Claesz Heda, Still Life with Oysters, a Silver Tazza, and Glassware
Eduard Gaertner, Parochialstrasse in Berlin
Jacques Louis David, Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier and His Wife
Rembrandt, Man in Oriental Costume
Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, Allegory of the Planets and Continents
Movement
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92
93
The Metropolitan Museum of Art Gallery Teaching Goals
Notes to Terms Used in This Publication
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66
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53
Introduction
Nicolas Poussin, The Abduction of the Sabine Women
Pieter Bruegel, The Harvesters
Biagio d’Antonio, The Story of Joseph
El Greco, The Vision of Saint John
Joseph Mallord William Turner, Whalers
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Borders
Introduction
Giovanni di Paolo, Madonna and Child with Saints
Artemisia Gentileschi, Esther before Ahasuerus
Adélaïde Labille-Guiard, Self-Portrait with Two Pupils
Georges Seurat, Gray Weather, Grande Jatte
Édouard Manet, Boating
Illumination
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80
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89
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Introduction
Jacopo Bassano, The Baptism of Christ
Georges de La Tour, The Penitent Magdalen
Johannes Vermeer, Young Woman with a Water Pitcher
Claude Monet, Camille Monet on a Garden Bench
Caspar David Friedrich, Two Men Contemplating the Moon
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Introduction
Purpose
How to Use This Publication
Intended as a tool for those who teach
adults, focusing on The Metropolitan
Museum of Art’s collection of European
Paintings (ca. 1250–1900), this resource
will help users to:
· focus on visual aspects of paintings;
· look at the collection from new
perspectives;
· find connections between European
paintings and other regions and
periods of art;
· develop their own thematic pathways; and
· use pedagogical best practices,
informed by the Museum’s Gallery
Teaching Goals (page 92).
This resource presents four themes—Illusion,
Borders, Movement, and Illumination—that
invite you to step away from a chronological
narrative of painting’s history and focus on
visual aspects of painting that have engaged
artists for centuries. The introduction
to each section explores multiple facets
of a particular theme and the various
challenges they present. The diversity of the
artists’ approaches to these challenges is
demonstrated in five to six paintings related
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to each theme. While the introductions
are suggestive and broad, the individual
painting entries offer concrete ideas about
form, technique, and meaning.
The thematic sections and related painting
entries are not sequential; you may read them
in any order. You can navigate this resource
according to your interests and needs:
By engaging the visual qualities of
painting, you may find common threads
among painters’ methods or consider the
differences between artists’ approaches
to their work. You might also find ways
to relate the paintings to contemporary
experience, to other objects in the
Museum’s collection, and to broader
historical contexts. “Developments in
European Painting, ca. 1250–1900”
(page 5) presents an overview of some
major changes and will help you frame
these kinds of connections.
· Use the links in the table of contents to
advance to any section or work of art.
· Use the “Contents” and other links at
the bottom of any page to go to those
sections.
· Link from the title of a painting to
its page in the Museum’s online
Collections section (which includes
full catalogue entries and bibliographies).
· Use links within the text to access notes
to specific terms (page 93), and
additional related resources.
· To maximize navigation in this PDF,
we recommend that you configure your
toolbar in Adobe Acrobat or Preview
(for Mac) to show page navigation tools.
This will allow you to use “back” and
“forward” buttons, for example.
By starting with a painting’s visual
qualities, we are immediately engaged
with the object before us. Weaving
together meaning, function, or context
with this primary act of looking allows us
to trust our own observations, and see art
history embodied in the object.
Introduction
4
Developments in European Painting ca. 1250–1900
Interdependent and concurrent, the major
developments described below are aspects of
European painting that changed significantly
during the time period represented in the
Metropolitan Museum’s collection. This
section provides a broad overview of
some major art historical themes to help
you consider how the formal elements
of a painting are connected to its art
historical context.
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The Status of Painting
The Identity of the Artist
During the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries, the earliest period represented
in the Met’s European Paintings collection,
painting was considered a craft: mechanical
work that did not require intellect. Created
mainly for Christian devotion, paintings
primarily featured religious subjects,
and their function was mostly didactic.
During the Renaissance (broadly defined
chronologically as 1400 to 1600), influential
writers and artists argued that painting was
a noble profession, and that it rivaled poetry
in its ability to describe nature and beauty.
This kind of comparison helped elevate the
status of painting to a liberal art, a pursuit
that did require intellect. With this change,
people began to consider a painting’s
artistic merit as valuable as the physical
materials used to create the work (gold,
jewels, or expensive pigments, for instance).
As artists began to seek new sources for
their work from classical antiquity, subject
matter broadened well beyond religion
to encompass mythological and literary
subjects as well as historical events (history
painting). Painting’s purposes also expanded
as it began to express patrons’ personal
identity, power, wealth, and status.
With the elevation of painting to a fine
art, the painter’s identity and status also
changed. It became possible for an artist
to distinguish himself as an autonomous
professional with the ability to attain
fame and very high social position. Artists
exercised more autonomy over the subject
and execution of their work, and asserted
their personal styles more emphatically.
While signatures are rare in very early
religious works, from the fifteenth century
onward painters signed their work with
more frequency, as a declaration of pride
or a mark of approval (if a workshop was
involved). Some painters used discreet
locations to sign their work, and others
found clever ways of inserting their names
(for example, Petrus Christus, Carlo
Crivelli, and Hans Holbein). Others (such
as Rembrandt or Claude Monet) signed
their work more prominently, without any
illusionistic pretense.
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Developments
5
The Role of the Patron
A painter who had gained prominence
and status was more free to follow his or
her imagination, which raised the bar for
all painters; technical skill was always
important, but patrons and critics also
increasingly valued painters’ creativity and
inventiveness. Painters in the medieval and
Renaissance periods were organized into
guilds that controlled their production,
but beginning in the late sixteenth century,
academies supported and promoted artists’
activities, provided training, and established
artistic standards. Some of these academies
were founded by artists, while others
were established through the patronage
of a monarch or ruler. In some ways,
academies could be as restrictive as the
guilds once were, and during the eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries, many painters
rebelled against their academies, further
asserting their ever-growing independence.
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Even in the thirteenth century, painting was
inextricably linked to patronage. Churches
commissioned religious subjects as didactic
tools for worship, and private donors paid
for altarpieces and other devotional works
to help ensure the salvation of their eternal
souls. As the status of painting changed,
so did the nature of patronage and its
influence. Patronage outside the church
provided the impetus and venue for new
and different subjects. Persuaded of the
nobility of painting and its ability to confer
honor, Renaissance patrons began to ask
for works that held personal meaning, such
as portraits, or painted domestic objects
like birth trays. With the rise of a wealthy
merchant class in Europe, the patrons and
their demands became increasingly varied
and influenced both styles and genres. At
the same time, in the mid-sixteenth century,
the Reformation (and subsequently,
Introduction
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Developments
the Counter-Reformation) changed the
nature and prevalence of religious art
substantially. Wars and upheavals during
this period affected patronage and, by
extension, artists. Courts throughout
Europe had cultivated painters for
centuries; when revolutions swept the
continent in the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries, disrupting and overthrowing
the monarchies, they changed the use and
imagery of painting. Subject matter shifted
from the glorification of monarchies and
triumphant battles to depictions of the
common man and the tragedies of war.
A new kind of change—the Industrial
Revolution—began to sweep Europe in
the nineteenth century and fundamentally
transformed the subjects, materials,
centers, and markets for art.
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The Emergence of New Genres
All of the changes described above helped foster
the development of new kinds of painting,
which are prominent in the European Paintings
galleries at the Metropolitan Museum:
during the medieval period
were a means for displaying one’s patronage
and piety within the larger framework of
altarpieces and frescoes. In northern Europe
during the fifteenth century, portraits began
to appear within devotional paintings, and
sometimes as the wings of triptychs. With a
growing interest in humanism, a desire to
preserve one’s likeness for posterity gave rise to
secular, independent portraits. Early on they
depicted little more than the sitter’s head, but in
the sixteenth century they expanded to larger,
bust-length portraits, and eventually, grand
full-length representations. England had
a particularly strong portraiture tradition,
beginning with the Protestant Reformation
in the sixteenth century. Artists also painted
themselves: from the early fifteenth century,
painters produced self-portraits, sometimes as
studies but often as presentation paintings—
proof of their skills for potential patrons.
These self-portraits soon became prized by
collectors, a fact that further attests to the
rising status of the painter.
PoRTRAITS
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LANDSCAPE ,
like portraiture, also had its
roots in religious paintings but eventually
developed into a subject matter in its own
right. In the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries, an increasingly large Protestant
population in northern Europe sought
landscapes without any religious pretext to
adorn their homes. For the next century,
however, many still thought of landscape
as an inferior subject for painting, relative
to history painting. In the seventeenth
century, artists inspired by classical antiquity
and travel to Italy began to paint idealized
landscapes that captured the imagination
as views of Arcadia, a legendary, utopian
place of beauty. While nature was always a
source of inspiration, in the late eighteenth
century, artists and critics began to insist
that painting studies outdoors, directly
from nature, was critical for landscape
painters. Large, finished landscapes were
still made in the studio; however, by the late
nineteenth century, artists painted full-scale
landscapes entirely outside. In addition,
plein-air paintings created as studies soon
gained acceptance as finished works by both
artists and the public (Claude Monet’s La
Grenouillère, for example). Eventually the
landscape became a mode of expression for
many artists (such as Vincent van Gogh),
not just a source of visual inspiration.
Introduction
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Developments
STILL-LIfE
AND
GENRE
PAINTING
also emerged between 1250 and 1900.
The production of religious images
changed substantially with the Protestant
Reformation, which marked the beginning
of a general decline of Christian imagery
in painting. The development of still life
in northern Europe, especially in the
Netherlands, reflects a growing societal
emphasis on products of trade and commerce,
which became part of everyday life. Collectors
wanted images for their homes that reflected
their lives and possessions. Still-life painting
also gained popularity in southern Europe,
where artists drew inspiration from statuary
and motifs from classical antiquity as well.
Genre paintings, depictions of everyday
life, are closely connected to still life and its
origins, and also became popular throughout
Europe. These paintings offered subjects for
amusement or entertaining scenes with moral
undertones (such as in Frans Hals’s Young
Man and Woman in an Inn), and later in
the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries they
even incorporated elements of social critique.
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The Role of Painting Materials and Techniques
The appearance of the paintings we see in
the galleries is inextricably linked to artists’
materials and processes. The relationship
between painting and process is a dialogue.
Paint can be a vehicle for artists’ imaginations;
at the same time, its material properties can
become a catalyst for new approaches. For
this reason, it can be misleading to generalize
about developments in painting technique
over the centuries. Certain common practices
changed with time and according to region—
the use of preparatory drawings, methods
for mixing colors, and some specialized ways
of applying paint, for example. Yet each
painter’s working process varied, even from
his or her contemporaries. “There are no
rules in Painting,” Goya insisted. We cannot
take his words literally, yet the diversity of
the Museum’s European Paintings collection
exemplifies the spirit of his statement.
Before even picking up a brush, the painter
chooses what kind of support to use. The
material qualities of the support (its texture,
for example) can affect the appearance of
the painting, but painters can also control
this, and may choose a certain support for
practical rather than aesthetic reasons. For
example, Bronzino and Jacques Louis
David both achieved very smooth surfaces,
yet Bronzino painted on wood panel, while
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David created his “polished” surface on
canvas. In contrast to David, some painters
chose to incorporate the canvas’s natural
texture as part of the painting. Titian, for
example, began to work “with” the visible
weave of the canvas.
The painting medium, its consistency, and
application are equally important to the
painter in achieving a desired result. Painters
in the fifteenth century were very aware of
the practical and aesthetic uses of both egg
and oil binders for painting; many early
Renaissance artists actually incorporate
both tempera and oil paint in their work
(for example, Antonello da Messina and
Fra Carnevale). The appearance of the paint
relies greatly on how the artist applied it.
Looking closely at the Christ child in works
by Cosimo Roselli and Filippino Lippi, both
painted with tempera, we see that each artist
approached modeling, tone, and texture
differently (note in particular the skin tones
and hair of Christ). The use of oil as a binder
and the development of oil techniques were
certainly highly important; at the same time,
artists used oil paint in many different ways.
For example, Giovanni Bellini explored
the possibilities of applying oil paint in
glazes to achieve a greater tonal range than
he previously did with tempera; Titian
Introduction
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Developments
learned Bellini’s technique but later chose to
use a much thicker application with looser,
visible brushstrokes. The intention and effect
of similar techniques also can vary. Like
Bellini, Hans Memling also painted with
oil in glazes, yet created a more luminous
surface, with sharper contours and details.
Rembrandt’s impasto technique evokes the
weight and material substance of a metal
chain (Aristotle Contemplating the Bust
of Homer), while that of Van Gogh creates
movement in the landscape (Wheat Field
with Cypresses).
Until the nineteenth century it is difficult to
isolate any single turning point or invention
regarding painting materials and techniques,
but the advent of manufacturing certainly
had an impact on painting. With the
Industrial Revolution, synthetic pigments
were developed that offered new colors and
cheaper alternatives for traditional organic
and mineral pigments (ultramarine blue is a
notable example). Perhaps most significant,
the collapsible metal paint tube was invented
in 1841. This made it much easier for
painters to store and transport their paints,
contributing to the popularity of painting
outdoors in the nineteenth century.
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Physical Changes in Paintings
The life of a painting continues long after
the artist’s final touch. Changes, either
intentional or accidental, occur over time.
Some works have been painted over (by
the artist or a later hand), cut down to fit a
different space, or divided into pieces that
were subsequently separated from each
other. Sometimes aging or environmental
conditions change a painting’s appearance.
Colors and values can shift as pigments
change over time; dark pigments, for
example, sometimes become darker with
age. Layers of paint that have become
transparent with age may reveal how
a painter altered something during the
painting process (see Hans Memling’s
portraits of Tommaso di Folco Portinari
and Maria Portinari, Illusion 1, page 15).
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As viewers, we are not often aware of these
kinds of changes, and, in most cases within
the Museum’s collection, they do not
significantly alter our understanding of a
painting. Conservators work to preserve the
paintings and ensure we experience them
as closely as possible to the original intent
of the artist. In certain cases, information
that conservators are able to bring to light
(underdrawings, for example) provides
important insight into an artist’s intention
or working method, and may even help
identify the artist or workshop who made
the painting. Sometimes changes that we
are able to see, either with the naked eye
or with the help of scientific examination,
can add another dimension to how we
approach the painting. In this sense,
discussing alterations or techniques may
add meaning to our experience of the work
(Artemisia Gentileschi’s Esther before
Ahasuerus, Borders 2, page 41).
Introduction
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Developments
9
Visual Themes
What is constant is art’s concern with itself, the interests painters
have in questioning their operation.
—Leo Steinberg
ILLUSION , BORDERS , MOVEMENT, and
ILLUMINATION address elements of painting
that persistently engaged artists during the
mid-thirteenth through nineteenth centuries.
Each theme:
· is rooted in visual aspects of the paintings;
· is particularly important to the artistic
traditions of European painting;
· is applicable across all the geographic
areas and chronological span of the
Metropolitan Museum’s European
Paintings collection;
· bridges form, meaning, and technique; and
· offers relevant connections to other
collection areas.
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You can look at virtually any painting in
the collection from multiple perspectives.
As you consider a particular theme you
may find that different paintings come to
mind, or you might examine a featured
painting through the lens of another theme
to see new visual solutions at work. The
featured paintings in this publication are
not illustrations to the themes; instead,
the themes are intended to help you look
more closely at the paintings. Neither
exhaustive nor definitive, the themes can
serve as entry points for looking, as the
focus for entire discussions, or as points
of departure and connection to other
works. Most important, the themes
and their examples are meant to engage
you, stimulate conversation, and help
generate your own connections and ideas
about painting.
Introduction
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Developments
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Visual Themes
10
Illusion
Paintings featured in this section
Illusions offer us ways to escape from our everyday lives,
whether for a moment or a sustained amount of time. We
experience a certain kind of illusion when we watch a film
or play. How do painters persuade us to participate in their
illusions? Throughout the history of western art, viewers have
delighted in the visual game that illusion provides; we perceive
something as “real” while simultaneously, on some level,
remaining aware that it is not. In painting, artists can play
with illusion to engage our senses, to draw us into the world
depicted. Painted illusions can be spatial, in which objects
appear three-dimensional, either projecting forward from the
painting or receding away from us by means of foreshortening
and perspective. Illusions may involve paint “transforming”
into another material, such as gold or a hard reflective
surface. An illusion may also create a sense of verisimilitude,
so that we perceive a painted representation almost as if it
were a physical object (trompe l’oeil). Some illusions attempt
to activate senses other than sight by evoking textures,
temperatures, or weight, for example—nonvisual properties
that are more strongly felt than seen.
Looking to Connect
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Introduction
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Developments
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1
Tommaso di folco Portinari (1428–1501)
and Maria Portinari (Maria Maddalena
Baroncelli, born 1456)
Hans Memling
2
Still Life with oysters, a Silver Tazza,
and Glassware
Willem Claesz Heda
3
Parochialstrasse in Berlin
Eduard Gaertner
4
Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier (1743–1794)
and His Wife (Marie-Anne-Pierrette
Paulze, 1758–1836)
Jacques Louis David
5
Man in oriental Costume
(“The Noble Slav”)
Rembrandt (Rembrandt van Rijn)
6
Allegory of the Planets and Continents
Giovanni Battista Tiepolo
Illusion
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Illusion
∕ Introduction
Illusion exists in many artistic traditions
and time periods dating back to antiquity.
For European artists, sources from the
classical past (ancient Greek and Roman)
inspired their use of illusion. The majority
of paintings from these earlier civilizations
have perished (and what remains has been
discovered relatively recently), yet ancient
texts recounting painted illusions continue
to make these accessible to us. In fact, these
texts were known and read since the early
Renaissance. Authors like the Roman
statesman and scholar Pliny the Elder
(23–79 A.D.) wrote lively descriptions of
paintings that were so lifelike that they
fooled the most discerning eyes. He wrote
of birds that alighted on painted grapes
and attempted to eat them, a painting of
a curtain that someone attempted to pull
back, and portraits so perfectly accurate
that physiognomists could use them to
ascertain age or prophesy death.1
→
How are illusions
dispelled?
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Painted illusions were not entirely lost
during the medieval period. Artists
used foreshortening to indicate spatial
recession even before they worked
out the mathematical basis for linear
perspective. In the mid-fifteenth century,
the Renaissance architect and humanist
Leon Battista Alberti wrote a treatise (De
Pictura) intended to educate patrons about
the practice of painting, and to elevate its
status to a liberal art. In his text, Alberti
describes how painters employ one-point
perspective to create an illusion of recession
and space. A painting’s surface is not merely
a flat plane, Alberti explains, but rather a
“veil,” or a window that the viewer sees
through, to an illusionistic space beyond.
This fundamental concept, which we take
for granted today, is the basis for how
people have viewed paintings for centuries.
Until the modern era, painting itself was
understood as an illusion. For this reason,
the artists represented in the Met’s European
Paintings collection are all concerned with
illusion to some extent, even those painters
who manipulate our perception of space
and volume or depart from traditional
systems of perspective.
Introduction
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Developments
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Illusion
1
Pliny the Elder, The Natural History, 35: 36.
Translated by John Bostock and H. T. Riley (1855).
12
Illusion
∕ Introduction
Many artists represented in the collection
found ways to conceal their brushstrokes
in order to produce illusions so convincing
that they appeared not to have been painted
at all. They wanted to produce illusions so
convincing that they appeared to not have
been painted at all. The work of artists like
Jan van Eyck and his followers, Raphael,
Bronzino, Jacques Louis David, or PierreAuguste Cot, for example, appears very
smooth, with hardly a brushstroke in
sight. The image rather than the material
qualities dominates. For other painters,
this type of “perfect” illusion was not
as important. Artists like Rembrandt,
Goya, and Titian, for example, emphasize
the very material qualities of their work
with visible, directional brushwork, or a
thick application of paint (impasto). Their
illusions are of a very different sort: they
activate our sense of the tactile. We can
almost feel the weight of Artistotle’s gold
chain or the softness of Elizabeth Farren’s
fur muff.
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Illusion was not always the primary
concern of painters before the twentieth
century. During the chronological span
of the Met’s collection, we see an evershifting balance between depictions of the
world as it appears and representations of
things that cannot be seen, as in the case
of spiritual and emotional phenomena or
symbolic imagery. A painting’s purpose,
the artist’s subjectivity, and the social and
artistic conditions of the time all impact
what an artist considers to be the best
way to represent nature or an idea. As
a result, the kinds of illusions and the
methods of creating those illusions vary
with each period, geographic region, and
individual artist.
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Developments
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Illusion
What is the artist
asking us to believe, and
how is she or he trying
to convince us?
→
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Illusion
∕ Introduction
LookING To CoNNECT
fURTHER CoNNECTIoNS
In what ways do senses other than sight
help you navigate the world?
Gallagher, Michael. “Connections: Virtuosity.” The Metropolitan Museum
of Art, 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.org/connections/virtuosity.
What illusions do you experience or create in
your own life?
Giusti, Anna Maria, ed. Art and Illusions: Masterpieces of Trompe l’oeil
from Antiquity to the Present Day. Exh. cat. Florence: Mandragora/
Fondazione Palazzo Strozzi, 2009.
If you could step inside this painting and touch
one of the objects, what would it feel like?
What are the figures in this painting seeing
and feeling?
Gombrich, Ernst. Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of
Pictorial Representation. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000.
This most recent edition includes a new preface written by Gombrich
in which he discusses the changing nature of mimesis and illusion in
the modern world.
What does this painting sound like?
“Illusionism.” Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online. Oxford University
Press, accessed August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/
subscriber/article/grove/art/T039956.
What kind of voices do the figures have?
If you stand in a different place, how does
the illusion change?
Leona, Marco. “Connections: Magic.” The Metropolitan Museum of
Art, 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.org/connections/magic.
Steinberg, Leo. “Other Criteria.” In Other Criteria: Confrontations with
Twentieth-Century Art. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972.
Wardropper, Ian. “Connections: Touch.” The Metropolitan Museum of
Art, 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.org/connections/touch.
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Introduction
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Illusion
14
1
Tommaso di folco Portinari (1428–1501) and Maria Portinari (Maria Maddalena
Baroncelli, born 1456), probably 1470
Hans Memling (Netherlandish, Seligenstadt, active by 1465–died 1494 Bruges)
Oil on wood
Bequest of Benjamin Altman, 1913 (14.40.626–27)
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Introduction
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Illusion
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2
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3
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4
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5
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6
15
Tommaso di Folco Portinari (1428–1501) and Maria Portinari (Maria Maddalena Baroncelli, born 1456), Hans Memling
Spatial illusion
Memling plays with our sense of space by
painting carefully shaded fictive frames
around the figures. He actually places
Tommaso and Maria in front of these
frames, on “our side” of the painting—
notice that the frames border only three sides
of the panels, and do not continue along
the bottom edges. Certain details reinforce
this illusion; for example, Maria’s conical
headdress (or hennin) and its veil overlap
the right side of the frame, as if projecting
into our space. We know Memling was very
careful with the placement of the hennin:
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X-ray analysis confirmed that he originally
positioned it at a much steeper angle. In fact,
we can see this if we examine the painting
closely. Look for the visible pentimento:
a darker area, on the top edge of the fictive
frame. The original hennin is just barely
visible beneath the upper paint layers, which
have become more transparent with time.
Memling later changed the position of the
hennin, presumably so that it extends to the
corner of the frame, where the translucent veil
gently falls over the illusionistic edge of the
painting. Memling also painted Tommaso’s
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right sleeve extending over the fictive frame.
Originally this effect would have been
more pronounced, but the paint layers have
darkened over time, greatly lessening the
contrast between his dark purple sleeves and
the black background. The couple’s hands,
particularly Tommaso’s, are foreshortened
so that they seem to project even farther
outward, away from their bodies and into
our space.
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Tommaso di Folco Portinari (1428–1501) and Maria Portinari (Maria Maddalena Baroncelli, born 1456), Hans Memling
Illusionistic details
Illusion and meaning
Memling used precise detail to create a sense
of realness in the sitters: for example, he
uses his brush to pick out the stubble on
Tommaso’s cheek, the individual hairs of
his eyebrows, the glint of light in his eye,
and the wrinkles in his neck that signal his
aging skin. Maria’s young face, by contrast,
shows few wrinkles, but we see individual
strokes for each eyebrow and carefully
modeled highlights and shadows that make
her nose seem three-dimensional. Elements
of her clothing stand out as perhaps the
most illusionistic details—the translucent
folds of her veil and the tiny white hairs of
her dress’s fur trim. Her intricate necklace is
so volumetric that it casts its own shadows
on her neck (not to be confused with the
shadowy dots above the necklace showing
its original placement, another visible
pentimento). Both figures’ skin tones are
built up from a white ground with layers
of translucent oil glazes, which creates the
illusion of flesh that seems to glow with life
from within.
The portraits once formed part of a
devotional triptych, whose central panel—
depicting the Virgin and Child—is now
lost. Memling’s illusion of space was
highly innovative, and also connected his
sitters more closely to the object of their
devotion. If you imagine the missing panel
placed between them, Tommaso and
Maria would be directing their prayers
(and gazes) toward the Virgin and Child.
Memling’s intricate detail created a record
of the couple’s features and wealth at an
important moment in their lives, just after
their marriage in 1470. We participate in
Memling’s illusions by suspending our
disbelief for a moment, allowing the space
between us and the portraits to dissolve,
and observing these people just as they
were (or as they wished to be presented)
more than five hundred years ago.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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Still Life with oysters, a Silver Tazza, and Glassware, 1635
Willem Claesz Heda (Dutch, Haarlem? 1594 –1680 Haarlem)
Oil on wood
From the Collection of Rita and Frits Markus, Bequest of Rita Markus, 2005 (2005.331.4)
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Still Life with Oysters, a Silver Tazza, and Glassware, Willem Claesz Heda
Surface, volume, and light
A palpable sense of textured surfaces and
three-dimensional objects dominates this
painting. The lateral edge of the table is
painted as if parallel to the picture plane,
creating a transition area between our
space and the objects on the table. Various
items project off the table, helping us
navigate this in-between area and move
fully into the pictorial space—notice the
knife handle, the rounded edge of the
serving platter, a lemon rind, and an open,
leather-covered knife case. Heda positions
foreshortened round and cylindrical
objects at varying angles to the picture
plane, creating a sense of depth with a
visual play that takes your eye in, out, and
around the curving lines of the objects and
the spaces they occupy. On the right, the
silver tazza (chalice) is tipped on its side.
This position allows Heda to depict the
concavity of the underside of the base, as
well as the convex curves of the handle
and mouth.
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Light is an integral part of Heda’s illusions.
He arranged his objects in a dark interior
with dramatic light to create reflections and
highlights that catch the viewer’s eye. The
delicate chasing of the tazza grabs tiny flecks
of light. The volume of the upright glass’s
bowl is created by the reflective surfaces
of the glass and the water inside it, where
Heda painted the bright reflections of a
window. Because this light source is outside
the composition, it gives us a sense of place,
a bright space beyond this darker interior.
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Still Life with Oysters, a Silver Tazza, and Glassware, Willem Claesz Heda
Brushstrokes and textures
Illusion and meaning
Heda’s visible brushstrokes are few and
careful. His choice of a wood support
(rather than canvas), helps achieve this
very smooth surface; however, Heda
selectively used visible brushstrokes to
evoke the textures of softer objects, such as
the oysters, paper, and lemon. The painter
applied yellow paint in a dappled pattern
on the lemon, which then contrasts with
the very smooth application of yellow
in the reflection of the fruit in the silver
tray. The brushy softness of the oysters
contrasts with the smooth, hard metal of
the serving dish; the platter’s hard lines
set off the jagged edges of the shells. The
paper and lemon emphasize the perfect
smoothness of the metallic surfaces.
Heda’s illusions connect us with the inner
life of the painting; they seem like real
objects that we can almost touch, feel, or
smell. The carefully arranged composition
and precise detail of the objects ask us to
consider their meaning. In the seventeenth
century, this still life would have associated
its owner with the material value of the
fine food and silver. At the same time,
the illusionistic objects held additional
meanings: the half-eaten oysters were
associated with licentiousness, the lemon
was an exotic (and hence expensive) fruit,
and the paper made into a cone for spices
would have been recognized as a page
from an almanac.2 The composition related
an underlying message about worldly
pleasures that quickly pass.
2
Walter Liedtke, Dutch Paintings in The Metropolitan
Museum of Art (New York: The Metropolitan Museum
of Art, 2007), vol. 1, 312.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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Parochialstrasse in Berlin, 1831
Eduard Gaertner
(German, Berlin 1801–1877 Zechlin)
Oil on canvas
3
Catharine Lorillard Wolfe Collection, Wolfe Fund, and funds
from various donors, by exchange, 2006 (2006.258)
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Parochialstrasse in Berlin, Eduard Gaertner
Space through line
Gaertner takes us into an everyday scene with
the illusion of deep space: we stand at one
end of a street, on the left side, and look all
the way down until our eye stops at a bend
in the road and the spire of a tall church.
The painter oriented his canvas vertically
to accommodate the foreground buildings,
which stretch to almost the entire height of
the canvas. The sloping lines of the buildings
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and street extend the space backward, away
from our eye. The artist began his illusion
with a careful linear perspective grid to
map out the composition and ensure the
“correct” illusionistic recession of space.
(We can see an underdrawn perspective grid
in another of his paintings, The Family of
Mr. Westfal in the Conservatory.) This
is the same system that artists have used
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since the Renaissance, but Gaertner added
a twist: his street is curved, so the rules
have changed. The buildings are aligned
with the curved street, forming a tight band;
although their lines may seem to converge
at a single point at the end of the street, in
reality, the orthogonals of each building
have their own vanishing point (unlike a
true one-point perspective composition).
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Parochialstrasse in Berlin, Eduard Gaertner
Scale and color
Illusion and meaning
The size and placement of every detail of the
painting is consistent with Gaertner’s system
of perspective. Objects in the foreground are
larger and more detailed than those farther
away. For instance, the white dog with brown
ears is the same pictorial height as the woman
in the red jacket beyond, and the height and
detail of the red doorway at the left of the
composition are greater than those of doors
across the street and in the distance. The
individual cobblestones in the foreground are
delineated, while the distant street appears to
have a uniform surface, for our eyes cannot
distinguish cobblestones at that distance. Every
object places our eye at a precise point in space.
The figures themselves are almost incidental,
part of the street life, yet they are also reference
points that help us mark the distance.
Color and light complete the spatial
illusion, suggesting distance and volume.
As objects recede into the distance, they
appear lighter, and Gaertner adjusted
the saturation of his colors to achieve
this effect. The street appears mostly in
half-light, as the sun just barely creeps
over the buildings to illuminate the very
tops of a few facades on the right side
of the street. Farther down, light breaks
through above the small building on the
left, where the street opens up slightly and
we see the lateral side of a beige building.
The brightness of this direct sun on the
light pink building presents a striking
contrast with the hazy, faded gray of the
church beyond, reinforcing the sense of
distance between them.
The painter’s illusion of space relies on
our recognition that this is how we often
perceive distances in everyday life. Looking
down a modern city street, we witness
avenues converging at pinpoints on the
horizon, and see skyscrapers in miniature.
Gaertner’s city is early nineteenth-century
Berlin, and he uses his illusionistic space to
record it in painstaking detail. Gaertner’s
work is not the result of spontaneous pleinair painting—he calculated everything.
During this period, the architect Karl
Friedrich Schinkel was transforming Berlin
at a rapid pace with imposing, neoclassical
buildings.3 The painting reflects a growing
awareness of the city’s architecture and
views, and a desire to record them as
accurately as possible.
3
Geraldine Norman, Biedermeier Painting, 1815–1848:
Reality Observed in Genre, Portrait and Landscape
(New York, N.Y.: Thames and Hudson, 1987), 63.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier (1743–1794)
and His Wife (Marie-Anne-Pierrette
Paulze, 1758–1836), 1788
Jacques Louis David
(French, Paris 1748–1825 Brussels)
Oil on canvas
Purchase, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wrightsman
Gift, in honor of Everett Fahy, 1977 (1977.10)
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Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier (1743–1794) and His Wife (Marie-Anne-Pierrette Paulze, 1758–1836), Jacques Louis David
Precise surfaces
David revels in illusions. The smooth
“polished” surface of his canvas, a hallmark
of his style, transforms flawlessly into glass,
velvet, lace, feathers, and flesh before our eyes.
solidifies an allover sense of illusion—the
scientific instruments, the figures, and their
clothing are all rendered with equal care.
David created his illusion by maintaining
correct perspective and scale throughout,
and also in his extreme care with the brush
and application of paint. The only visible
brushstrokes delineate individual strands
of hair. David used opaque layers of paint
in a calculated manner to perfectly capture
the exact tonality of the shifting light effects
on the various surfaces and volumes. The
highlights on the red velvet, for example,
are not created with translucent white
paint that allows the red to show through,
but rather with a perfectly mixed pink,
applied in just the right way to give the
effect of the velvet’s texture. The ultimate
illusion is one of atmosphere and the
diffusion of light.
The artist painted Lavoisier’s brightly
lit apparatus (for measuring gases) with
absolute precision. We see a green box
refracted by the water in the bell jar to the
far right, and the reflection of Lavoisier’s
paper and the table in the mercury in the
glass container on the left. The bulbous
glass in the lower right corner is almost
completely transparent save for the
reflections of Lavoisier’s stocking on the
upper left curve and the windows of the
room. The indication of windows that
are “behind” our vantage point creates an
additional illusion of space. David’s level
of detail is consistent throughout, and this
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Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier (1743–1794) and His Wife (Marie-Anne-Pierrette Paulze, 1758–1836), Jacques Louis David
Suspended movement
The couple’s pose heightens the illusion
of the overall picture. Lavoisier holds a
quill in his right hand, while his left elbow
rests on the table, hand in the air, fingers
lightly curved. It is a fleeting gesture, as if
he has just raised his head from his hand
to look up at his wife. Marie-Anne’s pose is
equally animated, her fingers lightly poised
on the table as she rests for a moment on
her husband’s shoulder. Her hair seems
to move as it curls and cascades down her
back. David evokes a sense of momentary
interruption and suspended movement.
Marie-Anne gazes out at the viewer, creating
an additional illusion: no matter where we
stand in the gallery, her eyes seem to follow
us, compelling us to return her gaze.
Illusion and meaning
equipment (which he designed himself).
They wanted to declare themselves a “power
couple.” David more than delivered on his
mission to represent the Lavoisiers’ desired
self-image; however, illusion relies on an
audience, and in this sense, David’s perfect
illusion failed. Though intended for display
in the Salon of 1789, the painting was never
shown in public due to the volatile political
climate in which Lavoisier found himself.
David’s illusion is an integral part of the
work’s meaning. This lifelike, life-size pair of
figures is surrounded by equally “real” objects
that reflect and reinforce their identities—
both who they were and who they wanted
to be. The couple’s lives are on display
and, therefore, every illusionistic detail is
calculated to convince eighteenth-century
Parisians of their status, from Marie-Anne’s
portfolio of drawings to Lavoisier’s scientific
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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Man in oriental Costume
(“The Noble Slav”), 1632
Rembrandt (Rembrandt van Rijn)
(Dutch, Leiden 1606–1669 Amsterdam)
Oil on canvas
5
Bequest of William K. Vanderbilt, 1920 (20.155.2)
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Man in Oriental Costume (“The Noble Slav”), Rembrandt (Rembrandt van Rijn)
Tactile illusions
Rembrandt achieves his illusion with fluid,
visible brushwork that changes with every
varying texture and shape. He concentrates
our vision on the upper half of the painting,
where the light hits the figure. Directional
strokes of semiopaque paint follow the
folds of the turban; its shadows recede into
darkness with thinner brushstrokes, while
the highlights are created with thicker dabs
of paint. Visible brushstrokes in the face and
neck suggest wrinkles and hairs that seem
to undulate with the sagging areas of flesh.
Many colors together make up the flesh
tone, applied in dabs and flecks that are
not fully blended. Short, irregular strokes
create the flowing curve of the light scarf,
punctuated by dabs of blue and white
that indicate the pattern. We notice its
transparency as it curves around the
figure’s shoulder, and in the gold of the
cloak that shows through. Moving into
the cloak itself, the brushwork is more
fluid and broad, with quick touches of
yellow and white following the weave
of the fabric. As the volume of the figure
increases, so does the size of Rembrandt’s
brushstrokes. Broader expanses of dark
paint transition our eyes into the darkness
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of the bottom half of the figure, where
wisps of paint around the edges of his
garment hint at its fur lining. Rembrandt
highlights only just enough of the
voluminous cloak to convince us of its
grandeur and the expensive fur that lies
beneath it.
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Man in Oriental Costume (“The Noble Slav”), Rembrandt (Rembrandt van Rijn)
Light and space
Illusion and meaning
The levels of light in the painting are as
varied as the textures. Rembrandt paints
a series of half-lights along the face and
body, as if light is both direct and reflected,
hitting the figure from multiple angles.
Rembrandt sets his figure in a space that
is empty, yet he implies a setting. By
illuminating the background on the darkest
side of the figure, and conversely, setting
the brightest edge of the figure against the
dark background, he reinforces an illusion
of volume in the figure, and of a space
behind him. The man’s hand projects
forward, resting on a walking stick that
extends off the canvas.
Although the subject is a purely fictional
character, not a portrait, Rembrandt evokes
the lively presence of a real person through
sheer technique and inventiveness. The
painting was intended to entice a wealthy
Dutch collector, who would have recognized
the figure as an exotic Turkish “prince” or
sultan; however, in seventeenth-century
Amsterdam, just as today, the illusion of
rich textures and the artist’s expressive
capacities also become the true subject of
this painting.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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Allegory of the Planets and
Continents, 1752
Giovanni Battista Tiepolo
(Italian, Venice 1696–1770 Madrid)
Oil on canvas
6
Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wrightsman, 1977
(1977.1.3)
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Allegory of the Planets and Continents, Giovanni Battista Tiepolo
Upward space
Atmosphere and light
Along the edges of the canvas, Tiepolo
paints an illusionistic ledge, and then
populates it with figures, both human
and mythical. Although the canvas is
rectangular, the composition is circular;
Tiepolo orients the figures on the borders
of the painting in four different directions,
corresponding to the painted ledge. These
bodies are foreshortened as if seen from
below (di sotto in sù). Grounded on the
four edges of the painting, their legs and
clothing dangle over the painted ledge
into our space. The rules are different
for the non-mortals, who break away
from the sides of the composition and
fly up toward the god Apollo. Tiepolo
plays with their poses, turning them in
all directions so that their bodies appear
to project into every possible degree of
space. These torsions create an illusion of
weightlessness, a palpable contrast to the
space occupied by the mortals framing the
composition. From the sides to the center,
our eyes constantly move along with the
rhythm of limbs as we, too, break from
the borders of the canvas and spiral into
the illusion of sky and clouds.
Moving “upward” into the center of the
painting, Tiepolo uses light and atmospheric
perspective to create the illusion of receding
space. Without any horizon line, the heavenly
space seems boundless. Darker colors around
the outer edges of the canvas gradually dissolve
to light, in the sunbeams surrounding Apollo.
The mortal figures that populate the painting’s
border are mostly shadowed; the light is
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above them, and we are positioned below. The
innermost ring of clouds is considerably lighter,
painted in hues of pink, cream, and gray, with
blue sky peeking through. The figures along
this ring of clouds are very light, desaturated
by the addition of more white paint, and thus
they appear farther away. At the center, Apollo
and his closest companions are virtually the
same light gold color as the sun.
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Allegory of the Planets and Continents, Giovanni Battista Tiepolo
Illusion and meaning
This painting pulls us in many directions
as we attempt to orient ourselves. The fact
that we cannot comfortably determine
our placement or vantage point in relation
to the composition provides a clue to the
work’s original purpose and context: it is
a preparatory study for a ceiling Tiepolo
later painted in the Würzburg Residenz in
southern Germany. In the ceiling fresco,
Tiepolo played with the eighteenth-century
viewer’s perception of what is real by
combining painted and three-dimensional
figures. The grisaille figures in the corners
of the canvas are studies for the threedimensional stucco figures that Tiepolo
incorporated into the finished ceiling whose
legs literally dangle into the room below. The
carefully planned illusion of this painting
ensured that Tiepolo’s patron had a clear
vision of how the finished ceiling would
appear. Though the canvas now hangs
vertically on a wall and not above us, we still
experience some of the effects of the di sotto
in sù spatial illusion. The swirling masses
bring us into Tiepolo’s illusionistic space, as
we are pulled upward into a never-ending
sky populated with gods.
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Borders
Paintings featured in this section
Borders affect how we see the world and respond to it.
Borders may be sites of tension, drama, or revelation,
signaling the finality of an ending or the uncertainty of what
lies beyond. Borders exist in our everyday environments as
windows and doors, and also within the Museum: as we move
from one space to another, we cross architectural borders that
divide regions of the world and periods of time. Borders—
whether social, cultural, political, or natural—also demarcate
different spaces, groups, or forms, while establishing
relationships among them. The borders of paintings likewise
have purposes and meanings. A painting’s borders are both
physical and compositional, and can take the form of frames,
edges, contour lines, horizon lines, or intersections of forms
or colors within the painted surface. The powerful effect of
borders such as these have prompted painters throughout
the centuries to question, explore, reinforce, or destroy
the borders inherent in two-dimensional surfaces, whether
canvases, panels, or walls.
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Madonna and Child with Saints
Giovanni di Paolo
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Esther before Ahasuerus
Artemisia Gentileschi
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Self-Portrait with Two Pupils, Marie
Gabrielle Capet (1761–1818) and Marie
Marguerite Carreaux de Rosemond
(died 1788)
Adélaïde Labille-Guiard
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Gray Weather, Grande Jatte
Georges Seurat
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Boating
Édouard Manet
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Borders
∕ Introduction
The picture plane and painted borders
Compositional borders
By the medieval period, the four-sided or
round, flat surface was a predetermined
boundary for painters. The edges of the
painting presented one kind of border, and
the picture plane itself was another. Artists
began to think of the picture plane as a
transparent boundary, a window between
our world and the painted space of the
picture (see Illusion, page 12). Painted
frames, parapets, or other framing devices
make this boundary more explicit (for
example, Goya’s Majas on a Balcony and
Petrus Christus’s Portrait of a Carthusian).
When a figure or an object appears to cross
one of these borders, it signals a connection
between worlds—the secular and the divine,
or the pictorial and the real. Depicted borders
within a painting invite the viewer to see the
image through the artist’s eyes.1 The varied
devices artists use include door frames (for
example, Johannes Vermeer and Charles
Marie Bouton), window frames (Charlotte
du Val d’Ognes), niches (Jacques de Gheyn
II), or framed mirrors (Juan de Flandes).
Yet even without a painted framing device,
artists can play with the boundary of the
picture plane. Paolo Veronese and Moretto
da Brescia, for example, bring their figures
as far forward as possible, so that they almost
seem to reach out of the picture.
When figures are cut off at the edge of a
painting, an image may seem “cropped,” as
if the world in the painting extends beyond
its physical boundary. The compositional
borders of a painting position us at a
specific vantage point and control what
we see. Objects near a painting’s edge
can direct our eyes into the composition,
or they may even carry specific meaning.
Painters often place their signatures near
the edge, and Tiepolo even added his own
self-portrait in The Triumph of Marius.
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Borders are not only edges, but exist within
a composition as well. Internal borders can
lead us into zones of symbolic or visual
contrast (Henry Lerolle’s The Organ
Rehearsal, for example, or the regions
of heaven and hell in Jan van Eyck’s The
Last Judgment). Depending on how a
Introduction
When do borders act as
boundaries, and when are
they penetrable?
painter treats them, internal edges between
forms and spaces can create or obscure
intersections, or suggest transitions.
Contour lines, which visually define a body
or object, are a kind of representational
border that artists continually investigate.
Some painters emphasize contour lines as
a conscious, stylistic choice (for example,
Ingres and Degas), while others dissolve
them, or lessen the visual boundary
between a figure and its surrounding space
(such as Odilon Redon).
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Victor Stoichita, “Margins,” in The Self-Aware Image
(New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 56.
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frames and physical borders
The earliest frames in the collection are
integral or engaged frames, attached to
the painting surface (Memling’s Virgin
and Child, for example, is an integral
frame). These frames provide protection
for the paintings, and also served as places
for painters to rest their hands or wrists
while working. In a religious context,
frames can be didactic, directing our eyes in
sequenced readings of separate panels. In a
Netherlandish triptych, for instance, a hinged
frame serves both practical and symbolic
purposes. It unifies three separate panels
while enabling the outer panels to open
and close, covering or revealing the inner
panels. The frame of Patinir’s The Penitence
of Saint Jerome, which is original (though
stripped of its gilding), is one example of this
type. Though now missing its other panels,
the Virgin and Child by the Master of
the Saint Ursula Legend was also part of a
triptych, and its frame is original. On each
side we can see holes that have been plugged
up where the hinges were once attached.
A frame can function as an extension of
simulated space in a painting, or it can
help focus our eyes on the work. Even in
the earliest works in the collection, frames
served to mediate between paintings and
their changing environments. Though artists
would not have made frames themselves,
as early as the seventeenth century painters
were concerned with how frames affected
viewing experience. In 1639, Poussin wrote:
… embellish [my painting] with a bit
of frame, for it needs it, so that when it
is viewed as a whole the eyes’ rays will
be absorbed and not scattered around
by receiving elements from the other
neighbouring objects … it would be
most appropriate for the … cornice to
be simply gilded with a matt gold which
blends gently with colours without
offending them.2
In later centuries, some painters experimented
with designing their own frames: Monet, for
2
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Nicolas Poussin, letter to Paul Fréart de Chantelou, April
28, 1639, in The Self-Aware Image, by Victor Stoichita
(New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 56.
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example, created frames for his series of Rouen
Cathedral. Louisine Havemeyer recalled that,
“Degas once told me he thought it an artist’s
duty to see his pictures properly framed.” 3
Degas’s notebooks contain studies for frames,
and he designed the frame for his painting
Collector of Prints (though it originally was
not painted gold).
Changes in architectural and interior design
styles over the centuries led to new styles
of frames. As a result, most paintings’
original frames were replaced; even if not
original, however, many in the European
Paintings collection are period frames,
contemporary to the paintings (like the
frame of Botticelli’s Last Communion of
Saint Jerome), or careful reproductions (like
those of Rubens’s Venus and Adonis and
Rembrandt’s Portrait of a Man). When a
frame is original, a period frame, or a good
reproduction, the design gives us a sense of
the painting’s geographic and chronological
context. In certain cases, the style of the
3
Louisine W. Havemeyer, Sixteen to Sixty: Memoirs of a
Collector (New York: Ursus Press, 1993), 250.
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What do we mean when
we talk about “coloring
outside the lines”?
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frame will even echo decorative elements
in the painting (for example, Jean-Baptiste
Greuze and François Gérard). Sometimes,
however, the very presence of a frame may
entirely contradict the painting’s original
context—a frame can help “transform”
a fragment removed from a larger work,
like an altarpiece, into an independent
painting (A Donor Presented by a Saint,
Circle of Dieric Bouts). The edges of a
panel or canvas can provide clues about
whether a painting has been cut. In the
galleries, we do not see many paintings’
edges because they are covered by frames,
but when we do, there is good reason.
For The Resurrection, Perugino painted
a fictive molding that extends to the very
edge of the panel. The curators chose not
to frame this work, so that we can see
both the painted frame and the edge of
the panel. These visible borders remind us
that the painting was originally part of a
larger series of panels.
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∕ Introduction
LookING To CoNNECT
fURTHER CoNNECTIoNS
What kind of borders do you encounter
every day?
Bailey, W. H. Defining Edges: A New Look at Picture Frames. New
York: Harry N. Abrams, 2002.
Have you ever cropped a photo? Why did you
crop it, and how did that change the image?
Campbell, Thomas P. “Connections: The Edge.” The Metropolitan Museum
of Art. 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.org/connections/the_edge.
How does clothing and presentation form
borders?
Evans, Helen. “Connections: Borders.” The Metropolitan Museum of
Art. 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.org/connections/borders.
How does the painting’s frame focus your eyes?
Kanter, Laurence B., and George Bisacca. “Italian Renaissance Frames.” In
Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. New York: The Metropolitan Museum
of Art, 2000–. www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/fram/hd_fram.htm
(October 2008).
What is our vantage point, and how does the
painter indicate this?
What lies beyond the edges of this painting?
Kershaw, Dan. “Connections: Doors.” The Metropolitan Museum of
Art. 2000 –2013. www.metmuseum.org/connections/doors.
“Early Frames: Integral, Semi-Integral, and Engaged.” National Gallery
of Art, Washington, D.C., accessed August 15, 2013,
www.nga.gov/feature/frames/early.shtm.
Schapiro, Meyer. “On Some Problems in the Semiotics of Visual Art:
Field and Vehicle in Image-Signs.” Simiolus 6, no. 1(1972–73): 9–19.
Stoichita, Victor. “Margins.” In The Self-Aware Image, 30–63. New
York: Cambridge University Press, 1997.
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Madonna and Child with Saints, 1454
Giovanni di Paolo (Giovanni di Paolo di Grazia)
(Italian, Siena 1398–1482 Siena)
Tempera and gold on wood
The Friedsam Collection, Bequest of Michael Friedsam, 1931 (32.100.76)
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Madonna and Child with Saints, Giovanni di Paolo
The borders of the panels and the
structure of the work contain the figures
in this altarpiece. Each holy figure is given
a space, which is predetermined by the
size and shape of the panel. The artist did
not construct the panel or the frame, nor
is it likely that he dictated the shape. Its
form is traditional, common to the time
period and region of Italy. The overall
shape—a larger central panel flanked by
two thinner, shorter panels on each side—
intentionally echoes the elevation of a
Gothic church, with pointed arches and a
central nave with aisles on each side. In
this way, there is a sense of place encoded
in the borders of the altarpiece. At the
same time, the panels’ size also relates
physically to the viewer: each panel
is only slightly taller than the average
person’s height. In keeping with common
practice, a curtain would have covered the
altarpiece, providing another border that
protects the painting and conceals it from
everyday viewing.
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Visual borders
Crossing the borders
A continuous, horizontal band visually
joins the panels and forms a ground upon
which the holy figures stand. Its front edge
is shaded and aligned with the picture
plane. On its lateral surface, a progression
from light to dark gives the appearance of
recession, creating a shallow space for the
holy figures to occupy. At the far edge of this
space, the gold background begins. Gold
was evocative of divinity and endowed a
painting with an otherworldly glow when
illuminated by candlelight. The use of gold
leaf was popular in the medieval period
and continued into the early Renaissance.
Here the painter combines the older
tradition of the gold background with a
newer sense of volume and space in the
platform and figures. The saints are placed
in a middle ground between two borders:
the picture plane, which connects to the
human world, and the background, a link
to the divine realm beyond the painting.
While visual and physical borders
demarcate the separate spaces of the
painting, the painter endows the figures
with movement and gestures that traverse
the altarpiece’s static borders. Each figure
looks in a different direction; the diagonal
lines created by their gazes lead in many
directions and are not bounded by physical
any border. The Virgin’s gaze leads us to
Saint John; he in turn exchanges a look
with Saint Nicholas while gesturing back
toward Christ. Christ looks outward at
us; his gaze crosses the picture plane to
draw the viewer into the painting.
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Madonna and Child with Saints, Giovanni di Paolo
Borders and meaning
The frame and borders of the altarpiece
provide a kind of template. The painter
works with this sacred space to create a
visual message of hope and redemption
by connecting the holy figures and the
viewer. The figures’ placement within the
structure, their gestures, and their gazes
connect them to the earthly church. Once
part of our world and now belonging to the
divine realm beyond, the saints themselves
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are border figures—they are intercessors
between mortals and God. The believers
pray to them to act on their behalf, to help
them in this world, and to ensure that they
end up in a good place after death. Giovanni
di Paolo’s visual message explains this
fundamental aspect of Catholicism, while
the missing predella panels below would
have provided a narrative lesson about the
life of Saint John the Baptist.
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See this painting on metmuseum.org
www.metmuseum.org/collections/search-the-collections/436508
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Esther before Ahasuerus, ca. 1630
Artemisia Gentileschi
(Italian, Rome 1593–1651/53 Naples)
Oil on canvas
Gift of Elinor Dorrance Ingersoll, 1969 (69.281)
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Esther before Ahasuerus, Artemisia Gentileschi
Compositional borders
Artemisia Gentileschi uses the edges of
the painting and a series of compositional
borders to dramatize the moment Esther
collapses before King Ahasuerus. The
artist pushes her figures to the edges of
the composition; Esther’s dress and one
of her maids are cut off by the left edge
of the painting, while the king’s throne
backs up to the right edge. We see the end
of the room on the right side, yet on the
left, it extends beyond our view. At the
lower edge of the painting, the cut-off step
implies that the space also extends toward
us, as if we are standing in the room. Each
figure occupies her or his own bounded
space within the composition. Ahasuerus
is positioned within a semi-circular, raised
platform. Its height and shape present a
clear, physical border. Above, the scallopedged red curtain presents another border
demarcating his space. Esther and her
maids, forming a single figural group, fill
the left side of the painting, their space
bounded by a line of floor tiles that
continues into the door frame beyond. This
border is visual, but explicit. The hem of
Esther’s dress just barely crosses this line in
the floor, as her pinky finger and the elbow
of the maid graze the line of the doorjamb.
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The void as a border
fall forward into the space? Will the king
get up in time to break her fall? Esther’s cast
shadow falls between them, the only point
of connection across the space. Artemisia
considered this void carefully. She originally
included a boy with a dog on the bottom
step, extending into the darker space above.
The outline is partly visible in the gallery,
and confirmed by X-ray analysis of the
underlying paint layer.
Artemisia creates a void between the figures
that is emphasized by their movement toward
it. Esther’s knee points toward the shadowed,
empty space as her body arches back and her
arm extends. Ahasuerus’s toe reaches off the
top step, still relaxed, while his other foot
has shifted back as he motions to lift himself
up from the throne. The void between them
is pregnant with drama: it separates the two
figures, but only for a moment. Will Esther
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Esther before Ahasuerus, Artemisia Gentileschi
Borders and meaning
Eliminating the boy and the dog,
and creating the possibility for visual
movement across the void, underlines the
narrative meaning of the Old Testament
story. It is a moment of uncertainty,
when Esther is at risk of angering a man
who had his previous wife executed.
Esther, literally and figuratively, has
crossed a line. The dramatic tension is
characteristic of Artemisia Gentileschi’s
work; many sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury depictions of the story represent
the moment of forgiveness that occurs just
after this one.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
www.metmuseum.org/collections/search-the-collections/436453
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Self-Portrait with Two Pupils,
Marie Gabrielle Capet (1761–1818) and
Marie Marguerite Carreaux de Rosemond
(died 1788), 1785
Adélaïde Labille-Guiard
(French, Paris 1749–1803 Paris)
Oil on canvas
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Gift of Julia A. Berwind, 1953 (53.225.5)
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Self-Portrait with Two Pupils, Marie Gabrielle Capet (1761–1818) and Marie Marguerite Carreaux de Rosemond (died 1788), Adélaïde Labille-Guiard
Within her own borders
We are in the artist’s studio. Labille-Guiard
plays with our perception by setting up a
double border, a painting-within-a-painting.
She depicts herself seated, working on
another canvas within the composition.
Part of the depicted canvas is visible; we
see the back and the tacking edge, but not
the front. The artist looks away from her
work, directly at the viewer. By setting up
the composition in this way, she prompts us
to wonder: Are we spectators interrupting
the artist as she paints another subject? Do
we occupy the place of her sitter? Or, is she
painting her reflection in a mirror beyond
the picture plane, putting us in the position
of the mirror?
Along the bottom edge, the wood floor
catches the reflection of the artist’s dress
and shoes. At the lower left side stands the
easel, where the artist inserts her signature
(“Labille fme Guiard / 1785”). Just beyond
the canvas are two classical sculptures, and
behind the artist stand two of her students.
The physical painting is huge—almost
seven feet high. Proportionally, the real
painting is larger than the canvas depicted
within the painting; if this canvas were in
the composition, it would have to extend
much higher, beyond the painting’s top edge.
The figure of the artist does not occupy
the entirety of the painting; rather, LabilleGuiard frames herself with attributes that
identify her as an accomplished artist and a
teacher. At the right, the she included a stool
with a roll of paper and a holder for chalk
(porte-crayon).
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Self-Portrait with Two Pupils, Marie Gabrielle Capet (1761–1818) and Marie Marguerite Carreaux de Rosemond (died 1788), Adélaïde Labille-Guiard
Borders and meaning
The artist painted herself both as an artist in
the act of painting, and as the subject of a
formal portrait, in a silk gown and hat. By
drawing our attention to the borders of both
the real painting and the depicted canvas,
the artist implicates us in the act of viewing,
seeking (or perhaps demanding) our attention
and approval. These pictorial devices were
not new inventions: Diego Velazquez most
famously included a full-length self-portrait in
Las Meninas (1656, Madrid, Prado). LabilleGuiard consciously aligned herself with this
important artistic tradition. The maximum
number of female artists allowed to join the
French Royal Academy at that time was
four, and Labille-Guiard was one of them.
The carefully structured and executed selfportrait was exhibited at the Salon of 1785,
perhaps with the intention of promoting the
acceptance of more women to the Academy.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
www.metmuseum.org/collections/search-the-collections/436840
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Gray Weather, Grande Jatte, ca. 1886–88
Georges Seurat
(French, Paris 1859–1891 Paris)
Oil on canvas
4
The Walter H. and Leonore Annenberg Collection, Gift of Walter H. and Leonore
Annenberg, 2002, Bequest of Walter H. Annenberg, 2002 (2002.62.3)
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Gray Weather, Grande Jatte, Georges Seurat
Missing borders: contour lines
Painted borders
A painted border frames Seurat’s composition
on all sides. This is not the illusionistic fictive
frame device of earlier artists like Memling
(Illusion 1, page 15); it belongs entirely to
the world of the painting, not to ours. The
border is mostly painted with ultramarine
blue flecked with dots of orange, pink, and
red. Moving downward from the top right
corner, the red becomes more frequent and
intense, then wanes again toward the lower
right corner. All the way around the canvas,
the border changes with varying hues and
concentrations of blue, red, pink, and orange.
These shifts of color and intensity are not
arbitrary; rather, they change in relation to the
adjacent complementary colors and values of
the landscape. This is most noticeable when
we stand back from the painting, where we
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The border around the painting contrasts
with the overall lack of clear borders within
the painting. Seurat’s pointillist technique
effectively dissolves any contour lines of
the landscape. Shapes and forms are defined
entirely by changes in color, rather than
by brushstrokes or lines. Borders are only
formed by our eyes, which, at a distance, join
the dots and perceive definition and contrast
between different areas of the landscape.
In this sense, the creation of form, color,
volume, and depth is dependent upon the
act of viewing.
can see the entire border at once. The most
concentrated areas of blue, for instance,
border the lightest areas of the composition:
the sky at the upper right, the reflected orangetoned light on the edge of the tree at the right,
and again at the left side of the composition,
near the lightest part of the ground and
water. Seurat used more dots of bright red
to complement the green grass in the lower
left corner. At the same time, the changes in
the border are more intuitive than formulaic.
Rather than “cropping” the composition,
Seurat provided a kind of visual buffer zone,
a transition between the painting and its
actual frame that focuses our eyes on the
central composition. In this way, he created
a painting independent of any physical
boundary other than the canvas itself.
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Gray Weather, Grande Jatte, Georges Seurat
Borders and meaning
Seurat wanted to achieve a harmonious
composition of pure color, and this included
the frame. He was disturbed by the shadows
cast on the painting by frames, and was
concerned with controlling the area of
vision around this painting. He believed
that complementary colors and values could
harmonize a frame and a painting, and he
applied this theory to both painted and
physical frames. Seurat insisted on this to
the point of repainting many of his canvases
with borders long after they were completed;
he added this painting’s border at least a
year after it was finished, just before the
work was exhibited in 1889. While most of
Seurat’s contemporaries were concerned with
physical frames (most notably, Edgar Degas,
who designed the frame for his The Collector
of Prints), none of them took up Seurat’s
painted-border technique. Yet Seurat’s
borders and the dissolution of contour lines
signal a wider interest in scientific theories of
vision and color, and how they relate to the
experience of paintings.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
www.metmuseum.org/collections/search-the-collections/438015
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Boating, 1874
Édouard Manet
(French, Paris 1832–1883 Paris)
Oil on canvas
H. O. Havemeyer Collection, Bequest of Mrs. H. O. Havemeyer, 1929 (29.100.115)
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Boating, Édouard Manet
form and figure
Borders and space
A very conspicuous border is missing from
Manet’s painting: there is no horizon line.
The blue water reaches to the top edge of
the painting, blocking any sense of spatial
recession. As a result, our eyes do not extend
very far beyond the figures, who seem pushed
to the very surface of the picture plane. The
other edges of the painting reinforce the
spatial ambiguity. Rather than composing
his figures and their boat within the space of
the canvas, Manet abruptly cut off the boat
at the bottom and right edges of the painting
at oblique angles. The gunwale, the top
border of the boat, curves around the figures
at an angle that is perspectivally incorrect.
The edge of the boat seems to just graze the
woman’s elbow rather than support it. At
this point the gunwale meets the painting’s
bottom edge, in an indistinct passage of
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brown paint that extends along the edge,
gradually becoming lighter and thicker, and
leading into what could either be a strangely
angled oar (resting outside of its lock), or,
more improbably, the starboard side of the
gunwale. The right edge of the composition
is fraught with conflicting angles. We see the
interior port side of the boat, curving toward
the corner of the painting, while above, the
boom and sail fill the upper corner at an angle
inconsistent with that of the boat. Originally
Manet painted the man holding the sail’s line
(visible in the position of the hand and an area
of lighter paint above it); when he moved the
line to its present position, he increased the
awkwardness of the sail’s position relative to
the boat. Manet intentionally confuses the
space through the incessant play of edges and
borders between shapes.
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Manet painted the woman almost
entirely without clear contour lines. He
established the form of her dress with
a series of clear, linear brushstrokes. At
the lower edge of the painting the strokes
appear to dissolve the boundary between
her dress, her hand, and the boat itself.
The contours of the man are much more
pronounced. The artist distinguished
his figure with broad planes of color,
mostly white, that rarely intrude into
the surrounding fields of color. Manet
did not reinforce the edges of the figure
with any additional contour lines. The
result is a distinct set of shapes and forms
that appear solid and flat, juxtaposed
interestingly with the form of the woman,
composed almost entirely of lines, who
seems to dissolve in the light.
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Boating, Édouard Manet
Borders and meaning
Manet took nineteenth-century viewers out
of their comfort zones and confronted them
with an arrangement of form and space
that seemed jarring to some critics. He was
not concerned with traditional Western
illusions of perspective. Instead, Manet’s
“impossible” spaces and his refusal to
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create any type of real volume in the figures
draws attention to the inherent flatness of
the painting. The painter discarded the
centuries-old conception of the picture plane
as a window to an illusionistic space—this is
a modern way of looking at painting.
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www.metmuseum.org/collections/search-the-collections/436947
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Movement
Paintings featured in this section
Movement can be a form of action, interaction, or expression.
Witnessing movement forces us to react in the most profound
sense. Neuroscientists have discovered that our brains
respond empathetically to the gestures and movements
we see in images, generating a sensation of motion in our
own bodies. We feel it in our bones, as art historian David
Freedberg describes it. In this way, movement often provokes
emotion—we feel compassion when we see a body collapsed
with anguish. Artists understood the power of movement
intuitively long before art historians or scientists began
to search for an explanation. Painters have explored and
visualized movement in many ways throughout the centuries
as they have sought to convey meaning and tell their stories.
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The Abduction of the Sabine Women
Nicolas Poussin
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The Harvesters
Pieter Bruegel the Elder
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The Story of Joseph
Biagio d’Antonio
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The Vision of Saint John
El Greco (Domenikos Theotokopoulos)
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Whalers
Joseph Mallord William Turner
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Gesture and figural movement
The artist’s movements
The gestures and poses of bodies can depict
a range of movement, from the dramatic
struggle of a body in torsion to the smallest
tremor of a facial muscle. A moving body
can convey any number of emotions
associated with a particular action, like
fear, anxiety, excitement, or joy. A body
with muscles tensed to spring into action
may demonstrate potential movement or
energy. A pose that is impossible to maintain
suggests action in the next instant. Even
a very still figure, completely at rest, may
suggest internal movement of the soul or
mind. Beginning in the Renaissance, artists
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and critics commented on the “motions of
the mind” that are conveyed by features of
the face and the implied movement of gazes,
lips, eyebrows, or hands. Movement of the
face or body also may be overt and symbolic
to impart a specific meaning, like the raised
hand of Christ’s blessing. Some gestures
are almost universal in meaning: in Jacques
Louis David’s The Death of Socrates, we
immediately understand the gesture of
Socrates’s pupil covering his eyes. However,
Socrates’s upward-pointing hand needs
further context to understand its significance.
What makes a scene
appear momentary?
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Movement
Sometimes we sense movement even when
no body is present, simply in the gestural
mark of the artist on the panel or canvas. For
centuries, painters have used the apparent
movement created in the traces of brushes,
palette knives, and other tools for expressive
purposes. Directional strokes of paint can
describe the movement of any number of
elements or materials, whether natural
(like Monet’s rippling water) or man-made
(like Elizabeth Farren’s fur-trimmed cape).
Painters can create a sense of agitated motion
through vigorous brushwork (El Greco,
Movement 4, page 66; Turner, Movement
5, page 69), or of stillness through the
methodical and nearly invisible handling
of paint (Vermeer, Illumination 3, page
83). Regardless of technique, the surface of
a painting acts as a record of the painter’s
gesture. All of the works in the Museum’s
European Paintings collection manifest
the movement of the artists’ bodies as they
applied paint. Looking ahead chronologically
and crossing over to the Met’s collection of
Modern and Contemporary Art, to Jackson
Pollock’s “action paintings,” we see how
artists’ movement and gestures become the
actual subject of painting.
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Narrative and compositional movement
Beyond representing action and emotion,
movement in paintings is also related
to time and the progression of narrative.
Painters can achieve the impossible by
capturing a fleeting moment or glance with
the “quickness” of a brushstroke, or visualize
a longer arc of time by depicting repeated,
episodic figures in a continuous sequence of
events (such as in the Scene from the Story
of the Argonauts). Compositional devices
create movement as well—directional lines,
repeated colors, gazes, and gestures lead
our eyes around the painting. Our process
of viewing can be quick or slow, methodical
or darting; as we move our eyes along with
the composition, we read and react to the
painting, thus deriving meaning through
participation and the act of looking.
→
How does movement in
a painting suggest either
sound or silence?
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Movement
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LookING To CoNNECT
fURTHER CoNNECTIoNS
Consider how you express emotion with
your face or body.
Andersen, Sofie. “Connections: Dance.” The Metropolitan Museum
of Art. 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.org/connections/dance.
Think about a time when you felt inspired to
move or dance—what triggered your action?
Freedberg, David. “Movement, Embodiment, Emotion.” In
Cannabalismes disciplinaires: Quand l’histoire de l’art et l’anthropologie
se rencontrent, edited by Thierry Dufrêne and Anne-Christine Taylor,
37–61. Paris: INHA/Musée du Quai Branly, 2009.
Try to capture a gesture or pose with one
line in the painting, either by drawing it or
tracing it with your finger.
Gombrich, Ernst. “Moment and Movement in Art,” Journal of the
Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 27 (1964): 293–306.
Mirror one of the gestures or expressions
you see in this painting. Observe how your
body moves and how you feel.
Gottlieb, Carla. “Movement in Painting.” The Journal of Aesthetics
and Art Criticism 17, no. 1 (1958): 22–33.
If you could “un-pause” the painting, what
action would happen next?
Leidy, Denise Patry. “Connections: Gesture.” The Metropolitan Museum
of Art. 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.org/connections/gesture.
Choose a color and follow it through the
painting, noticing where your eyes move.
Weinfield, Elizabeth. “Connections: Performance.”
The Metropolitan Museum of Art. 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.
org/connections/performance.
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1
The Abduction of the Sabine Women, probably 1633 –34
Nicolas Poussin
(French, Les Andelys 1594 –1665 Rome)
Oil on canvas
Harris Brisbane Dick Fund, 1946 (46.160)
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The Abduction of the Sabine Women, Nicolas Poussin
figures and gesture
Bodies in motion dominate the composition,
from the foreground to the middle ground.
Spanning the width of the canvas, they
create a sense of suspended motion. In
particular, the pair of figures to the left and
in the foreground visualize a struggle in two
directions: the upward movement of the
woman in blue, who throws back her head
and raises her arms, is countered by the
leftward stride of the man grasping her torso
and carrying her in the opposite direction.
Behind them, to the right, is a similar pair
of figures. The grounded, solid poses of both
men present a strong contrast to the graceful
gestures of the women’s left arms. Visually,
the upward movement created by these
arms is so powerful that the women’s bodies
almost seem to defy gravity. The figures’
movement activates our senses. We feel the
strain of the Romans in the foreground as
they twist and heave, flexing their muscles,
just as we sense the flight of the Sabines,
who almost jump off the canvas. We register
the alarmed expressions of their faces and
recognize their emotions.
Romulus has raised his cloak as a signal,
and with this single, quiet gesture, he has
initiated the action below him. Everything
but the architecture seems to be moving—
figures and drapery, flailing limbs, tensed
muscles, and anguished faces. Movement
activates and organizes Poussin’s painting.
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The Abduction of the Sabine Women, Nicolas Poussin
Compositional movement
Movement and meaning
Poussin’s gestural movements also create
compositional movement. The repetition
of limbs and draperies (particularly the
women’s arms, with their softly flexed
wrists) creates a kind of rhythmic order.
Together the figures form compositional
lines that draw our eyes across the
painting in two directions. The strongest
sense of movement is laterally, with the
current of bodies fleeing to the right side
of the painting and leading our eyes off
the canvas. The figural group in the right
foreground counters this movement. The
collective force of the two men’s bodies
thrusts upward from the lower right
corner, while the two female figures form
another diagonal that is extended by the
older woman’s gaze toward the female
figure in blue on the left. These opposing
compositional diagonals create an
additional kind of movement, enhancing
the effect of the overall struggle.
Poussin interpreted a story from antiquity,
and to do so he took figures and poses from
the classical and contemporary art that
he studied in Rome. The kidnapping of
the Sabines was a brutal episode, when the
Romans forcibly carried away the women of
a neighboring tribe to be their wives. Poussin
conveyed all the drama of this event, and yet
transformed its violence with classical gestures
and carefully organized movement. In this
way, he captured contradictory sensations of
elegant violence and organized chaos.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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2
The Harvesters, 1565
Pieter Bruegel the Elder
(Netherlandish, Breda (?) ca. 1525 –1569 Brussels)
Oil on wood
Rogers Fund, 1919 (19.164)
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The Harvesters, Pieter Bruegel the Elder
Compositional movement
Bruegel compels us to read every inch of
his painting by guiding our eyes around the
composition with a careful arrangement of
lines and details. He anchors the painting
with a tall tree in the foreground; a group
of people gathers at its base. Our eyes circle
the tree and then move outward into the
land, finding a path that takes us down
the sloping field into the middle landscape,
accompanied by three figures and two lowflying birds. This arc sweeps from bright
yellow wheat into green trees and a road
that carries our eyes into the distant fields.
Here we connect to another path that leads
into the hazy, distant background and the
line of the horizon.
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Following the water’s edge, we begin to
journey back toward the foreground,
to the trees and the church beyond it.
Moving along this border of trees to the
right side of the painting, we encounter
a figure dangling from a tree and apples
falling to the ground. The journey returns
us to the central group of resting figures.
There is a sense of constancy to the
circular movement around the painting,
yet at any point we can choose to veer
off the sweeping arcs of the natural
landscape. We might, for instance, follow
the road traveled by the wagon in the
middle ground to encounter new details
in the center of the canvas. The painting’s
composition structures our tour through
a broad expanse of land that otherwise
might be difficult to navigate visually.
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The Harvesters, Pieter Bruegel the Elder
Movement and meaning
figures and gesture
While the larger compositional lines keep
our eyes moving, each area of the painting
is populated by precise details that ask us to
consider life within this painted world. All of
the figures are in various poses of labor and
rest. The man in the foreground, separate
from the group, sprawls with his arm bent
behind his head. Another man twists his
body to reach behind him and cut a slice of
bread. A kneeling man in a brown cap holds a
spoon in his fist and opens his mouth widely,
mid-bite. Some figures in the foreground are
still working. One man walks toward us,
slightly slumped by the weight of the jugs
he carries. Other figures mirror the land in
their poses and movement: the shape of the
scythes and the implied action of the men
working with them echo the sweeping lines
of the landscape; a woman bent over with
a bundle of wheat mirrors the pyramidal
shape of the wheat stacks.
These gestures of labor connect the people
to the landscape, just as other figures’ poses
of rest connect them to us on a human
level. Bruegel uses movement to visually
unite people and land. The sense of circular
motion that Bruegel created also reflects
the cycle of the seasons, which relates
the painting to its larger context: it was
originally part of a series of six paintings,
each depicting a different time of the year.
Movement underlies the entire series.
Imagine these dynamic landscapes in one
room, as originally intended. As a whole, the
series would have presented a sense of “armchair travel”—a visual and mental journey.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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3
The Story of Joseph, ca. 1482
Biagio d’Antonio
(Italian, Florentine, active by 1472 – died 1516)
Tempera on wood
The Friedsam Collection, Bequest of Michael Friedsam, 1931 (32.100.69)
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The Story of Joseph, Biagio d’Antonio
Time and narrative
Space and movement
In this painting, movement is not merely
compositional; it also signifies the passage
of time. The artist portrays not one event,
but eight separate Old Testament episodes
from the life of Joseph. This is a continuous
narrative, a technique that collapses time to
show us everything on one panel.
We enter the city gate and move right, where
we encounter the next chronological episode
depicting Joseph tempted by Potiphar’s
wife. Notice that Joseph looks older, but
still wears the same clothing in order to
maintain his pictorial identity throughout
the composition.
The story begins in the middle ground at
the left, where a group of figures stands just
outside the city gate. A merchant in red, labeled
“MERCATANI,” holds a bag of money;
to the right is “PULTIFR” (Potiphar), who
moves away with one arm on “GUSEPPO”
(Joseph), the boy he has just bought as a slave.
On the other side of the loggia, Potiphar has
locked Joseph in prison.
The painter would not have had enough
lateral space to depict these eight episodes
on one panel if he had arranged the scenes
sequentially from left to right. Instead, he
arranged the narrative in several directions,
moving back and forth from the middle
ground to the foreground in a kind of
unfinished figure eight. In order to do this,
the painter created an illusion of threedimensional space using linear perspective,
an innovation of the early Renaissance. The
receding lines of the buildings’ exteriors, as
well as their interior spaces, make room for
the many episodes depicted here.
The painter then brings our attention forward,
to the building in the foreground, where
through a window we can see a man in bed
with the label “SONGO DI FARAGONE.”
This is the dream of Pharaoh, which Joseph
then translates for him in the next scene, at
the table just to the left of the bed.
For the next episode we look to the center of
the painting; Joseph is seated on his chariot,
now a free man promoted by Pharaoh.
We then move forward in time by moving
backward in the composition, to the loggia
in the middle ground where Joseph is shown
forgiving his brothers.
The final episode takes our gaze back to the
left and outside the gates where we began.
We find Joseph reaching up to greet his
father, Jacob, who is seated on a horse.
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The Story of Joseph, Biagio d’Antonio
Movement and meaning
By depicting the entire life of Joseph rather
than a single episode, the artist created a work
that held multiple meanings for his patron.
Each episode of Joseph’s life was related
to a different virtue, such as forgiveness,
purity, and devotion. The painting was
simultaneously decorative, dynamic, and
entertaining, and it served as a reminder
that God rewards virtue with greatness. This
painting, along with a companion panel
relating Joseph’s earlier life, would have
been part of the decoration of a Florentine
bedroom. As he moves us through time with
a continuous narrative, Biagio d’Antonio
sets the entire story in the fifteenth century
by painting Florentine-style buildings and
clothing, making the Biblical events seem
contemporary to his viewers.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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4
The Vision of Saint John, 1608–14
El Greco (Domenikos Theotokopoulos)
(Greek, Iráklion (Candia) 1540/41–1614 Toledo)
Oil on canvas
Rogers Fund, 1956 (56.48)
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The Vision of Saint John, El Greco
Gesture and line
El Greco combines gesture, line, light,
and brushstroke to create a series of rippling
and fluctuating movements that evoke
the otherworldly.
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Line is not entirely freed from the task of
describing form, but the brushstrokes have
a life of their own. Wide, feathery strokes
of paint change direction and tone with
every fold of Saint John’s blue robe. The
brushstrokes are looser in the sky, as El
Greco began to build up a cloudy heaven.
The sky is unfinished and the earthy tone of
the canvas’s ground shows through, allowing
us to see how the artist applied paint in thin,
sweeping layers that softly blend on the
canvas. We can imagine that the finished
sky would have been equally dynamic.
The yellow and green draperies are also
unfinished, but still perform their pictorial
function of isolating the nude figures from
the sky as they, too, ripple with motion.
With arms extended, Saint John fills the
left side of the canvas. His elongated body,
covered by rippling blue cloth, sweeps our
eyes upward, taking in the height of the
canvas and connecting the earth and sky.
His arms form a wide V and his fingers and
hands seem to stir the cloudy sky, pushing
it toward the tumbling putti and the male
figure on the right side of the painting. The
impossibly curving arm of this nude male
stretches upward with his gaze, while the
undulating form of his body takes our eyes
downward. We continue this up-and-down
movement with each successive figure,
through the center of the painting. Both
the contour lines of these figures and their
modeling contribute to a sense of rhythmic
movement. The light and shadows of the
flesh are painted with visible strokes that
blend and overlap, so that the bodies seem
to shimmer with an inner motion.
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The Vision of Saint John, El Greco
Space and movement
Movement and meaning
The effect of all this movement is heightened
by El Greco’s treatment of space. All of the
figures, including the kneeling ones, appear
to hover on an indefinite ground plane. El
Greco does not anchor his figures with
the traditional device of cast shadows, but
instead surrounds the nudes with dark lines.
Far from grounded, they seem buoyed by the
visible brushstrokes, particularly the three
standing figures in the center. There is no
sense of spatial recession: while Saint John
seems closer to us because of his size, the red
cloth appears as close to the nude figures
as to him. This collapsing of space into one
plane of figures, ground, and drapery, is key
to the expressive movement. Not bounded
by space or earthly forces, the drama of the
lines and gesture becomes the painting’s
primary focus.
El Greco’s movement is in the service of
spiritual expression. Intended for a hospital
chapel, this painting depicts a vision, not a
narrative. The motion that takes us in all
directions is creating an unreal, spiritual
place for contemplation and consolation.
While the painting is unfinished, the effect of
El Greco’s innovative brushwork—and the
lines and motion he created with it—would
have been equally, if not more, powerful in a
finished composition.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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Whalers, ca. 1845
Joseph Mallord William Turner
(British, London 1775 – 1851 London)
Oil on canvas
5
Catharine Lorillard Wolfe Collection, Wolfe Fund, 1896 (96.29)
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Whalers, Joseph Mallord William Turner
Nature in motion
The immediate, overall effect of Turner’s
brush is a ceaseless, crushing motion of sky
and water. Brushwork is visible all over the
canvas, yet we cannot always make out its
direction; the many layers of paint create
a hazy, opaque mass that evokes violently
churning water.
We can see clear, directional brushstrokes in
the large, central ship. In the area between
the light brown rowboats and the ship,
vertical strokes of white and gray convey
the violence of the wave and spray behind
the nearly capsized boats. These strokes
optically blend the middle ground and
background, eliminating the perception of
distance between the ship, the boats, and
the horizon. Around the small boats, flicks
and scrapings of the brush express choppy
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water and swells. Looking closely, we can
see small bodies, almost the same tone as the
boats and water, falling out of the powerless,
upturned boat.
a rush of dark reddish brown paint. Touches
of light pink—water tinged by blood—spray
upward around the whale. Light, translucent
brushstrokes move the water up and outward
around the whale’s right side. Below, the water
is completely dark, and it seems more of a
solid mass than water.
Just below these boats, in the lower center
of the canvas, Turner created the effect of
moving swells with broader strokes of white
that crest over a darker passage of yellowishbrown and then spray back upward. These
touches of white repeat in other areas of
the water, often blending with other colors
to vanish into the hazy water, as white caps
disappear when a wave falls. In the left
foreground, where the darkest colors are
concentrated, small, tight brushstrokes radiate
outward in many directions, as if the water is
erupting from the impact of the whale’s tail.
The whale’s head rises up out of the water in
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Over the entire canvas, Turner’s handling of
paint suggests vision coming in and out of
focus. Our eyes do not comfortably settle in
one place for too long. The sky is a series
of white and gray brushstrokes and palette
knife scrapings, layered over blue. The effect
is of a moving mass of clouds that never
quite breaks, confusing and overpowering in
concert with the water below.
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Whalers, Joseph Mallord William Turner
Movement and meaning
From our distant vantage point we can take
in the full effect of nature’s movement and
action, yet we cannot make out any human
emotion. The concentration of masses in the
center of the composition allows our eyes
to circumnavigate the action rather than
penetrate it. Turner’s style was unique and
considered quite radical by some, yet the theme
of nature overpowering man was not new. In
the late eighteenth century, artists started to
explore the Sublime—the notion that strong
emotion could arise from the contemplation
of a terrifying situation. Turner’s innovative,
layered brushwork boldly evokes a violent
scene of nature in motion.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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Illumination
Paintings featured in this section
Light is a constant presence in our lives: we see the world
because everything in it reflects, absorbs, or refracts light
waves in varying quantities. Illumination is the purposeful
use of light to achieve an aesthetic or practical effect. Both in
painting and in the world around us, light makes forms visible
and directs our eyes. llumination often provokes physical or
emotional responses that add meaning to what we see.
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The Baptism of Christ
Jacopo Bassano (Jacopo da Ponte)
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The Penitent Magdalen
Georges de La Tour
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Young Woman with a Water Pitcher
Johannes Vermeer
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Camille Monet on a Garden Bench
Claude Monet
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Two Men Contemplating the Moon
Caspar David Friedrich
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form and space
For the painter, whose visual medium
depends on material, color, and value, light
is critical. The principal person in a picture
is light, Édouard Manet reportedly said. For
centuries, artists have studied the properties
of light in order to determine how they
can reproduce its effects in painting. Artists
represented in the Met’s European Paintings
collection share an interest in using light
and shadow to create form or volume in
their paintings. Their approaches vary:
some painters use pure color for shadows
and then add white to lighten colors (for
example, Lorenzo Monaco’s David, or El
Greco’s Portrait of a Cardinal). Others vary
the density of translucent paint layers to
create areas of highlight and shadow (Gerard
David). Many painters began their canvases
with a darker-toned ground (such as brown
or gray), and then adjusted the value in both
directions, building up darker and lighter
tones to model form (Bassano, Illumination
1, page 77; Rembrandt, Illusion 5, page 27).
Artists also use light to create a sense of space
and atmosphere. Painters who went outside
to study landscape observed how objects
across great distances appear lighter or less
saturated, and they began to mimic this effect
in their compositions to convey distance and
space (atmospheric perspective). Different
colors and qualities of light in a landscape
can also suggest different times of day and
weather conditions, and painters often use
light to create the sense of a storm or rapidly
changing weather (Jacob van Ruisdael,
El Greco). The numerous oil sketches of
landscapes in the collection (for example,
Pierre Henri de Valenciennes) attest to
the tradition of painters going outside to
study the interactions of light, atmosphere,
and nature. Artists in the later nineteenth
century, like Claude Monet, made light the
actual subject of the painting. To capture the
momentary, changing effects of light, Monet
painted canvases entirely outside, from start
to finish, in one sitting.
Light draws us into paintings, connecting
us to the place and moment that is depicted.
Painters may use a consistent light source
within a composition to create unity and a
sense of space. Sometimes the light source
in the painting is even consistent with the
actual external light source; some artists
used this technique in paintings destined for
church chapels. For example, the direction
of light and shadow in Raphael’s Madonna
and Child Enthroned with Saints reflects
the placement of windows in the chapel it
occupied. Within the painting, cast shadows
follow the direction of the real light, while
also creating a sense of the figures’ weight
and placement on the ground. Light draws
us further into the illusion of the painting by
connecting it to the real world.
How is moonlight
different from sunlight?
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Expression and symbolism
Illumination can be highly expressive.
Low light might seem cozy while bright,
cold light can be alarming. If the light in
a painting seems out of the ordinary, it
alerts us to look for meaning or narrative.
Light that creates strong contrast or
shadows in unusual places may alert us to
significant objects, gestures, or people (see
Caravaggio’s The Denial of Saint Peter).
Diffuse light, with gentle highlights and
shadows, may seem equally unreal in its
otherworldly, calming effect (such as in
François Boucher’s The Interrupted Sleep).
Depending on the color and quality of the
light, shadow may seem harsh and ominous
(in Bartolomé Murillo’s Crucifixion and
Goya’s Don Manuel), or studied and
contemplative (in Rembrandt’s Aristotle).
A backlit subject, with a window behind
it, places us “inside” the scene and gives
us the sense that we have a privileged,
interior view (see Edgar Degas’s A Woman
Ironing or Marie-Denise Villers’s Charlotte
du Val d’Ognes).
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Both natural and unnatural illumination
may hold more specific meanings as
well. In Christian theology and Western
philosophy, light is considered a
fundamental component of the universe
and a symbol of divinity. Light is equated
with goodness, and darkness with evil;
painters sometimes use this duality
to convey specific religious messages.
Gold leaf was used throughout the early
Renaissance to both reflect ambient light
and signify divinity. Later, painted gold
light held the same meaning, and it was
also used to delineate a dramatic, visionary
experience (for example, Philippe de
Champaigne’s Annunciation and Guido
Reni’s Immaculate Conception). Often,
painters made distinctions in color and
quality between divine and natural light,
sometimes combining both to actively
break boundaries between the physical
and the supernatural. With scientific
explorations in the late eighteenth century,
mystical theories of light gave way to more
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Illumination
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How do we
manipulate lighting
for special effects?
“rational” hypotheses, and in painting,
light frequently took on more secular
meanings. Illumination often alluded
to thought, understanding, or wisdom.
With further advances of science and
discoveries about the nature of vision,
painters began to experiment with color
and even take a more “scientific” approach
to painting light. In his 1876 essay La
Nouvelle Peinture (The New Painting),
Edmond Duranty commented that the
Impressionists’ analysis of light was so
accurate that even the best physicists
would not be able to find fault with it.
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Surfaces and light
The pictorial effect of light depends also
on the ambient light that hits the painting
(incident light) and its interaction with
the material properties of the painting (its
ground, its medium, and the application of
paint). Painters were aware of how their
finished paintings would interact with
external illumination, including the effects of
varnishes. Though some paintings were never
meant to be varnished (like the sixteenthcentury painting of the Virgin Suckling the
Child), varnishes were usually applied to
finished paintings to both protect the surfaces
and to saturate colors, bringing out the full
range of shadows and light. Whether a work
is painted with tempera or oil, a varnish
applied on top will reflect incident light
and create a shiny surface. In the nineteenth
century, the application of varnish just before
the opening of an exhibition had become a
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tradition, so that all of the paintings on view
had a consistent, glossy appearance. Toward
the end of the century, painters like Camille
Pissarro and Berthe Morisot refused to
varnish their canvases because they preferred
the surfaces to appear matte.
Museum curators, conservators, and gallery
lighting designers all think about how
paintings would originally have been lit and
how ambient light affects our perception.
They work to adjust gallery conditions so
we see colors and values that are as close
as possible to what the artists originally
intended. The low light of Gallery 602, for
example, approaches the warm, dim glow of
the candlelight that would have illuminated
early religious paintings.
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LookING To CoNNECT
fURTHER CoNNECTIoNS
When do you use candles, and what is the
effect of their light?
How do the qualities and effects of sunlight
change during the day?
A great deal has been written about light by a variety of experts. For
an in-depth bibliography organized by type of study and time period,
see: Bell, Janis Callen. “Light.” Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online.
Oxford University Press, accessed August 15, 2013,
www.oxfordartonline.com/subscriber/article/grove/art/T051002.
Think of one of your favorite places. How is
it illuminated?
Christiansen, Keith. “Connections: Clouds.” The Metropolitan Museum
of Art, 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.org/Connections/clouds.
In the painting, where is the light source?
What is creating light, and what reflects it?
Haidar, Navina. “Connections: Dark Energy.” The Metropolitan Museum
of Art, 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.org/Connections/dark_energy.
Imagine you can step into the painting.
What is the temperature like?
Livingstone, Margaret. “What Art Can Tell Us About the Brain.” Lecture
at the Penny W. Stamps School of Art & Design, University of Michigan,
October 29, 2009. See neuro.med.harvard.edu/faculty/livingstone.html.
What are the darkest areas of the painting?
Where are the transitions from dark to light?
McGlinchey, Christopher. “Color and Light in the Museum
Environment.” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin 51 no. 3
(1993–94): 44–52.
Schwarz, Bruce. “Connections: Light.” The Metropolitan Museum of
Art. 2000–2013. www.metmuseum.org/connections/light.
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The Baptism of Christ, ca. 1590
Jacopo Bassano (Jacopo da Ponte)
(Italian, Bassano del Grappa ca.
1510–1592 Bassano del Grappa)
Oil on canvas
1
Partial and Promised Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Mark
Fisch, 2012 (2012.99)
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The Baptism of Christ, Jacopo Bassano (Jacopo da Ponte)
Almost complete darkness surrounds the
figures. On the right side of the painting,
light begins to emerge along the horizon.
A touch of white in the sky is the only
other bright, pure light; we can barely
make out a bird’s head and part of a wing
(the dove of the Holy Spirit). Below, Saint
John’s forearm is painted with warm pink
and orange tones with flecks of red. His
other arm almost disappears into shadow.
Bassano picks out highlights in John’s
drapery with opaque tones of red and
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green lightened with lead white, giving
form to the space between Saint John
and Christ. Even the places on the canvas
where light is absent seem heavy and thick
with atmosphere.
layers of paint, Bassano began with a dark
brown tone on the canvas and then applied
lighter colors of paint in semiopaque layers.
The preparation layer is still visible in
areas (the lower right corner, for example)
because the painting remains unfinished.
By working in this manner, Bassano’s
colors quickly create light areas, so the
forms seem to materialize from the depths
of the canvas (rather than appearing to
glow from within, like Bellini’s Madonna
and Child). Where the form of Christ’s
foot enters the water, it seems to dissolve
back into the darkness. Bassano’s process
is particularly subtle in the modeling of
the torsos of Saint John and Christ; the
application of paint in patches draws
out the ribs and muscles of the figures’
abdomens. The flesh shimmers as shadows
play beneath the lighter passages. Christ’s
upper body is broadly lit with wider
areas of light paint, while his abdominal
muscles are selectively highlighted. Light
hits the concavity of his lower belly, and
a dab of red paint suggests his navel. The
effect, which would have been similar if the
painting had been finished, is almost of an
apparition: Christ seems to be stepping out
of the darkness into light, and yet the light
comes from a source that we cannot see.
Bassano’s figures literally emerge from the
surrounding darkness. Unlike the earlier
Venetian artist Giovanni Bellini, who
began with a white ground and built up
color with layers of translucent glazes so
that light is reflected through translucent
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The Baptism of Christ, Jacopo Bassano (Jacopo da Ponte)
Illumination and meaning
By setting the scene at night and
eliminating natural daylight, Bassano
emphasized divine light. Christ himself
embodies the light, as he emerges from
the darkness. The artist’s approach to
painting light was careful and entirely
consistent with a fundamental precept
of Christian theology. According to
scripture, Christ comes into the world
to bring light; he is God made flesh. The
painter, similarly, emphasized the flesh of
Christ coming into being through light.
The painting technique and Bassano’s
attention to light are inseparable from the
message of the painting.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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The Penitent Magdalen, ca. 1640
Georges de La Tour
(French, Vic-sur-Seille 1593–1653 Lunéville)
Oil on canvas
Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wrightsman, 1978 (1978.517)
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The Penitent Magdalen, Georges de La Tour
Georges de La Tour restricts his light
source to a single candle, which draws
both our gaze and that of the seated
woman. He painted the long, wavering
flame with carefully varied tones, darker
at the wick and then lighter before it tapers
and blends with the surrounding colors. A
careful brushstroke whisks around from
the smooth right side of the flame’s base
and curves upward, just barely crossing
into the dark of the mirror. De La Tour
adjusted the flame’s color and intensity
only minimally in the reflection, where the
tapered end becomes slightly orange as it
disappears in the dark glass. The candle
itself appears lighter in the reflection
because the far side of the candle catches its
own reflected light. It also appears shorter
because the mirror is tipped backward at
an angle.
out from the candle and the mirror, we
find that everything is painted in warm
colors—yellow, red, and orange—in order
to convince us of the tonal effect of the
candle’s illumination. The light touches
everything the artist wants us to notice: the
discarded pearls, the skull she holds in her
lap, her simple clothing, her folded hands,
and the barest glimpse of her turned face.
Everything in the light’s path creates
shadow; even the raised edge of the
woman’s blouse casts a shadow on her
skin. In fact, large areas of the canvas are
in almost complete darkness. De La Tour
created sharp lines of contrast between
his light and dark areas—in the skirt, for
example, and in the eye sockets of the
skull. The bright line of the Magdalen’s
profile is just barely visible, and crosses
the sharp line of the dark shadow on the
wall beyond her. These contrasts create a
play of form and void; the absence of light
on either side of Mary creates a series of
unknown spaces that isolates her figure.
We have little sense of the rest of the room
or what it might contain.
The mirror, the source of this double
illumination, is set in a frame with a
less reflective, angled surface (possibly
gilded wood) that gives off a more diffuse
light. To achieve this effect, the areas of
highlight are less sharply defined. The
painter incorporated more red pigment
in the left side of the frame, suggesting a
reflection of the Magdalen’s skirt. Moving
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The Penitent Magdalen, Georges de La Tour
Illumination and meaning
Even before knowing anything about the
woman in this painting, the light evokes
a specific mood. She is alone with a single
candle and objects that serve as reminders
of the world and human mortality. Though
the contrast of light and dark is visually
dramatic, the clarity of line, alternating
planes of light and dark, smooth brushwork,
and broad areas of darkness create a
distinct sense of stillness. The painter used
the ordinary light of an everyday object—a
candle—and transformed it into the
setting for a quiet moment that seems both
believable and extraordinary.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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3
Young Woman with a Water Pitcher, ca. 1662
Johannes Vermeer
(Dutch, Delft 1632–1675 Delft)
Oil on canvas
Marquand Collection, Gift of Henry G. Marquand, 1889 (89.15.21)
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Young Woman with a Water Pitcher, Johannes Vermeer
Temperature and color
Light streams in through an upper window,
out of view, and begins to peek through
the hazy lower window: this is a moment
just before direct illumination. Vermeer’s
light has a narrative power; he uses the
effects of light to create textures, colors,
and forms that seem to reach beyond the
visible to hint at the inner world of the
female figure.
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Vermeer’s palette consists of mostly cool
tones, created by mixing blue pigment with
his colors. Looking closely at the shadows
on the white wall, and in the woman’s head
and shoulder coverings, we see how varying
shades of blue create the shadows, and how
the artist contrasted them with touches of
yellow-white highlight. The light closest to
the window, in the upper left corner and
along the window sash, is warm, painted
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with more yellow and pink. As the light
moves across the room, Vermeer added
more blue so that the light below the map
is decidedly cooler. This variation of tone
and color in the light is part of what creates
the atmosphere and gives us a sense of the
room’s cool temperature.
The brightness of the red in the carpet on
the table is heightened through contrast
with blue tones. Where the light hits the
carpet, Vermeer blends orange with the red
to achieve a warmer tone. Along the edge
of the table, where the carpet falls into
shadow, we see the subtle transition of color
from a warm orange-red to a cool blue-red.
Vermeer painted more of the blue design
on this lateral side of the carpet than on the
top, further emphasizing the difference in
temperature between light and shade. Where
the carpet is reflected in the metal basin,
the tone and temperature shifts again. The
slightly greenish color of the metal mutes
the reflected reds and blues. Vermeer formed
the gray metal pitcher of deceptively simple
strokes of mixed complementary colors, blue
and orange in some areas, and red and green
in others. Warm white highlights create the
luster of the metal, and a strip of brighter
blue and soft red-orange reflect the brightest
areas of the cloth and the jewelry box.
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Young Woman with a Water Pitcher, Johannes Vermeer
Texture and form
Illumination and meaning
Light both creates form and dissolves its
edges. Vermeer built up his tones in patches
of semitransparent paint in such a way
that it creates a sense of solid form in soft
focus. Looking at the high-resolution digital
image, we can see that Vermeer’s layered
areas of color do not entirely line up to form
a sharp edge anywhere in the painting. For
example, along the contours of the woman’s
extended arm and sleeve, the different tones
blend ever so slightly with the color of the
wall. The most stunning use of this effect is
in the carpet, in the borders of the different
colors, where Vermeer’s technique captures
the texture and pattern of the woven surface.
We sense that the artist chose his objects
for the varying ways that their shapes and
textures absorb and reflect light.
During this period Vermeer was increasingly
preoccupied with the appearance of natural
light.1 The lack of narrative pretext in
this painting allows light to become the
protagonist. Vermeer’s illumination is that of
our everyday world, and light is so carefully
rendered that we may forget it is painted. To
our modern eyes, the crisp colors with bright,
1
hazy edges confer an almost photographic
quality. Vermeer may have used a camera
obscura to study the effects of light, but in
the painting, its elusive quality can only be
explained by the artist’s attention to color
and the handling of paint.
Walter Liedtke, Dutch Paintings in The Metropolitan
Museum of Art (New York: The Metropolitan Museum
of Art, 2007), vol. 2, 880.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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4
Camille Monet (1847–1879) on a Garden Bench, 1873
Claude Monet
(French, Paris 1940–1926 Giverny)
Oil on canvas
The Walter H. and Leonore Annenberg Collection, Gift of Walter H. and Leonore Annenberg, 2002,
Bequest of Walter H. Annenberg, 2002 (2002.62.1)
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Camille Monet (1847–1879) on a Garden Bench, Claude Monet
Sunlight and color
Monet is outdoors, painting the immediate
effects of the sun’s illumination. Though
the shadowed figure of Camille occupies
the center of the canvas, the inclination of
her body and the lines of the bench take us
quickly out of the shadow and into the sun.
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Monet creates flowers along a retaining wall
on the left edge of the canvas using dabs of
saturated red paint. The darker green in this
section and the muted touches of mauve and
mint green, which extend along the entire
wall into the center of the canvas, evoke
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a partially shadowed surface in indirect
sunlight. The female figure in the background
is on the border of light and shadow. Direct
sun hits her parasol’s upper surface with a
stroke of pure white. Light illuminates the
left side of her body in summary strokes
of light violet. In front of her, full sunlight
bursts onto the flowers, foliage, and grass:
Monet mixes varying amounts of white
with pure color, describing the desaturating
effect of full sunlight. The red flowers here
are bright salmon-orange, created by mixing
red with white and yellow to achieve a
warmer, brighter tone. Interspersed with the
flowers, the leaves are an electric yellowgreen. Where the light is most intense, there
is no trace of darker colors. Moving to
the shadowed right-hand side of the bush,
the bright colors are interrupted by darker
greens and small touches of red.
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Camille Monet (1847–1879) on a Garden Bench, Claude Monet
Shadow and color
Illumination and meaning
The effect of sunlight is as powerful, if not as
bright, on the ground of the pathway. Monet
brushed in a light, pink-toned white where
the sun hits the path; where the shade begins,
Monet’s color becomes cooler, with added
touches of blue that result in a lilac tone.
This is not the consistent, sharp shadow of
a fixed object, but the changing, dappled
shade of a tree. Monet indicates this with
both brushwork and color. Over the bright
ground, the painter adds small strokes of
light blue, yellow, mauve, and orange. The
shadow retains the same tones as the sunlit
areas, only much dimmer.
blue are visible in Camille’s hat, for example,
where a bit of indirect light hits it. On the left
side of the bench, Monet uses light blue for
the slats, while behind Camille’s bustle, they
are pure black. The male figure presents an
interesting contrast—his dark hat and coat
stand out sharply against the sunlit foliage
behind him, while his lower half seems to
dissolve behind the slatted bench. Here,
lighter strokes of paint overlap the lines of
the bench in many places, as if the light is
pushing its way through the bench.
Unlike the artists who went outside to sketch
light and atmosphere in the early to midnineteenth century, Monet’s work outside
was not preparatory; eventually, he began
and finished canvases out of doors. Rather
than a dramatic landscape of Italy, or a
Romantic vision of nature, it is an urban,
everyday garden. Though this might be called
a genre scene, it signals a preoccupation
with a nonfigurative subject; the space that
the two people occupy is about half of the
composition, but light is beginning to win
out over any other subject.
The hem of Camille’s dress almost dissolves
into the shadows, but for its much cooler tone
of gray. Strokes of blue dance across the gray
dress, indicating areas of light. Monet uses
pure black paint very sparingly, only to pick
out the darkest areas and the playful lines
of the trim. In other places, he mixes black
with blue to achieve a range of value even in
these dark areas. Traces of an almost royal
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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5
Two Men Contemplating the Moon, ca. 1825–30
Caspar David Friedrich
(German, Greifswald 1774–1840 Dresden)
Oil on canvas
Wrightsman Fund, 2000 (2000.51)
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Two Men Contemplating the Moon, Caspar David Friedrich
In this small canvas, light is an integral part of
the subject matter and the focus of attention
for the two men. Their backs are to us, as
they stand at the top of a hill, one leaning
on a walking stick and the other with his
arm on his companion’s shoulder. They are
engaged in looking at the moon, and their
turned backs indicate that we should do the
same. The moon itself holds pride of place
in the center of the canvas, framed by the
tree and the figures. The crooked branches
of the tree and its upturned roots contrast
with the moon’s perfect orb. To the right of
the moon is a fleck of white paint: the planet
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Venus. Apart from the moon and Venus,
there are no other touches of bright highlight
anywhere in the painting, except a tiny spot
on the left figure’s white collar. The moon is
not a real source of illumination for anything
other than the sky itself.
a waxing crescent, or perhaps a lunar eclipse).
It casts a diffuse, glowing light through the
sky, which becomes a light violet color toward
the perimeter of the canvas. This soft purple
of the evening sky mixes with the yellow
moonlight above the horizon, resulting in a
mid-tone of soft gray (particularly noticeable
at the right edge of the canvas). Friedrich’s
palette is warm, and he uses yellow pigment
throughout the sky and the earth to create a
consistently warm tone.
Though the rising moon is the subject of the
painting, its illumination is not dramatic; in
fact, it appears rather dim. Its light is colored
and muted by the effect of the atmosphere,
whose interference scatters the blue, green,
and purple range of visible light. It appears
yellow, with a bright sliver on one side (either
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The light of this moon is more subtle than
a full moon in a dark night sky, or the
throbbing red of a harvest moon. From our
vantage point it throws everything else into
shadow: the figures, as well as the craggy
forms of the earth in the foreground. Had
Friedrich chosen a different view, from the
other side of the hill, the moonlight would
have caught every changing angle of branch
and bark, and the tree might have appeared
incredibly dramatic. Instead the tree is mostly
silhouetted. The large branches are only
lightly brushed in and partially transparent,
revealing some of the light behind them.
Friedrich creates texture with his brush in
these dark forms, setting up an additional
contrast between the smooth, light sky and
the nature around it.
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Two Men Contemplating the Moon, Caspar David Friedrich
Illumination and meaning
By placing the moon in the center of the
painting and restricting its light to the sky
alone, it becomes the subject matter entirely
and explicitly. Friedrich took the moon as
his subject in several other similar paintings
inspired by the Romantic fascination with
the moon in poetry and literature. Even
if this painting depicts a lunar eclipse, the
mood and colors, as well as the small size
of the work, evoke a contemplative rather
than dramatic mood. Whereas De La Tour’s
candlelight evokes religious meditation, here
the figures’ contemplation is purely secular.
See this painting on metmuseum.org
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The Metropolitan Museum of Art Teaching Goals
The direct experience of original works of art lies at the heart
of teaching in the Museum’s galleries. While we recognize that
the breadth of the Museum’s holdings, the diversity of our
visitors, and the different approaches of our teaching faculty
invite a range of pedagogical methods, we propose that all
gallery teaching be shaped by the following broad goals. These
goals will also inform the distinct learning objectives that
are developed for each audience-specific program within the
Museum’s offerings.
· Focus visitors’ attention on original works of art and their
capacity to evoke wonder, delight, and cultural understanding.
· Develop visitors’ skills of visual analysis in order to facilitate
their independent and meaningful encounters with works of art.
· Recognize and respond to visitors’ diverse backgrounds,
ages, interests, needs, and learning styles.
· Create opportunities for active participation and exchange
with visitors to take full advantage of the interactive nature
of gallery teaching.
· Encourage visitors to learn from works of art in multiple ways.
· Relate objects to art-historical and other intellectual contexts
as appropriate to the objects and the audience so that visitors
understand the objects from a variety of conceptual frameworks.
· Connect works of art to life today, as appropriate, so that art
resonates as universal and relevant.
· Foster visitors’ desire for further inquiry and a deeper
engagement with art.
An interdepartmental committee comprised of Education, curatorial,
and conservation staff, and members of the Volunteer Organization of
The Metropolitan Museum of Art developed these teaching goals.
Thomas P. Campbell, Director and CEO, approved these goals in spring 2010.
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Notes to Terms Used in This Publication
Note to the Reader:
In many of the following entries, links to
Oxford Art Online will connect you to more
information on the given topic; however,
Oxford Art Online is only accessible onsite at
the Met (on a Museum computer or within
the Museum’s wireless network), or remotely
via login with a Metropolitan Museum
ID. If you have such an ID, you can access
Oxford Art Online from home by logging
in with your name and ID number through
the Museum’s Thomas J. Watson Library.
If you are not affiliated with the Museum,
your home university, institution, or local
library may have its own subscription; please
consult your librarian. In New York City,
access is available onsite at New York Public
Library’s Research Libraries.
academy
an association of artists, organized to oversee
training, provide opportunities for exhibitions,
and offer a venue for debate and interaction
between artists, and with the public. For
more information, see Humphrey Wine,
“Academy.” Grove Art Online. Oxford Art
Online. Oxford University Press, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/
subscriber/article/grove/art/T000302.
→ Back to: Developments in European Painting
camera obscura
Latin, meaning “dark room.” Basically, a box
with a small hole on one side that lets in a small
amount of light to produce an inverted image
on the opposite side. The camera obscura has
a long history and a number of variations; for
more information, see Jacqueline Colliss Harvey,
“Camera Obscura.” Grove Art Online. Oxford
Art Online. Oxford University Press, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/
subscriber/article/grove/art/T013424.
→ Back to: Illumination
atmospheric perspective
also called “aerial perspective,” refers to the
technique creating the effects of distance and
atmosphere by adjusting color, saturation,
and clarity.
→ Back to: Illumination
binder
the liquid substance artists combine with dry
pigment to create paint. Linseed or walnut oil,
for example, are binders used in oil painting.
Although sometimes medium is used as a
synonym for binder, medium instead refers to
the kind of paint (e.g. oil paint is a medium
while linseed oil is a binder).
chasing
the metalwork technique of hammering or
denting metal to create low relief patterns or
decorations. It is used in conjunction with
the technique of repoussé (French, meaning
“pushed up”), in which the metal is hammered
out from the reverse side.
→ Back to: Illusion
contour line
a line that defines an edge. See also the discussion
of contour lines on page 34.
→ Back to: Borders
→ Back to: Movement
→ Back to: Developments in European Painting
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Notes to Terms Used in This Publication
di sotto in sù
Italian, meaning “from below upwards,”
refers to the kind of extreme perspective and
foreshortening (common in ceiling paintings)
in which the figures and objects appear to
hover above the viewer. The technique was
often intended to create the illusion that
the ceiling was entirely transformed into a
different space.
grisaille
French, from gris, meaning gray. A method of
painting in a monochrome, neutral color, often
used to imitate the appearance of sculpture.
For further information see Michaela Krieger,
“Grisaille.” Grove Art Online. Oxford Art
Online. Oxford University Press, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/
subscriber/article/grove/art/T034995.
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→ Back to: Illusion (p. 32)
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foreshortening
the depiction of an object or figure so that it
is consistent with the perspective system of
the painting and appears to either project or
recede in relation to the viewer.
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glaze
in painting, a transparent or semi-transparent
layer of paint. See Jill Dunkerton, “Glaze.”
Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online.
Oxford University Press, accessed August 15,
2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/subscriber/
article/grove/art/T032835.
guild
an organization that governed the training
and trading activity of a particular profession;
often associated with certain patron saints. For
more information see Richard Mackenney,
“Guild.” Grove Art Online. Oxford Art
Online. Oxford University Press, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/
subscriber/article/grove/art/T035555.
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history painting
a genre in which the subject is a historical
event (usually classical, mythological, or
biblical). Many regarded it as the highest
form of painting from approximately the
sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries. For
further information see “History painting.”
Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online.
Oxford University Press, accessed August 15,
2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/subscriber/
article/grove/art/T038306.
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→ Back to: Developments in European Painting (p. 7)
humanism
refers generally to the revival of interest in
classical antiquity (mainly literature and
languages) that began in the Renaissance. The
word “humanist,” as it emerged in the fifteenth
century, designated someone who studied
and taught classical subjects like rhetoric,
grammar, poetry, history, and philosophy
(studia humanitatis). See James O. Duke,
“Humanism.” Grove Art Online. Oxford
Art Online. Oxford University Press, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/
subscriber/article/grove/art/T039396.
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Developments
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Terms
94
Notes to Terms Used in This Publication
impasto
a very thick application of paint, showing
evidence of the painter’s brush or palette knife.
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liberal art
the origin of the term dates back to classical
antiquity when it referred to areas of learning
practiced by free men (artes liberales), as
opposed to the manual labor of slaves (artes
vulgares). This association persisted, and the
liberal arts were long considered more worthy
or noble than manual work. The areas of study
defined as liberal arts varied across the centuries,
but in general they included grammar, rhetoric,
logic, arithmetic, astronomy, geometry, and
music. Timothy Hunter, “Liberal arts.” The
Oxford Companion to Western Art. Oxford
Art Online. Oxford University Press, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/
subscriber/article/opr/t118/e1468.
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linear perspective
a specific technique that uses a system of
lines to create the impression of spatial
recession. There are different types of linear
perspective, but the most commonly referred
to is one-point perspective (the first to be
codified in the Renaissance). One-point
perspective demands that the artist designate
a single vanishing point in the composition
where all the foreshortened lines (known as
orthogonals) converge. See Janis Callen
Bell, “Perspective.” Grove Art Online. Oxford
Art Online. Oxford University Press, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/
subscriber/article/grove/art/T066570.
→ Back to: Illusion (p. 12)
→ Back to: Illusion (p. 22)
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oil paint
for an in-depth discussion on the history and
nature of oil paint, see Catherine Hassall,
“Oil painting.” Grove Art Online. Oxford
Art Online. Oxford University Press, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/
subscriber/article/grove/art/T063321.
pentimento (plural: pentimenti)
Italian, meaning repentance, or a change of
mind. A visible change made by the artist
painting over a previously rendered design,
which is sometimes visible to the naked
eye, due to the thinning of paint layers over
time, or can also be discovered through
technical examinations.
→ Back to: Illusion (p. 16)
→ Back to: Illusion (p. 17)
perspective
a technique used to create the appearance
of three-dimensional space on a twodimensional surface. This includes rendering
objects in a way that gives the impression
of their positions in space and physical
relationships to each other (height, depth,
distance, etc.). Linear and atmospheric (or
aerial) perspective are two different kinds of
perspective commonly employed by painters.
See linear perspective and atmospheric
perspective above.
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95
Notes to Terms Used in This Publication
plein air
French, meaning “open air.” In the context
of painting, en plein air means painting
outdoors. The term is commonly used as an
adjective: for example, a plein-air painting.
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poetry
Artists and theorists from the Renaissance
period onward often discussed and debated
the relative merits and powers of poetry and
painting. The comparison between painting
and poetry was known as the paragone.
For further information see Claire Farago,
“Paragone.” Grove Art Online. Oxford Art
Online. Oxford University Press, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.com/
subscriber/article/grove/art/T065290.
pigment
in painting, the coloring matter that is
suspended in a binder to create paint. For an indepth discussion see Karin Groen, “Pigment.”
Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online. Oxford
University Press, accessed August 15, 2013,
www.oxfordartonline.com/subscriber/article/
grove/art/T067586.
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predella
(Italian) the lower horizontal section of an
altarpiece, separate from the larger main
panel. It served to support the main panel
and raise it higher. Often such panels were
painted scenes that formed part of the
altarpiece’s overall narrative program.
Today many predella panels are separated
from their altarpieces.
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porte-crayon
an instrument for holding a piece of chalk or
other drawing material. For more information
see Jacob Simon, “The artist’s porte-crayon.”
National Portrait Gallery, London, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.npg.org.uk/research/
programmes/artists-their-materials-andsuppliers/the-artists-porte-crayon.php.
→ Back to: Borders
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support
the material surface on which an artist paints.
Wood, canvas, and paper, for example, are
all types of supports. For more information
see Jonathan Stephenson, “Support.” Grove
Art Online. Oxford Art Online. Oxford
University Press, accessed August 15, 2013,
www.oxfordartonline.com/subscriber/article/
grove/art/T082371.
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Contents
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Introduction
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Developments
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Terms
96
Notes to Terms Used in This Publication
tempera
as it is used today, refers to paint composed of
pigment mixed with egg yolk (and sometimes
a bit of water). In the early Renaissance, it
could also mean pigment mixed with water
(as used in fresco painting). For this reason,
“egg tempera” was used to designate egg yolk
as the binder. See Jill Dunkerton’s in-depth
essay “Tempera.” Grove Art Online. Oxford
Art Online. Oxford University Press, accessed
August 15, 2013, www.oxfordartonline.
com/subscriber/article/grove/art/T083694.
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trompe l’oeil
French, meaning “fool the eye,” is a term that
was coined in the early nineteenth century to
describe the illusion of three-dimensionality
in a flat surface (not just painting). The
“deception” requires that objects are painted
full-scale, as they would appear in real life.
Trompe l’oeil painting eventually became
known as a sub-genre of still-life painting
(like William Michael Harnett’s Still Life—
Violin and Music); however, today the
term is commonly used to refer to both a
technique and the genre. For further reading
on trompe l’oeil, see Miriam Milman,
“Does ‘real’ trompe l’oeil exist?” in Art
and Illusions: Masterpieces of Trompe l’oeil
from Antiquity to the Present Day. exh. cat.
Florence: Mandragora/Fondazione Palazzo
Strozzi, 2009, pp. 21–32.
underdrawing
a preliminary drawing on the primed painting
support, used to lay out the composition
and guide the artist during the painting
process. For further information see Maryan
Wynn Ainsworth, “Underdrawing.” Grove
Art Online. Oxford Art Online, Oxford
University Press, accessed August 15, 2013,
www.oxfordartonline.com/subscriber/article/
grove/art/T087055.
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Contents
·
Introduction
·
Developments
·
Terms
97