(via CNN/Jim Boulden) http://edition.cnn.com/video/#/video/living/2008/01/01/boulden.uk.genuine.fakes.cnn
It's amazing!
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Highest Priced Modern Indian Artists
- Tyeb Mehta
- Amrita Sher Gill
- F N Souza
- V S Gaitonde
- S H Raza
- Rameshwar Broota
- M F Husain
- J Swaminathan
- Akbar Padamsee
- Ram Kumar
- Amrita Sher Gill
- F N Souza
- V S Gaitonde
- S H Raza
- Rameshwar Broota
- M F Husain
- J Swaminathan
- Akbar Padamsee
- Ram Kumar
The Orloff
(via Diamond Cuts in Historic Jewelry:1381-1910) Herbert Tillander writes:
Descriptions of the Orloff diamond (The Diamond Fund, Moscow, about 190 ct) were published by the Academician A E von Fersmann in Moscow in 1925. The diamond is still in the sceptre of Catherine the Great, in the Kremlin Treasury. I have not been permitted to analyze this gem myself, but an analysis is promised by the authorities.
Descriptions of the Orloff diamond (The Diamond Fund, Moscow, about 190 ct) were published by the Academician A E von Fersmann in Moscow in 1925. The diamond is still in the sceptre of Catherine the Great, in the Kremlin Treasury. I have not been permitted to analyze this gem myself, but an analysis is promised by the authorities.
Underrated/Overrated
Total internal reflections of Robert Rigney and Penelope Rowlands on international artists + other viewpoints @
http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=828
http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=828
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
The Work Of Frans Hals And Rembrandt
Shortly before the Spanish army began its seven months siege of Haarlem in the winter of 1572-3, a burgher of that city named Pieter Hals made his escape with his wife and family, and found shelter in Antwerp. Well for the world that he did so, for had he taken part in the heroic defence of his native city he might have been killed in the general butchery that followed when the Spaniards at last took the town; and then one of the world’s greatest painters would never have been born.
Of the life of his son comparatively little is known, but it tolerably certain that Frans Hals was born at Antwerp in 1580, that is to say, about five years after El Greco’s arrival in Spain. Exactly when the Hals family returned to Haarlem is not known, but since the younger son, Dirk Hals (1591-1656), is reputed to have been born in Haarlem, it may be conjectured that the Hals family returned some time between 1590 and 1600. By the latter date Frans Hals was certainly working in Haarlem, and there he remained all his life.
The police records of Haarlem show that on February 20, 1616, Frans Hals was summoned for maltreating his wife (Anneke Hermans), was severely reprimanded, and dismissed on the undertaking that he would eschew drunken company and reform. On this one fact, which is indisputable, gossip has built up a legend that Hals was a man of imperfect morals and a continuous and habitual drunkard. But, as Mr Gerald S Davies has pointed out, drunkenness is not only a moral but a physical matter, and it is physically impossible that a confirmed inebriate should have had a hand steady enough to paint the pictures Hals painted when he was sixty and older.
We must admit an ugly passage in the painter’s life—though, as a Scottish critic once observed, we do not know what provocation Hal’s wife gave him—and we must conclude that his first marriage was miserable. The poor woman died soon after the police court case—though not, it would seem, as the result of her husband’s misconduct—and a year later Hals married again. His second wife became the mother of many children, surviving her husband after fifty years of married life, and since she never had occasion to take him to the police court, we may reasonably conclude that Hals was not an habitual wife beater.
He appears to have been a jovial and very human beings, fond of a glass in good company, and now and then, perhaps taking one too many; a real Bohemian, as his paintings of gypsies and strolling players attest; but he was not a social outcast, or he would not have been constantly employed by respectable citizens and important corporations, nor would he at the age of sixty four have been appointed a director of the Guild of St Lucas, which protected the interests of the artists and craftsmen of Haarlem.
Yet towards the end of his life, when his honorable position cannot be assailed, he was in sad financial difficulties. At one time he supplemented his income by teaching, and Adriaen Brouwer (1605-38) and A J van Ostade (1610-85) were among his pupils; but this connection did not last, and in 1652 he was distrained upon for debt by his baker, Jan Ykess. Ten years later his distress was such that he had to apply to the Municipal Council for aid, and was given the sum of 100 florins; two years later he had to apply again, and this time (1664) the Council voted the old man a yearly pension of 200 gulden. That year Hals, now eighty four years of age, painted his last two pictures, portraits of the ‘Managers of the Almshouses at Haarlem,’ and in 1666 he died, and was buried on September 7 in the choir of the Church of St Bavon.
Properly to appreciate the art of Frans Hals, there is one thing we must never forget, namely, that all the work of his maturity was done during the excitement of war. It was a war which must have thrilled every Dutchman through and through, for it was waged to defend hearth and home and to deliver the fatherland from a foreign yoke; it was a war in which one of the smallest nations in Europe had the hardihood to challenge the mightiest empire of the time. It began in 1568, about twelve years before Hals was born, and as he grew up the apparent hopelessness of the conflict disappeared, and the gaiety and elation of victory in sight began to sparkle in his paintings. When Hals first painted the officers of the St Joris’ Shooting Guild in 1616 the issue was still doubtful; when he painted the last of his great series of military groups in 1639, again of the ‘Officers of St Joris’ Shooting Guild,’ the ultimate triumph of Holland was a foregone conclusion. In the earliest group many of the faces appear anxious and worried, but see how happy they all are even in the ‘Reunion of the Officers of the Guild of Archers of St Adriaen’, a picture painted in 1633. These stout fellows bear their fortune with varying demeanors; some are smiling and jovial, some are grave and stern, one or two are evidently elated, one of two are thoughtful, but all are confident. In no countenance can a trace of doubt be felt, and their freedom from anxiety finds its parallel in the flowing brush of the painter, equally confident and unerring.
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic (continued)
The Work Of Frans Hals And Rembrandt
Shortly before the Spanish army began its seven months siege of Haarlem in the winter of 1572-3, a burgher of that city named Pieter Hals made his escape with his wife and family, and found shelter in Antwerp. Well for the world that he did so, for had he taken part in the heroic defence of his native city he might have been killed in the general butchery that followed when the Spaniards at last took the town; and then one of the world’s greatest painters would never have been born.
Of the life of his son comparatively little is known, but it tolerably certain that Frans Hals was born at Antwerp in 1580, that is to say, about five years after El Greco’s arrival in Spain. Exactly when the Hals family returned to Haarlem is not known, but since the younger son, Dirk Hals (1591-1656), is reputed to have been born in Haarlem, it may be conjectured that the Hals family returned some time between 1590 and 1600. By the latter date Frans Hals was certainly working in Haarlem, and there he remained all his life.
The police records of Haarlem show that on February 20, 1616, Frans Hals was summoned for maltreating his wife (Anneke Hermans), was severely reprimanded, and dismissed on the undertaking that he would eschew drunken company and reform. On this one fact, which is indisputable, gossip has built up a legend that Hals was a man of imperfect morals and a continuous and habitual drunkard. But, as Mr Gerald S Davies has pointed out, drunkenness is not only a moral but a physical matter, and it is physically impossible that a confirmed inebriate should have had a hand steady enough to paint the pictures Hals painted when he was sixty and older.
We must admit an ugly passage in the painter’s life—though, as a Scottish critic once observed, we do not know what provocation Hal’s wife gave him—and we must conclude that his first marriage was miserable. The poor woman died soon after the police court case—though not, it would seem, as the result of her husband’s misconduct—and a year later Hals married again. His second wife became the mother of many children, surviving her husband after fifty years of married life, and since she never had occasion to take him to the police court, we may reasonably conclude that Hals was not an habitual wife beater.
He appears to have been a jovial and very human beings, fond of a glass in good company, and now and then, perhaps taking one too many; a real Bohemian, as his paintings of gypsies and strolling players attest; but he was not a social outcast, or he would not have been constantly employed by respectable citizens and important corporations, nor would he at the age of sixty four have been appointed a director of the Guild of St Lucas, which protected the interests of the artists and craftsmen of Haarlem.
Yet towards the end of his life, when his honorable position cannot be assailed, he was in sad financial difficulties. At one time he supplemented his income by teaching, and Adriaen Brouwer (1605-38) and A J van Ostade (1610-85) were among his pupils; but this connection did not last, and in 1652 he was distrained upon for debt by his baker, Jan Ykess. Ten years later his distress was such that he had to apply to the Municipal Council for aid, and was given the sum of 100 florins; two years later he had to apply again, and this time (1664) the Council voted the old man a yearly pension of 200 gulden. That year Hals, now eighty four years of age, painted his last two pictures, portraits of the ‘Managers of the Almshouses at Haarlem,’ and in 1666 he died, and was buried on September 7 in the choir of the Church of St Bavon.
Properly to appreciate the art of Frans Hals, there is one thing we must never forget, namely, that all the work of his maturity was done during the excitement of war. It was a war which must have thrilled every Dutchman through and through, for it was waged to defend hearth and home and to deliver the fatherland from a foreign yoke; it was a war in which one of the smallest nations in Europe had the hardihood to challenge the mightiest empire of the time. It began in 1568, about twelve years before Hals was born, and as he grew up the apparent hopelessness of the conflict disappeared, and the gaiety and elation of victory in sight began to sparkle in his paintings. When Hals first painted the officers of the St Joris’ Shooting Guild in 1616 the issue was still doubtful; when he painted the last of his great series of military groups in 1639, again of the ‘Officers of St Joris’ Shooting Guild,’ the ultimate triumph of Holland was a foregone conclusion. In the earliest group many of the faces appear anxious and worried, but see how happy they all are even in the ‘Reunion of the Officers of the Guild of Archers of St Adriaen’, a picture painted in 1633. These stout fellows bear their fortune with varying demeanors; some are smiling and jovial, some are grave and stern, one or two are evidently elated, one of two are thoughtful, but all are confident. In no countenance can a trace of doubt be felt, and their freedom from anxiety finds its parallel in the flowing brush of the painter, equally confident and unerring.
How Art Rose With The Dutch Republic (continued)
The Mysterious Attraction Of Gems
(via 5000 Years of Gems and Jewelry) Frances Rogers and Alice Beard writes:
There is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, so runs the ancient legend. More likely it is a pot of gems.
Those resplendent fragments of pure color—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, opals, diamonds—might well be bits of the rainbow itself, pure color, no longer ethereal and out of reach but color frozen into tangible and everlasting beauty for the delight (or downfall) of mortal man.
‘A pot of gold’ means wealth, but jewels—the very word is a storm-center for romance, adventure and superstition. Science, history and religion have at various times been deeply preoccupied with little colored stones. Why?
From the standpoint of practical usefulness these stones do, to be sure, serve a few special purposes: they are used in certain drills, in instruments of precision, and as bearings in watch works. But such uses were not factors considered by man when he first stooped to pick up a pretty pebble that glowed dully like imprisoned fire. From a time far beyond the backward reach of history man has loved jewels. They seem to have possessed for him a glamor deeper than cold reason can account for. Even the desire for riches does not fully explain the mysterious attraction these tiny crystals have always had for the human race. In fact, we cannot find any one supreme and central reason why we should have given them such varied and leading roles as they have played in our lives.
If now, at this very moment, all the famous and magnificent gems on earth were suddenly to dissolve into thin air, most of us would go about our affairs and find nothing at all different from usual. But if jewels had never existed...then indeed there would be confusion. Many pages from recorded history would have to be scrapped and rewritten according to different pattern. More than one war has been waged and won because the king’s gems could so readily be converted into funds, could be pawned and later redeemed.
Jewels not only have played an important part in the temporal affairs of nations but, because of the supernatural powers ascribed to them, they have also been closely linked with religions and superstitions. No doubt jewelry was always used for ornament, but so deep-rooted has been the belief that a precious stone could affect the fortunes of its wearer, that for centuries jewelry was made in accordance with that conviction. Unless this fact is borne in mind it is impossible to gain any true understanding of the history of precious stones and jewelry.
Taken all in all, the tiny gemstone, silent as the Sphinx, has made a great noise in the affairs of men.
1. How old is a diamond?
Countless ages before there were any human beings, or even so much as a soft, shell-less form of living matter destined in time to develop into a creature that moved at will over the face of the earth, certain precious stones were already ancient. Possibly the very diamond in the ring on your finger came into being with the first rocks.
In the beginning the world was a place without soil or sea, a molten mass that cooled and solidified only to remelt and recrystallize again and again, until finally the fiery earth stuff was allowed to cool enough to form its first rocks. And from the inconceivably distant period to the present restless one, Time, like a master-chemist working in a mighty laboratory, has been breaking up and rearranging the mineral matter of which the world and its rocks are composed. Water, heat, pressure, and atmospheric weathering are his tools. In the Middle Ages these world forces were known as the Four Elements: Water, Fire, Air and Earth.
The ‘first’ rocks—those which were formed under terrific heat and pressure—are called igneous rocks; and diamonds, the most interesting of all precious stones, originated, says the scientist, as constituents of igneous rocks, formed in the midst of the molten mass under terrific pressure.
Sometimes a gemstone—a diamond, emerald, ruby or sapphire—is found still imbedded in this primary rock mass, or mother rock; or on the other hand it may be discovered at a great distance from the place where it first took form, in what are called gem gravels or gem sands.
When rock, perhaps torn by violent volcanic disturbances, is forced upward through layers of sediment toward the surface of the earth and there exposed to the action of rain and frost, it breaks down and its hidden treasure is released. If the weathered fragments of gem bearing rock are not carried far afield by flowing water the gemstones continue to retain the sharp edges and original form into which they crystallized. But the majority of stones do not escape the wear and tear of travel in flowing water. The diamond, when forced to roll about in some river bed, rubbed and crowded by other stones, even the diamond—hardest of all known substances, natural or artificial—does not emerge free from scars, transparent and glittering like a drop of dew in the sun. On the contrary, under such conditions the stone becomes as dull and cloudy in appearance as a lump of frosted ice. And not until it has passed through the skilled hands of the gem cutter does the diamond shine with a dazzling blaze of rainbow colors.
Although in a few cases the organic world does supply gem materials, a true gemstone is a mineral. And a mineral is a definite combination of certain chemical elements. At one time it was believed that since gemstones were themselves remarkable specimens of the mineral family, they must likewise be examples of rare and precious minerals. But the chemist does not arrive at his conclusions by deduction, as did the alchemist, and modern investigations have proved that, with few exceptions, the minerals of which gemstones are composed are quite common.
For instance, carbon exists in large quantities. And the diamond is crystallized carbon and nothing more. Two elements combine to give us the ruby. One of them is as common as air, since it is oxygen; while the other—aluminum—is so lavishly distributed over the earth that it provides material for kitchen utensils.
More than a thousand different minerals are now known to science and the list is constantly being lengthened, but comparatively few minerals produce flawless specimens we call gemstones.
The word ‘precious’ is more or less elastic, depending on the manner and also the period in which it is used. The precious stones of ancient history are, more often than not, stones which are now classified as semi-precious stones; and today it is customary to list, without reservation, only four precious stones: diamond, the ruby, the emerald, and the blue sapphire. A discussion of the characteristics by which gems are judged will be found in part two.
Among the treasures of the Pharaohs, jasper, turquoise, lapis lazuli, carnelian, and rock crystal were far more likely to be found than were emeralds, rubies and sapphires. And as for the diamond, it was quite unknown in the earliest days of history. Certain gemstones, however, were known to man long before any day recorded by history.
There is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, so runs the ancient legend. More likely it is a pot of gems.
Those resplendent fragments of pure color—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, opals, diamonds—might well be bits of the rainbow itself, pure color, no longer ethereal and out of reach but color frozen into tangible and everlasting beauty for the delight (or downfall) of mortal man.
‘A pot of gold’ means wealth, but jewels—the very word is a storm-center for romance, adventure and superstition. Science, history and religion have at various times been deeply preoccupied with little colored stones. Why?
From the standpoint of practical usefulness these stones do, to be sure, serve a few special purposes: they are used in certain drills, in instruments of precision, and as bearings in watch works. But such uses were not factors considered by man when he first stooped to pick up a pretty pebble that glowed dully like imprisoned fire. From a time far beyond the backward reach of history man has loved jewels. They seem to have possessed for him a glamor deeper than cold reason can account for. Even the desire for riches does not fully explain the mysterious attraction these tiny crystals have always had for the human race. In fact, we cannot find any one supreme and central reason why we should have given them such varied and leading roles as they have played in our lives.
If now, at this very moment, all the famous and magnificent gems on earth were suddenly to dissolve into thin air, most of us would go about our affairs and find nothing at all different from usual. But if jewels had never existed...then indeed there would be confusion. Many pages from recorded history would have to be scrapped and rewritten according to different pattern. More than one war has been waged and won because the king’s gems could so readily be converted into funds, could be pawned and later redeemed.
Jewels not only have played an important part in the temporal affairs of nations but, because of the supernatural powers ascribed to them, they have also been closely linked with religions and superstitions. No doubt jewelry was always used for ornament, but so deep-rooted has been the belief that a precious stone could affect the fortunes of its wearer, that for centuries jewelry was made in accordance with that conviction. Unless this fact is borne in mind it is impossible to gain any true understanding of the history of precious stones and jewelry.
Taken all in all, the tiny gemstone, silent as the Sphinx, has made a great noise in the affairs of men.
1. How old is a diamond?
Countless ages before there were any human beings, or even so much as a soft, shell-less form of living matter destined in time to develop into a creature that moved at will over the face of the earth, certain precious stones were already ancient. Possibly the very diamond in the ring on your finger came into being with the first rocks.
In the beginning the world was a place without soil or sea, a molten mass that cooled and solidified only to remelt and recrystallize again and again, until finally the fiery earth stuff was allowed to cool enough to form its first rocks. And from the inconceivably distant period to the present restless one, Time, like a master-chemist working in a mighty laboratory, has been breaking up and rearranging the mineral matter of which the world and its rocks are composed. Water, heat, pressure, and atmospheric weathering are his tools. In the Middle Ages these world forces were known as the Four Elements: Water, Fire, Air and Earth.
The ‘first’ rocks—those which were formed under terrific heat and pressure—are called igneous rocks; and diamonds, the most interesting of all precious stones, originated, says the scientist, as constituents of igneous rocks, formed in the midst of the molten mass under terrific pressure.
Sometimes a gemstone—a diamond, emerald, ruby or sapphire—is found still imbedded in this primary rock mass, or mother rock; or on the other hand it may be discovered at a great distance from the place where it first took form, in what are called gem gravels or gem sands.
When rock, perhaps torn by violent volcanic disturbances, is forced upward through layers of sediment toward the surface of the earth and there exposed to the action of rain and frost, it breaks down and its hidden treasure is released. If the weathered fragments of gem bearing rock are not carried far afield by flowing water the gemstones continue to retain the sharp edges and original form into which they crystallized. But the majority of stones do not escape the wear and tear of travel in flowing water. The diamond, when forced to roll about in some river bed, rubbed and crowded by other stones, even the diamond—hardest of all known substances, natural or artificial—does not emerge free from scars, transparent and glittering like a drop of dew in the sun. On the contrary, under such conditions the stone becomes as dull and cloudy in appearance as a lump of frosted ice. And not until it has passed through the skilled hands of the gem cutter does the diamond shine with a dazzling blaze of rainbow colors.
Although in a few cases the organic world does supply gem materials, a true gemstone is a mineral. And a mineral is a definite combination of certain chemical elements. At one time it was believed that since gemstones were themselves remarkable specimens of the mineral family, they must likewise be examples of rare and precious minerals. But the chemist does not arrive at his conclusions by deduction, as did the alchemist, and modern investigations have proved that, with few exceptions, the minerals of which gemstones are composed are quite common.
For instance, carbon exists in large quantities. And the diamond is crystallized carbon and nothing more. Two elements combine to give us the ruby. One of them is as common as air, since it is oxygen; while the other—aluminum—is so lavishly distributed over the earth that it provides material for kitchen utensils.
More than a thousand different minerals are now known to science and the list is constantly being lengthened, but comparatively few minerals produce flawless specimens we call gemstones.
The word ‘precious’ is more or less elastic, depending on the manner and also the period in which it is used. The precious stones of ancient history are, more often than not, stones which are now classified as semi-precious stones; and today it is customary to list, without reservation, only four precious stones: diamond, the ruby, the emerald, and the blue sapphire. A discussion of the characteristics by which gems are judged will be found in part two.
Among the treasures of the Pharaohs, jasper, turquoise, lapis lazuli, carnelian, and rock crystal were far more likely to be found than were emeralds, rubies and sapphires. And as for the diamond, it was quite unknown in the earliest days of history. Certain gemstones, however, were known to man long before any day recorded by history.
The Mughal Cut
(via Diamond Cuts in Historic Jewelry:1381-1910) Herbert Tillander writes:
I have never had the chance to see and analyze a diamond of this historical Indian cut but reliable information is supplied by Griffin Grant Waite, who is also responsible for suggesting the name. There is also a spectacular report by V B Meen and A D Tushingham. Grant Waite writes that ‘the Moghul cut can perhaps best be defined as a form into which diamonds were fashioned in early times by the native cutters of India, characterized by a large flat back (normally known as the ‘base’ or ‘bottom’), a large table, and many strip facets descending from the table towards the back (there are no fewer than fifteen in the Orloff). Infrequently the table is replaced by a small number of facets at a low angle—usually four. The outline is quite variable, and usually asymmetrical. In most cases the thickness is substantial, giving the stone a lumpy appearance’.
In private correspondence with the three authors, I proposed that the term should be universally recognized, and suggested the following definition, which was incorporated in the 1977 Diamond Dictionary of the Gemological Institute of America: ‘An older style of cutting which is a rather lumpy form with a broad, often asymmetrical base, an upper termination consisting of a set of usually four shallow facets or a table, and two or more zones of strip facets parallel to the base and oriented vertically. It is derived from cleavage pieces.’
Even modern authors such as Basil Watermeyer accept the commonly held view that the modern Baroque Rose Cut was inspired by the Mughal Cut, and by an updated version developed by cutters in the Netherlands. Perhaps the explanation is that one can detect, in those Mughal Cuts which have several rows of triangular facets, a hexagonal symmetry very like that of the crown of a Full-Cut Rose. My own feeling is that the rapidly growing tendency in the late sixteenth century to achieve, by means of numerous small, correctly inclined facets, not only symmetry but also pleasing light effects, led cutters automatically to the modern Full Rose.
I have never had the chance to see and analyze a diamond of this historical Indian cut but reliable information is supplied by Griffin Grant Waite, who is also responsible for suggesting the name. There is also a spectacular report by V B Meen and A D Tushingham. Grant Waite writes that ‘the Moghul cut can perhaps best be defined as a form into which diamonds were fashioned in early times by the native cutters of India, characterized by a large flat back (normally known as the ‘base’ or ‘bottom’), a large table, and many strip facets descending from the table towards the back (there are no fewer than fifteen in the Orloff). Infrequently the table is replaced by a small number of facets at a low angle—usually four. The outline is quite variable, and usually asymmetrical. In most cases the thickness is substantial, giving the stone a lumpy appearance’.
In private correspondence with the three authors, I proposed that the term should be universally recognized, and suggested the following definition, which was incorporated in the 1977 Diamond Dictionary of the Gemological Institute of America: ‘An older style of cutting which is a rather lumpy form with a broad, often asymmetrical base, an upper termination consisting of a set of usually four shallow facets or a table, and two or more zones of strip facets parallel to the base and oriented vertically. It is derived from cleavage pieces.’
Even modern authors such as Basil Watermeyer accept the commonly held view that the modern Baroque Rose Cut was inspired by the Mughal Cut, and by an updated version developed by cutters in the Netherlands. Perhaps the explanation is that one can detect, in those Mughal Cuts which have several rows of triangular facets, a hexagonal symmetry very like that of the crown of a Full-Cut Rose. My own feeling is that the rapidly growing tendency in the late sixteenth century to achieve, by means of numerous small, correctly inclined facets, not only symmetry but also pleasing light effects, led cutters automatically to the modern Full Rose.
Picasso's Party Line
Hugh Eakin writes about Picasso's political activism + the impact + other viewpoints @ http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=809
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
3
Contemporary with Velazquez, but influenced in his style of painting not so much by him as by Caravaggio, was the monastic painter Francisco Zurbaran (1598-1662), who, though born in the province of Estremadura, came to Seville when he was only sixteen and is generally regarded as a member of the School of Seville. He is chiefly famous for his religious pictures, and particularly for his monastic visions, among which ‘The Apotheosis of St Thomas’ in the Museum of Seville ranks as his masterpiece. His monks in white sheets often appear to be carved owing to the effect of high relief obtained by strong contrasts of light and shade, and the feeling of austerity and grandeur they display makes the paintings of Zurbaran illuminating documents of monastic life in Spain during the seventeenth century.
Among the immediate pupils of Velazquez were Juan Battista del Mazo (1600-67), who (in 1634) became his son-in-law and imitated his portraiture so cleverly that some of his paintings were at one time confounded with those by his master; and one who became still more famous, Bartolome Esteban Murillo (1617-82). Also born at Seville, Murillo passed through a whole gamut of influences before he developed a distinct style of his own. When he was twenty four he came to Madrid for a couple of years and when he returned he did not forget the lessons of Velazquez. From this period date those popular pictures of beggar boys and low life subjects which were the first to bring him fame. ‘The Melon Eaters’ is a fine example of this side of Murillo’s art. It charms the layman by its warm and graceful sympathy with life; it delights the artist by the skill and taste shown in the painting of the accessories. The rind of the melon, the bloom of the grapes, the wicker of the woven baskets, all are depicted not only with great beauty of color but with rare fidelity to the textures of the different objects.
Later in life Murillo altered his methods and employed a softer and more suave style, in which outlines are lost in the delicate fusion of graduated colors. The mysterious vaporous effect thus obtained was a variant of Correggio’s famous ‘smoky’ style but has been distinguished from his by being technically described as vaporoso. Among the multitude of Murillo’s religious paintings in this style the most famous is ‘The Immaculate Conception’, now in Louvre, which the French Government acquired in 1852 for the sum of £23440. The change in the type of religious presentation is market if we compare this painting with the frenzy of El Greco or the dramatic action displayed in a Titian or a Tintoretto. The storm and strife of the Reformation and counter-Reformation is passing away, and the enervation of the once combative Spain finds expression in a soft serenity that dreams of an ideal world. Not tragedy nor power, but innocence and sweetness characterize this vision of Mary, whose eyes, as a modern critic has pointed out, are not filled with inspiration and longing, but ‘astonished as those of a child gazing upon the splendor of the candles of a Christmas tree.’
Murillo was very famous in his lifetime, and the sweet sentimentality of his paintings appealed so strongly to the eighteenth and nineteenth century that for nearly two hundred years after his death he was considered the foremost of Spanish painters. Today at least three Spanish painters, Velazquez, Goya, and El Greco are rated more highly. Senhor A. de Beruete y Moret, the learned director of the Prado Museum at Madrid, has stated that:
The art of Murillo is of less interest than formerly, owing to present day preferences, which seek spirituality in art, a force, and even a restlessness which we do not find in the work of this artist....His conceptions are beautiful, but superficial. There is in them no more skillful groundwork, dramatic impulse, nor exaltation than appears at first sight. To comprehend and enjoy them it is not necessary to think; their contemplation leaves the beholder tranquil, they do not possess the power to distract, they have no warmth, nor that distinction which makes a work unique.
Historically the art of Murillo must be regarded as a sign of the decadence of Spain, and it was not till a century later that the country gave birth to another great artist; then the agony of the Wars of Succession found expression through the grim, satirical powers of Goya, whose work will be considered when we come to the art of the Napoleonic period.
The political power and prosperity of Spain rose to its zenith between the reigns of Philip II and Philip IV, and flowered in the paintings of El Greco and Velazquez. But as the power of Spain weakened and her prosperity dwindled, so also did the glory of her art begin to wane. It is not without significance that all the great painters of Spain, Murillo included, were born before 1648, the year in which the humbled Spanish empire was compelled to recognize the independence of the Netherlands by the Peace of Munster. Immediately after Velazquez we must look for the great masters of the seventeenth century, not in decaying Spain, but in Holland, victorious and independent, the country of Hals and Rembrandt.
3
Contemporary with Velazquez, but influenced in his style of painting not so much by him as by Caravaggio, was the monastic painter Francisco Zurbaran (1598-1662), who, though born in the province of Estremadura, came to Seville when he was only sixteen and is generally regarded as a member of the School of Seville. He is chiefly famous for his religious pictures, and particularly for his monastic visions, among which ‘The Apotheosis of St Thomas’ in the Museum of Seville ranks as his masterpiece. His monks in white sheets often appear to be carved owing to the effect of high relief obtained by strong contrasts of light and shade, and the feeling of austerity and grandeur they display makes the paintings of Zurbaran illuminating documents of monastic life in Spain during the seventeenth century.
Among the immediate pupils of Velazquez were Juan Battista del Mazo (1600-67), who (in 1634) became his son-in-law and imitated his portraiture so cleverly that some of his paintings were at one time confounded with those by his master; and one who became still more famous, Bartolome Esteban Murillo (1617-82). Also born at Seville, Murillo passed through a whole gamut of influences before he developed a distinct style of his own. When he was twenty four he came to Madrid for a couple of years and when he returned he did not forget the lessons of Velazquez. From this period date those popular pictures of beggar boys and low life subjects which were the first to bring him fame. ‘The Melon Eaters’ is a fine example of this side of Murillo’s art. It charms the layman by its warm and graceful sympathy with life; it delights the artist by the skill and taste shown in the painting of the accessories. The rind of the melon, the bloom of the grapes, the wicker of the woven baskets, all are depicted not only with great beauty of color but with rare fidelity to the textures of the different objects.
Later in life Murillo altered his methods and employed a softer and more suave style, in which outlines are lost in the delicate fusion of graduated colors. The mysterious vaporous effect thus obtained was a variant of Correggio’s famous ‘smoky’ style but has been distinguished from his by being technically described as vaporoso. Among the multitude of Murillo’s religious paintings in this style the most famous is ‘The Immaculate Conception’, now in Louvre, which the French Government acquired in 1852 for the sum of £23440. The change in the type of religious presentation is market if we compare this painting with the frenzy of El Greco or the dramatic action displayed in a Titian or a Tintoretto. The storm and strife of the Reformation and counter-Reformation is passing away, and the enervation of the once combative Spain finds expression in a soft serenity that dreams of an ideal world. Not tragedy nor power, but innocence and sweetness characterize this vision of Mary, whose eyes, as a modern critic has pointed out, are not filled with inspiration and longing, but ‘astonished as those of a child gazing upon the splendor of the candles of a Christmas tree.’
Murillo was very famous in his lifetime, and the sweet sentimentality of his paintings appealed so strongly to the eighteenth and nineteenth century that for nearly two hundred years after his death he was considered the foremost of Spanish painters. Today at least three Spanish painters, Velazquez, Goya, and El Greco are rated more highly. Senhor A. de Beruete y Moret, the learned director of the Prado Museum at Madrid, has stated that:
The art of Murillo is of less interest than formerly, owing to present day preferences, which seek spirituality in art, a force, and even a restlessness which we do not find in the work of this artist....His conceptions are beautiful, but superficial. There is in them no more skillful groundwork, dramatic impulse, nor exaltation than appears at first sight. To comprehend and enjoy them it is not necessary to think; their contemplation leaves the beholder tranquil, they do not possess the power to distract, they have no warmth, nor that distinction which makes a work unique.
Historically the art of Murillo must be regarded as a sign of the decadence of Spain, and it was not till a century later that the country gave birth to another great artist; then the agony of the Wars of Succession found expression through the grim, satirical powers of Goya, whose work will be considered when we come to the art of the Napoleonic period.
The political power and prosperity of Spain rose to its zenith between the reigns of Philip II and Philip IV, and flowered in the paintings of El Greco and Velazquez. But as the power of Spain weakened and her prosperity dwindled, so also did the glory of her art begin to wane. It is not without significance that all the great painters of Spain, Murillo included, were born before 1648, the year in which the humbled Spanish empire was compelled to recognize the independence of the Netherlands by the Peace of Munster. Immediately after Velazquez we must look for the great masters of the seventeenth century, not in decaying Spain, but in Holland, victorious and independent, the country of Hals and Rembrandt.
I Go A – Pearling
Louis Kornitzer's book, Gem Trader, is partly autobiographical and partly woven round the lore of pearls. It's educational + explains the distribution chain of gems, as they pass from hand to hand, from miner to cutter, from merchant to millionaire, from courtesan to receiver of stolen goods, shaping human lives as they go + the unique characters in the gem industry.
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
He told me the story (obviously there was one). It was in the days of his grandfather, when a great pestilence had followed a war with the Sultan and killed off the people. Even the fish had perished in that plague and had floated on the sea in their thousands.
‘Now the people became stupid because they thought that soon they would all be dead. The rice paddies were neglected, the caraboas were allowed to run wild, the fishing nets were in holes, the sails of the boats stayed unmended and the fishermen did not put to sea. My grandfather was very sad. He had taught them all they knew, a better way of planting, a better way of making their sails. He judged them and led them in battle. When the prayers of the Imam and the fastings he ordered availed nothing, then my grandfather knew that a strong magic was working against them all.
‘One day he went down to the seashore along. As he was walking along, looking at the ground, he saw in the middle of a heap of dying seaweed a single green eye. Then he saw it was not an eye, but a coconut pearl, so he picked it up. He knew that the pearl did not want to be picked up, for it fought against him, but he wrapped it up in his headcloth and took it home. After that the pestilence stopped. And so my father kept the coconut pearl as a hostage, and it gave him good counsel. It will be an evil day for us when it is lost to us.’
That was my memory of Palawan as I read the letter of a man from Brooklyn. Had he in truth obtained the lucky pearl of Palawan? And what had happened to Panglima Hassan and his people since its loss? I have not found out.
I had a sort of second-hand interest in the historic Hapsburg pearls—a far cry, these, from the humble mascot of a savage tribe. They were a magnificent collection. The Empress Maria Theresa and the other ladies who wore them had to swathe them in many loops around their necks and bosoms. But no longer are they in the possession of the fallen Hapsburgs. They are now owned by a multimillionaire who lives in the South of France.
These gems passed through the hands of an old partner of mine, a Paris dealer, the most sporting and enterprising of his kind, who deserved the profit that he made. It was at the the time the ex-Emperor Charles, last of the Austrian emperors, needed funds urgently for the purchase of the aeroplane and the provision of many other items necessary to his plan, that spectacular re-entry into Hungary to regain his throne. He sold the pearls for what he could get for them, and yet in the end the sacrifice got him nowhere. The Hapsburg star had set.
Speaking of royal pearls, there are the famous Hanoverian pearls. They are long ropes of magnificent gems, ‘cascading to the knees’, as one writer has put it. They belonged originally to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and a very unhappy lady, despite the fact that her pearls went treble-stranded round her waist and bosom. Other royal wearers after her were Queen Victoria and then Queen Alexandra.
One day when the latter queen was stepping into the state coach which was to take her to the opening of Parliament this rope of pearls broke on the woodwork of the coach. Some of the pearls were scattered and rolled everywhere. Whether they were all counted over on the spot as they were found it not recorded; presumably, in spite of the urgent need of royalty to be punctual, and particularly on such occasion, they were, for not a pearl (it is said) was missing when the state coach moved on.
This is not a book of elegant literary quotations, but I read a great deal and whenever I see anything on the subject of pearls it sticks. As often as not the author is misinformed—after all, no expert thinks much of the layman’s knowledge—though I think few who ought to know better knew as little as Benvenuto Cellini, the Florentine goldsmith, who in an amusing anecdote referred to pearls as ‘fishes’ bones’.
They have, of course, nothing to do with fishes, but are the product of successive coats of nacre on some irritating object inside an oyster’s shell. The core of a pearl may be a grain of sand, a tiny shell or a minute marine animal which was penetrated inside the oyster. If many coats are deposited evenly over a long space of time, the result may be a perfectly round fine pearl. Usually it is nothing of the sort, and round pearls are the rarest of all. There are also oval, drop-shaped, button-shaped and common baroque (irregular) pearls. Their color and luster tell the expert exactly what part of the world they come from. The true Oriental pearl comes from the Persian Gulf, where it has been fished by Arabs since early times in primitive fashion. It is only quite recently that the Australian pearling grounds were discovered, perhaps fifty of sixty years ago, but the pearls found there, though often very fine, are quite different from the Oriental pearls, and the oysters out of which they come are of another kind. The Japanese pearl oyster is different again, and not a producer of good pearls or good shell. But the Japanese pearl oyster has the distinction of being the stepmother of the cultured pearl.
Nowadays, almost the first question a pearl merchant is asked is: ‘What is a cultured pearl?’ and next: ‘Can you tell the difference?’ A cultured pearl is made by introducing, in a special way, a foreign body into a living oyster’s shell. If the foreign body is very minute, it stands the same chance of being covered evenly and well with nacre so as to produce a fine pearl just as any other foreign body, accidentally introduced. That is, perhaps a ten thousand to one chance. In such a case it would be as a ‘real pearl’, indistinguishable from any natural pearl, although tending to be second class, as most Japanese pearls are. In any case, its sheen and luster would show where it had come from. But cultured pearls started on very tiny cores are not a commercial proposition, and it is the rule to insert a core of some size and spherical in shape so that a largish round pearl can be produced in a reasonable time, for it takes years for the oyster obligingly to deposit the thin layers of nacre on the pearl. Thus the expert can always tell the cultured pearl from others because it usually consists of a small bead coated more or less lavishly with mother of pearl. This gives it a different look from pearls which are pearly right through.
Nevertheless, the cult of the cultured pearl has given many a lady what she longs for—a real pearl necklace of handsome appearance. For cultured pearls, even if they are not true aristocrats, are at least not imitations, and thus are fitted to give satisfaction to the feminine heart. A doctor in one of Anatole France’s novels deals satirically with that longing. ‘I often see children with strawberry marks,’ he says, ‘whose mothers say that they desired strawberries before their birth. I am waiting to see a baby marked with a pearl necklace.’
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
He told me the story (obviously there was one). It was in the days of his grandfather, when a great pestilence had followed a war with the Sultan and killed off the people. Even the fish had perished in that plague and had floated on the sea in their thousands.
‘Now the people became stupid because they thought that soon they would all be dead. The rice paddies were neglected, the caraboas were allowed to run wild, the fishing nets were in holes, the sails of the boats stayed unmended and the fishermen did not put to sea. My grandfather was very sad. He had taught them all they knew, a better way of planting, a better way of making their sails. He judged them and led them in battle. When the prayers of the Imam and the fastings he ordered availed nothing, then my grandfather knew that a strong magic was working against them all.
‘One day he went down to the seashore along. As he was walking along, looking at the ground, he saw in the middle of a heap of dying seaweed a single green eye. Then he saw it was not an eye, but a coconut pearl, so he picked it up. He knew that the pearl did not want to be picked up, for it fought against him, but he wrapped it up in his headcloth and took it home. After that the pestilence stopped. And so my father kept the coconut pearl as a hostage, and it gave him good counsel. It will be an evil day for us when it is lost to us.’
That was my memory of Palawan as I read the letter of a man from Brooklyn. Had he in truth obtained the lucky pearl of Palawan? And what had happened to Panglima Hassan and his people since its loss? I have not found out.
I had a sort of second-hand interest in the historic Hapsburg pearls—a far cry, these, from the humble mascot of a savage tribe. They were a magnificent collection. The Empress Maria Theresa and the other ladies who wore them had to swathe them in many loops around their necks and bosoms. But no longer are they in the possession of the fallen Hapsburgs. They are now owned by a multimillionaire who lives in the South of France.
These gems passed through the hands of an old partner of mine, a Paris dealer, the most sporting and enterprising of his kind, who deserved the profit that he made. It was at the the time the ex-Emperor Charles, last of the Austrian emperors, needed funds urgently for the purchase of the aeroplane and the provision of many other items necessary to his plan, that spectacular re-entry into Hungary to regain his throne. He sold the pearls for what he could get for them, and yet in the end the sacrifice got him nowhere. The Hapsburg star had set.
Speaking of royal pearls, there are the famous Hanoverian pearls. They are long ropes of magnificent gems, ‘cascading to the knees’, as one writer has put it. They belonged originally to Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and a very unhappy lady, despite the fact that her pearls went treble-stranded round her waist and bosom. Other royal wearers after her were Queen Victoria and then Queen Alexandra.
One day when the latter queen was stepping into the state coach which was to take her to the opening of Parliament this rope of pearls broke on the woodwork of the coach. Some of the pearls were scattered and rolled everywhere. Whether they were all counted over on the spot as they were found it not recorded; presumably, in spite of the urgent need of royalty to be punctual, and particularly on such occasion, they were, for not a pearl (it is said) was missing when the state coach moved on.
This is not a book of elegant literary quotations, but I read a great deal and whenever I see anything on the subject of pearls it sticks. As often as not the author is misinformed—after all, no expert thinks much of the layman’s knowledge—though I think few who ought to know better knew as little as Benvenuto Cellini, the Florentine goldsmith, who in an amusing anecdote referred to pearls as ‘fishes’ bones’.
They have, of course, nothing to do with fishes, but are the product of successive coats of nacre on some irritating object inside an oyster’s shell. The core of a pearl may be a grain of sand, a tiny shell or a minute marine animal which was penetrated inside the oyster. If many coats are deposited evenly over a long space of time, the result may be a perfectly round fine pearl. Usually it is nothing of the sort, and round pearls are the rarest of all. There are also oval, drop-shaped, button-shaped and common baroque (irregular) pearls. Their color and luster tell the expert exactly what part of the world they come from. The true Oriental pearl comes from the Persian Gulf, where it has been fished by Arabs since early times in primitive fashion. It is only quite recently that the Australian pearling grounds were discovered, perhaps fifty of sixty years ago, but the pearls found there, though often very fine, are quite different from the Oriental pearls, and the oysters out of which they come are of another kind. The Japanese pearl oyster is different again, and not a producer of good pearls or good shell. But the Japanese pearl oyster has the distinction of being the stepmother of the cultured pearl.
Nowadays, almost the first question a pearl merchant is asked is: ‘What is a cultured pearl?’ and next: ‘Can you tell the difference?’ A cultured pearl is made by introducing, in a special way, a foreign body into a living oyster’s shell. If the foreign body is very minute, it stands the same chance of being covered evenly and well with nacre so as to produce a fine pearl just as any other foreign body, accidentally introduced. That is, perhaps a ten thousand to one chance. In such a case it would be as a ‘real pearl’, indistinguishable from any natural pearl, although tending to be second class, as most Japanese pearls are. In any case, its sheen and luster would show where it had come from. But cultured pearls started on very tiny cores are not a commercial proposition, and it is the rule to insert a core of some size and spherical in shape so that a largish round pearl can be produced in a reasonable time, for it takes years for the oyster obligingly to deposit the thin layers of nacre on the pearl. Thus the expert can always tell the cultured pearl from others because it usually consists of a small bead coated more or less lavishly with mother of pearl. This gives it a different look from pearls which are pearly right through.
Nevertheless, the cult of the cultured pearl has given many a lady what she longs for—a real pearl necklace of handsome appearance. For cultured pearls, even if they are not true aristocrats, are at least not imitations, and thus are fitted to give satisfaction to the feminine heart. A doctor in one of Anatole France’s novels deals satirically with that longing. ‘I often see children with strawberry marks,’ he says, ‘whose mothers say that they desired strawberries before their birth. I am waiting to see a baby marked with a pearl necklace.’
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Happy New Year 2008
Wish You All A Happy + Prosperous New Year!
(via YouTube): Happy New Year (ABBA)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dcLMH8pwusw&feature=related
(via YouTube): Happy New Year (ABBA)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dcLMH8pwusw&feature=related
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
The Naville Cut
(via Diamond Cuts in Historic Jewelry:1381-1910) Herbert Tillander writes:
This cut existed as early as the end of the sixteenth century, when it was applied above all to drop-shaped diamonds. With its sixfold symmetry and its pavilion, it resembles both the Rose Cut and the Taille en Seize and must therefore be considered a hybrid. In a Swiss nomenclature published by H Stranner (1953), drop-shaped Roses are termed Navilles, from the Latin navalis, meaning boat-shaped. This seems a reasonable description so I, too, have adopted it, although only for the hybrid cuts.
This cut existed as early as the end of the sixteenth century, when it was applied above all to drop-shaped diamonds. With its sixfold symmetry and its pavilion, it resembles both the Rose Cut and the Taille en Seize and must therefore be considered a hybrid. In a Swiss nomenclature published by H Stranner (1953), drop-shaped Roses are termed Navilles, from the Latin navalis, meaning boat-shaped. This seems a reasonable description so I, too, have adopted it, although only for the hybrid cuts.
Pinocchio
Pinocchio (1940)
Directed by: Hamilton Luske, Ben Sharpsteen
Screenplay: Aurelius Battaglia (story); Carlo Collodi (novel) William Cottrell, Otto Englander, Erdman Penner, Joseph Sabo, Ted Sears, Webb Smith (story adaptation)
Cast: Mel Blanc, Christian Rub, Dickie Jones
(via YouTube): The Making Of' Pinocchio (1940) Disney Classic
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEZgW-uurBs
When You Wish Upon A Star - Pinocchio (1940)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=miBJLIFO0ds
I think Pinocchio tops for its unique blending of the animator's craft and a theme. I enjoyed it.
Directed by: Hamilton Luske, Ben Sharpsteen
Screenplay: Aurelius Battaglia (story); Carlo Collodi (novel) William Cottrell, Otto Englander, Erdman Penner, Joseph Sabo, Ted Sears, Webb Smith (story adaptation)
Cast: Mel Blanc, Christian Rub, Dickie Jones
(via YouTube): The Making Of' Pinocchio (1940) Disney Classic
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEZgW-uurBs
When You Wish Upon A Star - Pinocchio (1940)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=miBJLIFO0ds
I think Pinocchio tops for its unique blending of the animator's craft and a theme. I enjoyed it.
George & Ira Gershwin
Ira Gershwin was an American lyricist who collaborated with his younger brother, composer George Gershwin, to create some of the most memorable songs of the 20th century + I think they made a positive effect on the world’s culture + I like the tone and luster of their traditional orchestral blend with jazz + their musical stylings will remain a precious gem forever.
Useful links:
http://www.gershwin.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ira_Gershwin
Useful links:
http://www.gershwin.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ira_Gershwin
Lighting
Michelle Falkenstein writes about proper steps to protect the art works from harmful lighting + the challenge for museums and collectors + other viewpoints @ http://www.artnewsonline.com/issues/article.asp?art_id=806
Useful links:
www.chubb.com
www.nyu.edu/gsas/dept/fineart
www.hunterdouglas.com
Useful links:
www.chubb.com
www.nyu.edu/gsas/dept/fineart
www.hunterdouglas.com
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain
(via The Outline of Art) William Orpen writes:
Here, indeed, we have ‘the complete expression of the Velazquez eyesight,’ and great and glorious as ‘The Surrender of Breda’ is, we are bound to confess that R A M Stevenson was right in maintaining that his historical picture is not—like ‘The Maids of Honor’—‘an absolutely unique thing in the history of art.’ Like so many of the great pictures in the world, ‘The Maids of Honor’ originated in a spontaneous and unpremeditated flash of intense vision. The story generally accepted is that Velazquez was painting the king, who sat in the spot from which the spectator is supposed to see the picture of ‘Las Meninas’. During a moment’s rest the ‘Infanta’ came in with her attendants, and the king was struck with the group which fell together before his eyes. Near him he saw the princess, her maids of honor Maria Sarmiento and Isabel de Velasco (who is offering her water), her dog, and her dwarfs Mari Barbola and Nicolasito Pertusato; a little farther on the left, Velazquez, who had stepped back to look at his picture; farther back on the right, a duenna and courtier talking; while at the distant end of the gallery the king saw his queen and himself reflected in a mirror, and through the open door, Don Joseph Nieto drawing back a curtain. The canvas shown in the picture would naturally be, as Stevenson maintains, the one on which Velazquez was painting the king’s portrait. Some, however, will have it to be the very canvas of ‘Las Meninas,’ which Velazquez was painting from a reflection in a mirror placed near to where the king had been sitting. R A M Stevenson has justly pointed out that the perspective in the picture hardly seems to agree with this view, but rather makes Velazquez to have been working on the king’s right hand. It is not a matter of importance, and the story of the conception of the picture may easily have got mixed in the telling. It is just possible that Velazquez was painting, or was about to paint, a portrait of the Infanta only, when the idea of the large picture suddenly occurred to him or to the king. The canvas of ‘Las Meninas’ is made of separate pieces sewn together, and one of these just contains the Infanta, with room for accessories or a subordinate figure. However it originated, the picture was immediately recognized as a brilliant triumph, and tradition says the Red Cross of Santiago on the painter’s breast was painted there by the king’s own hand, as a promise of the honor that was to be conferred on him afterwards.
It is hard to conceive of a more beautiful piece of painting than this—so free and yet firm and so revealing. When one stands before this canvas one is not concerned with any consideration of who it was painted by; it fills the mind and suffices. Like all of the great artists, Velazquez takes something out of life and sets it free. The men and women in his finest pictures are released from what some one has called ‘mankind’s little daily cage’; and we are startled at the representation. In this portrait group we have life stated so intensely that the ordinary life around us seems almost unreal.
The same intense and startling impression of life is given us by the paintings of single figures executed by Velazquez during his last years. If we compare the shabby but dignified philosopher ‘Aesop—a fine example of his late style—with ‘Philip IV as a Sportsman’, which is admittedly one of the best full lengths of his middle period, we shall begin to realize how far Velazquez traveled during the intervening years, not merely in the rendering of form but in the painting of light and air.
In 1659 Cardinal Mazarin sealed the reconciliation between France and Spain by arranging a marriage between the young Louis XIV and Maria Teresa of Spain. The meeting of the two courts on the frontier and the organizing of the imposing ceremonies required, burdened the Marshal of the Palace with a multiplicity of work and anxiety. The wedding took place on June 7, but it was the last function Velazquez was able to perform. At sixty years of age the strain was too much for him, and a few weeks after he had returned to Madrid he collapsed and died on August 6, 1660.
In a sense if may be said that the most surprising adventures of Velazquez occurred after his death. By birth a hidalgo (i.e a member if the lesser nobility), Velazquez was buried like a grandee. The entire court attended his funeral, and knights of all orders took part in the ceremonies. But after the generation that knew the man had passed away, the glory of the painter was strangely an unaccountably forgotten. For two hundred years, during which picture lovers flocked to Italy and Italian artists became daily more famous, the name of Velazquez was seldom mentioned. Then, about fifty years ago, the sympathy of two or three great artists, notably Whistler in England and Manet in France, broke the spell of silence, and supported by a galaxy of writers, among whom was R A M Stevenson—from whose great book The Art of Velazquez we have freely quoted—these enthusiasts made the light of Velazquez to shine before all men, so that today he is and evermore will be a star of the first magnitude in the firmament of Art.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain (continued)
Here, indeed, we have ‘the complete expression of the Velazquez eyesight,’ and great and glorious as ‘The Surrender of Breda’ is, we are bound to confess that R A M Stevenson was right in maintaining that his historical picture is not—like ‘The Maids of Honor’—‘an absolutely unique thing in the history of art.’ Like so many of the great pictures in the world, ‘The Maids of Honor’ originated in a spontaneous and unpremeditated flash of intense vision. The story generally accepted is that Velazquez was painting the king, who sat in the spot from which the spectator is supposed to see the picture of ‘Las Meninas’. During a moment’s rest the ‘Infanta’ came in with her attendants, and the king was struck with the group which fell together before his eyes. Near him he saw the princess, her maids of honor Maria Sarmiento and Isabel de Velasco (who is offering her water), her dog, and her dwarfs Mari Barbola and Nicolasito Pertusato; a little farther on the left, Velazquez, who had stepped back to look at his picture; farther back on the right, a duenna and courtier talking; while at the distant end of the gallery the king saw his queen and himself reflected in a mirror, and through the open door, Don Joseph Nieto drawing back a curtain. The canvas shown in the picture would naturally be, as Stevenson maintains, the one on which Velazquez was painting the king’s portrait. Some, however, will have it to be the very canvas of ‘Las Meninas,’ which Velazquez was painting from a reflection in a mirror placed near to where the king had been sitting. R A M Stevenson has justly pointed out that the perspective in the picture hardly seems to agree with this view, but rather makes Velazquez to have been working on the king’s right hand. It is not a matter of importance, and the story of the conception of the picture may easily have got mixed in the telling. It is just possible that Velazquez was painting, or was about to paint, a portrait of the Infanta only, when the idea of the large picture suddenly occurred to him or to the king. The canvas of ‘Las Meninas’ is made of separate pieces sewn together, and one of these just contains the Infanta, with room for accessories or a subordinate figure. However it originated, the picture was immediately recognized as a brilliant triumph, and tradition says the Red Cross of Santiago on the painter’s breast was painted there by the king’s own hand, as a promise of the honor that was to be conferred on him afterwards.
It is hard to conceive of a more beautiful piece of painting than this—so free and yet firm and so revealing. When one stands before this canvas one is not concerned with any consideration of who it was painted by; it fills the mind and suffices. Like all of the great artists, Velazquez takes something out of life and sets it free. The men and women in his finest pictures are released from what some one has called ‘mankind’s little daily cage’; and we are startled at the representation. In this portrait group we have life stated so intensely that the ordinary life around us seems almost unreal.
The same intense and startling impression of life is given us by the paintings of single figures executed by Velazquez during his last years. If we compare the shabby but dignified philosopher ‘Aesop—a fine example of his late style—with ‘Philip IV as a Sportsman’, which is admittedly one of the best full lengths of his middle period, we shall begin to realize how far Velazquez traveled during the intervening years, not merely in the rendering of form but in the painting of light and air.
In 1659 Cardinal Mazarin sealed the reconciliation between France and Spain by arranging a marriage between the young Louis XIV and Maria Teresa of Spain. The meeting of the two courts on the frontier and the organizing of the imposing ceremonies required, burdened the Marshal of the Palace with a multiplicity of work and anxiety. The wedding took place on June 7, but it was the last function Velazquez was able to perform. At sixty years of age the strain was too much for him, and a few weeks after he had returned to Madrid he collapsed and died on August 6, 1660.
In a sense if may be said that the most surprising adventures of Velazquez occurred after his death. By birth a hidalgo (i.e a member if the lesser nobility), Velazquez was buried like a grandee. The entire court attended his funeral, and knights of all orders took part in the ceremonies. But after the generation that knew the man had passed away, the glory of the painter was strangely an unaccountably forgotten. For two hundred years, during which picture lovers flocked to Italy and Italian artists became daily more famous, the name of Velazquez was seldom mentioned. Then, about fifty years ago, the sympathy of two or three great artists, notably Whistler in England and Manet in France, broke the spell of silence, and supported by a galaxy of writers, among whom was R A M Stevenson—from whose great book The Art of Velazquez we have freely quoted—these enthusiasts made the light of Velazquez to shine before all men, so that today he is and evermore will be a star of the first magnitude in the firmament of Art.
Sunshine And Shadow In Spain (continued)
I Go A – Pearling
Louis Kornitzer's book, Gem Trader, is partly autobiographical and partly woven round the lore of pearls. It's educational + explains the distribution chain of gems, as they pass from hand to hand, from miner to cutter, from merchant to millionaire, from courtesan to receiver of stolen goods, shaping human lives as they go + the unique characters in the gem industry.
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
Earlier in the day he had been talking to Yakoob, the Malay cook. Now, coming up close behind him, Yakoob said, loudly enough for all to hear: ‘Angkau takot-kah? (Are you afraid?)’
Without raising his eyes Ohtami said to the boss: ‘Let the master give orders to head the vessel straight for the Tuli Bataba Bank.’
‘And get the bottom ripped out of the Idmu? Are you crazy?’
‘The hand of Toyo pointed there,’ muttered Ohtami.
‘And last night he spoke to me as I slept. The shell is there in plenty.’
The master was tough and superstitious. He cursed Ohtami up and down. Then he upped anchor, hoisted sail and made for the narrow channel by the banks. Once through, taking soundings all the way, the master let the sails drop and put out the stern anchor.
‘If there is shell here, you scoundrel,’ he swore, ‘you shall have a third of all comes up this trip. But if you find no shell, then you shall work for me for the rest of the voyage for nothing.’ For that was the bargain the crafty skipper had made before venturing on the diver’s advice.
Twenty minutes after he had gone down Ohtami came up with a bag full of shell. It was well matured, sound shell, silver lipped, wonderfully free from worm-holes. For three days they worked below (it was an easy ground, no more than five fathoms deep). It was a wonderful spot. The oysters grew as close together as bundles of bills in a banker’s strongroom. The lugger cleaned up for a month. Ohtami’s share of the haul was more than seven thousand dollars, an enormous fortune for him.
Now he grew ambitious. He would have a lugger of his own. Two Moro shipwrights built it for him on the Tulai beach, with the help of half a score of Samals and within sight of Jolo marketplace. By that time I had appeared on the scene and saw her launched. I saw, too, the whole run of Ohtami’s luck. It lasted six years.
It is a strange thing that whereas the Chinese coolie who becomes rich rarely is overbearing, the newly prosperous Japanese often grows insolent. Ohtami had no use for white men in the days of his prosperity. On principle he would never go to see a white pearl buyer. The buyer had to come to him as a petitioner for goods on which the owner would fix no price. ‘How much you give this?’ he would say, and whatever price was offered he would refuse ti with a sneer.
His distrust of the white man became a mania. It was impossible to deal with him. Finally one trader began to go into his office, look over Ohtami’s collection, select the best piece and put a tip-top price on it—a price he knew would not be accepted, because Ohtami would certainly expect it to be bettered elsewhere. His conviction that all the white dealers were rogues was confirmed when, naturally, no other dealer would offer him anything like the first dealer’s price. Pearl after pearl, parcel after parcel, did he put by, hoping in vain for better prices than the best. In the end he had to sell in order to pay his Chino creditors. He consigned his whole collection to London for sale. Then did his belief in white creation suffer final damage. He received less for his whole consignment than once, if he had been quick to close, he could have got for two or three of his best pearls.
The last I saw of Ohtami was when he was deckhand on my own pearling lugger, the Betty Pickle. ‘Ohtami,’ I said to him once in jest, ‘you for one know that I pay bigger prices for pearls than any dealer in the world, even in London!’
‘Sudah, Tuan,’ he acquiesced with an expressionless face. For I was the trader who had offered him the extravagant prices on which he had gambled his pride and hate in luckier days.
The other day I had a letter from a correspondent who had ready my earlier books. He wanted to sell me a coconut pearl. Now coconut pearls do not come from coconuts, but from conch shells, and some are handsome in their way, though lusterless, and unlike the real pearl. The best of them are large and well-shaped and of a fine pink color, and have a certain value. But they are not interesting to the pearl dealer, even if, as in this case, they have an interesting history, have belonged for generations to an East Indian chieftain and are supposed to bring good luck. But in the course of his letter my correspondent mentioned the island of Palawan, and that name sent my mind wandering back over the years until it came to rest on a certain island in the South Seas at a time when I was still rash and young. For on Palawan I, too, had held a coconut pearl of supernatural fame and great size.
It was Sayid, my number one pearl tout, who inveigled me to Palawan, where the vegetation is as lush as anywhere on earth. There the ferocious natives, the deadly anopheles mosquito, the crocodiles in the creeks and the fever-hung swamps offer a warm welcome to the white man who ventures thither. Sayid, son of Abu Bakur by a first wife, had his own reasons for making me want to go to Palawan. He wanted to take a wife and badly needed money. Any time is a bad time for needing money, but things were particularly bad at that time, for the pearling fleets had been having bad weather and Sayid’s livelihood depended on the business he brought me. Moreover, as he naïvely told me, he was afraid for the future, too, for he thought I would soon get disgruntled and leave the islands forever.
‘Never mind,’ I rallied him. ‘There are other white men.’
‘But I shall never have a better master,’ he said diplomatically.
‘How so?’ I demanded. ‘I pay no more than other masters.’
He reflected a moment. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘you have never yet called me a son of a bitch.’
When I laughed he seized the propitious moment. For he was full of guile. With great suavity he recommended his expedition to Palawan.
‘Are you mad?’ said I. ‘Why, it is three days sail in an open vinta!’
‘There are many wonderful pearls in Palawan,’ said Sayid, ‘and the natives will sell cheaply, because the white men do not go there.’
‘How do you know all these?’ I demanded.
He averted his eyes and said negligently: ‘Some fishermen told me!’
I demanded to be shown these Samal fishermen. But the tale had been told to him at third hand. Nevertheless, I went to Palawan. Perhaps I was hypnotised, perhaps crazy. And so, because Sayid wanted to take a second wife, presently I found myself tossing in a frail-bottomed craft on sharky waters. I was seasick and wanted to die.
But one moonlit night we came quietly into San Antonio Bay and I stepped ashore amidst the exotic tropical beauty of Palawan, looking for bargains.
Well, I got what I went for. In an hour at Panglima Hassan’s bamboo shack I exchanged a large bundle of dirty notes for pearls which were enough to compensate me for four days of seasickness. After which the Panglima entertained me as well as he knew how, and there was a great gathering in my honor in the cool of the evening. Finally he showed me his greatest treasure. In my palm I found a coconut pearl, walnut size and perfectly spherical, like a big ball of camphor. I turned it in my hand, trying to think of a compliment, and there came uppermost a large circular spot of green, and in the midst of the green a large black dot, the whole looking like an eyeball in my hand. In a sudden nausea I thought I saw the ‘pupil’ dilate and contract. Shuddering, I handed the object back with a polite murmur.
I Go A – Pearling (continued)
(via Gem Trader) Louis Kornitzer writes:
Earlier in the day he had been talking to Yakoob, the Malay cook. Now, coming up close behind him, Yakoob said, loudly enough for all to hear: ‘Angkau takot-kah? (Are you afraid?)’
Without raising his eyes Ohtami said to the boss: ‘Let the master give orders to head the vessel straight for the Tuli Bataba Bank.’
‘And get the bottom ripped out of the Idmu? Are you crazy?’
‘The hand of Toyo pointed there,’ muttered Ohtami.
‘And last night he spoke to me as I slept. The shell is there in plenty.’
The master was tough and superstitious. He cursed Ohtami up and down. Then he upped anchor, hoisted sail and made for the narrow channel by the banks. Once through, taking soundings all the way, the master let the sails drop and put out the stern anchor.
‘If there is shell here, you scoundrel,’ he swore, ‘you shall have a third of all comes up this trip. But if you find no shell, then you shall work for me for the rest of the voyage for nothing.’ For that was the bargain the crafty skipper had made before venturing on the diver’s advice.
Twenty minutes after he had gone down Ohtami came up with a bag full of shell. It was well matured, sound shell, silver lipped, wonderfully free from worm-holes. For three days they worked below (it was an easy ground, no more than five fathoms deep). It was a wonderful spot. The oysters grew as close together as bundles of bills in a banker’s strongroom. The lugger cleaned up for a month. Ohtami’s share of the haul was more than seven thousand dollars, an enormous fortune for him.
Now he grew ambitious. He would have a lugger of his own. Two Moro shipwrights built it for him on the Tulai beach, with the help of half a score of Samals and within sight of Jolo marketplace. By that time I had appeared on the scene and saw her launched. I saw, too, the whole run of Ohtami’s luck. It lasted six years.
It is a strange thing that whereas the Chinese coolie who becomes rich rarely is overbearing, the newly prosperous Japanese often grows insolent. Ohtami had no use for white men in the days of his prosperity. On principle he would never go to see a white pearl buyer. The buyer had to come to him as a petitioner for goods on which the owner would fix no price. ‘How much you give this?’ he would say, and whatever price was offered he would refuse ti with a sneer.
His distrust of the white man became a mania. It was impossible to deal with him. Finally one trader began to go into his office, look over Ohtami’s collection, select the best piece and put a tip-top price on it—a price he knew would not be accepted, because Ohtami would certainly expect it to be bettered elsewhere. His conviction that all the white dealers were rogues was confirmed when, naturally, no other dealer would offer him anything like the first dealer’s price. Pearl after pearl, parcel after parcel, did he put by, hoping in vain for better prices than the best. In the end he had to sell in order to pay his Chino creditors. He consigned his whole collection to London for sale. Then did his belief in white creation suffer final damage. He received less for his whole consignment than once, if he had been quick to close, he could have got for two or three of his best pearls.
The last I saw of Ohtami was when he was deckhand on my own pearling lugger, the Betty Pickle. ‘Ohtami,’ I said to him once in jest, ‘you for one know that I pay bigger prices for pearls than any dealer in the world, even in London!’
‘Sudah, Tuan,’ he acquiesced with an expressionless face. For I was the trader who had offered him the extravagant prices on which he had gambled his pride and hate in luckier days.
The other day I had a letter from a correspondent who had ready my earlier books. He wanted to sell me a coconut pearl. Now coconut pearls do not come from coconuts, but from conch shells, and some are handsome in their way, though lusterless, and unlike the real pearl. The best of them are large and well-shaped and of a fine pink color, and have a certain value. But they are not interesting to the pearl dealer, even if, as in this case, they have an interesting history, have belonged for generations to an East Indian chieftain and are supposed to bring good luck. But in the course of his letter my correspondent mentioned the island of Palawan, and that name sent my mind wandering back over the years until it came to rest on a certain island in the South Seas at a time when I was still rash and young. For on Palawan I, too, had held a coconut pearl of supernatural fame and great size.
It was Sayid, my number one pearl tout, who inveigled me to Palawan, where the vegetation is as lush as anywhere on earth. There the ferocious natives, the deadly anopheles mosquito, the crocodiles in the creeks and the fever-hung swamps offer a warm welcome to the white man who ventures thither. Sayid, son of Abu Bakur by a first wife, had his own reasons for making me want to go to Palawan. He wanted to take a wife and badly needed money. Any time is a bad time for needing money, but things were particularly bad at that time, for the pearling fleets had been having bad weather and Sayid’s livelihood depended on the business he brought me. Moreover, as he naïvely told me, he was afraid for the future, too, for he thought I would soon get disgruntled and leave the islands forever.
‘Never mind,’ I rallied him. ‘There are other white men.’
‘But I shall never have a better master,’ he said diplomatically.
‘How so?’ I demanded. ‘I pay no more than other masters.’
He reflected a moment. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘you have never yet called me a son of a bitch.’
When I laughed he seized the propitious moment. For he was full of guile. With great suavity he recommended his expedition to Palawan.
‘Are you mad?’ said I. ‘Why, it is three days sail in an open vinta!’
‘There are many wonderful pearls in Palawan,’ said Sayid, ‘and the natives will sell cheaply, because the white men do not go there.’
‘How do you know all these?’ I demanded.
He averted his eyes and said negligently: ‘Some fishermen told me!’
I demanded to be shown these Samal fishermen. But the tale had been told to him at third hand. Nevertheless, I went to Palawan. Perhaps I was hypnotised, perhaps crazy. And so, because Sayid wanted to take a second wife, presently I found myself tossing in a frail-bottomed craft on sharky waters. I was seasick and wanted to die.
But one moonlit night we came quietly into San Antonio Bay and I stepped ashore amidst the exotic tropical beauty of Palawan, looking for bargains.
Well, I got what I went for. In an hour at Panglima Hassan’s bamboo shack I exchanged a large bundle of dirty notes for pearls which were enough to compensate me for four days of seasickness. After which the Panglima entertained me as well as he knew how, and there was a great gathering in my honor in the cool of the evening. Finally he showed me his greatest treasure. In my palm I found a coconut pearl, walnut size and perfectly spherical, like a big ball of camphor. I turned it in my hand, trying to think of a compliment, and there came uppermost a large circular spot of green, and in the midst of the green a large black dot, the whole looking like an eyeball in my hand. In a sudden nausea I thought I saw the ‘pupil’ dilate and contract. Shuddering, I handed the object back with a polite murmur.
I Go A – Pearling (continued)
Monday, December 31, 2007
Heard On The Street
There are many types of intelligence: academic + creative + practical intelligence. Practical intelligence is the best + a dose of good manners, honesty, integrity, and social skills are good inclusions of a sure winner.
Leonard Bernstein
Leonard Bernstein was an American conductor, composer, author, music lecturer and pianist + he energized the Philharmonic and American classical music in a way no other director had done + he brought classical music to thousands of people from diverse backgrounds + I love his music.
Useful links:
www.leonardbernstein.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leonard_Bernstein
Useful links:
www.leonardbernstein.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leonard_Bernstein
Notorious
Notorious (1946)
Directed by: Alfred Hitchcock
Screenplay: John Taintor Foote (story The Song of the Dragon); Ben Hecht (written by), Alfred Hitchcock (screenplay contributor); Clifford Odets
Cast: Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Claude Rains
(via YouTube): Notorious Full Film PT 1/12
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JKexssiWVw8&feature=related
A Alfred Hitchcock masterpiece + dark romance/comedy. I enjoyed it.
Directed by: Alfred Hitchcock
Screenplay: John Taintor Foote (story The Song of the Dragon); Ben Hecht (written by), Alfred Hitchcock (screenplay contributor); Clifford Odets
Cast: Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Claude Rains
(via YouTube): Notorious Full Film PT 1/12
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JKexssiWVw8&feature=related
A Alfred Hitchcock masterpiece + dark romance/comedy. I enjoyed it.
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