Tailors and Slashers

 

 

Finally managed to shift the writing block, at least for the moment….

This was done by going to the Royal Academy show devoted to Giovanni Battista Moroni (upstairs and a bit hidden away by comparison with the huge- in every sense of the world- Anselm Kiefer exhibition in the main galleries which, I’m afraid, simply did nothing for me).   It’s not huge- only about 45 paintings- but well worth a visit.   It’s also surprisingly easy to put together in London because it seems that there are more Moronis in British collections than there are anywhere else in the world apart from Bergamo.   For a variety of rather complex reasons (some of them actually derived from misattributions) his work became fashionable in England in the early decades of the seventeenth century- Charles I, always a better art critic than he was at being a monarch, was a fan- and underwent a second period in vogue in the mid-nineteenth.  As a result some of his most iconic works live in the National Gallery and just had to make a short journey down Piccadilly to join the exhibition.   Others however have emerged from private collections or from parish churches in northern Italy so this isn’t a case of repackaging mostly familiar works and charging people to see them again.

On one level Moroni lived a pretty uneventful life.   His artistic career however was side-swiped on a couple of occasions by external events which affected his art.  He was born in Albino, a small town on the Alpine fringes of the Lombard plain near Bergamo, around 1520.  He joined the workshop of Moretto in Brescia in the 1540’s.   Moretto was a good choice as he was well regarded by contemporaries (he gets a favourable review from Vasari, who wasn’t overly generous to non-Florentine artists and completely missed Moroni) and well conencted.  Although their shared homeland is now part of Lombardy in contemporary Italian administrative terms, in the mid sixteenth century (and indeed until 1797) it was the far west of the territory under the rule of the Venetian Republic.  As such it bordered on the Duchy of Milan, which was finally under Spanish control after years of warfare across northern Italy, though this control was only definitively consolidated as late as 1559. The Venice/Milan border wasn’t exactly a “hot” one by the time Moroni was making an independent career for himself but relations between Venice and the Spanish monarchy were often tense.   Venice was the only major Italian state which wasn’t either ruled directly by Spain or closely tied to Spanish interests in the mid and later sixteenth century and its ruling oligarchy were deeply concerned that Spain might try to turn it into a satellite state or seek to peel away chunks of its mainland territories.   Venetian rule over a city like Bergamo was mostly indirect.  There was a Venetian Governor but to a very considerable extent the local elites who had dominated the city before it submitted to Venice still ran the show- subject to a general Venetian override power.

Despite the political links to Venice and even though it’s clear that Moroni knew of the works of his major Venetian contemporaries like Titian (and vice versa) it’s by no means certain that he ever set foot there.   Indeed he doesn’t appear to have travelled very much during his life.  The most important journeys he made were to the city of Trento (then an independent Prince-Bishopric) where he undertook commissions linked to the episcopal household in the 1540’s and 50’s.  Trento at that point was of course primarily noted as the venue for the first and second sessions of the Council of Trent, where the leading lights of the Roman Catholic Church sought to work out how to respond to the challenge of the Protestant Reformation.   One element of this concerned how religious subjects ought to be depicted in art, which does seem to have marked Moroni’s approach to commissions to produce religious art.   The first side-swipe to his career came about here.   The Bishop of Bergamo, Vettore Soranzo , was a member of a group of would-be reformers known as the Spirituali who (simplifying grossly)promoted a simplified and inward-directed style of piety and hoped to find a compromise way forward which would enable the bulk of the church to reunite round a reformed Catholicism.   They came within touching distance of winning the upper hand in the church when their informal leader, the English Cardinal Reginald Pole, came within one vote of being elected Pope but the ride turned against them and and by the 1550’s even very senior members of the group were at serious risk of being burned as heretics.       Bishop Soranzo spent years under investigation.   The side –swipe to Moroni came about because religious commissions to him from Bergamo institutions almost dried up for years, until late in his life.   It’s not made entirely clear in the exhibition catalogue whether this was a general phenomenon, with only a handful of well-placed religious institutions prepared to risk commissioning anything while the rules were up in the air and the local bishop out of favour, or whether Moroni’s links to the bishop of Trento meant that he was deemed guilty by association of the popular Soranzo’s misfortunes and frozen out of the local market.  Either way Moroni was deprived of a core income source of  any Italian Renaissance artist.   Whether this was an altogether bad thing is another matter- Moroni’s religious art is competent rather than inspired.  He was always a far better portraitist so being obliged to seek commissions in that area was probably no bad thing.

The other side-swipe came in the 1560’s, when Moroni was well established in Bergamo and producing portraits of the local elites; though he did paint the occasional top rank figure (a Spanish governor of Milan, for instance) his core aristocratic audience was mostly composed of people who were basically local celebrities rather than people with an Italy-wide renown, a factor which led to lots of misidentifications and misattributions of Moroni’s paintings in subsequent generations.   The problem was that Bergamo was the stage for an increasingly violent feud between the Albani and Brembati families and their associates which culminated in a Brembati being hacked to death in a Bergamo church in 1563.  This kind of noble feuding was common enough across sixteenth century Europe but a killing on consecrated ground was going over the top- especially in a sensitive border area.  The Venetian authorities therefore came down hard on the entire pro-Spanish local elite, with a slew of condemnations to prison and sentences of exile aimed at key figures on both sides.   Moroni’s client base in Bergamo was shot out from under him.  He had to retreat to his home town of Albano and try to rebuild a career there.

He was clearly respected there; he served as a town councillor, for instance, and some of his old clients eventually came back once they’d served their terms in exile.   He was however obliged to descend the social hierarchy a notch to get enough work to keep his practice going- meaning, amongst other things that he had to simplify some aspects of his work to keep the costs down.   This turned out to be a positive thing artistically.  It means however that the identity of the sitters is even more obscure and open to debate.   Just how far this new clientele paid the rent is a bit unclear, at least from the documentation surrounding the RA show.   It may be significant that Moroni began doing more religious art late in his life.  There was a new bishop in Bergamo and the whole region under the ecclesiastical control of the Archbishopric of Milan was a hive of rebuilding and redecorating activity in the 1570’s under the impetus of visitations by the Archbishop, Carlo Borromeo, later to be canonised on the strength of his work as a model bishop in the post-Council of Trent mould.  Lots of churches needed to replace art which didn’t fit Tridentine models; I wrote a bit about this when talking about the National Gallery’s Veronese show so I won’t repeat it here.  Moroni had plenty to do and the exhibition catalogue even suggests that the sheer weight of work he took on undermined his health and contributed to his death around 1580.

What makes Moroni’s portraits special?   Even in his lifetime he was recognised as exceptionally talented at getting a true likeness of his subjects.  This wasn’t always seen as an entirely positive thing.   Titian is supposed to have made some rather ambiguous remarks about this skill which imply that this realism was fine for the second tier people Moroni was painting in his Bergamo heyday but hardly appropriate for the kings and Doges and Popes whom Titian painted, for whom a much grander style reflecting their office as much as their individual personality was required.     The striking thing about Moroni’s artistocrats, however, is precisely that Moroni manages to paint them as individuals with a clear sense of a personality while also managing to be flattering enough in other ways to retain their custom.

 

 

Take Gian Gerolamo Grumelli, for instance (see above).   It’s pretty clear that we’re dealing with a man with a notably high opinion of himself, with a gaze which implies that you’re better have a very good reason for distracting him and looking him in the eye rather than bowing low to him.   He isn’t likely to be entirely comfortable company as he stalks along the slightly crumbling portico which figures in so many of Moroni’s portraits of the 1560’s.   He’s dressed in the height of fashion in a spectacular coral pink outfit (the colour is a nod to the Grumelli coat of arms)- an intensely masculine colour in the sixteenth century.   The surroundings, however, hint at another side to the man; the fragments of classical statuary point to his interest in art and classical literature.  He may be a peacock and a bit of a fashion victim but he’s a man of culture.

Moroni has also painted his wife, Isotta Brembati (below) a few years earlier (before they married, so the portraits aren’t a matched pair).   Isotta certainly was a lady of culture; she was a published poet, for instance.   There’s no indication of her intellectual interests here, though.   She’s gorgeously dressed (Moroni loved the fabrics his sitters wore) and the sable she’s wearing round her neck worked into a kind of scarf clearly didn’t come cheap.  Nor did the ostrich feather fan she holds.  She’s a living demonstration of her household’s wealth and status and a woman in full command of the situation- Moroni has seated her in a pose normally  used for very senior male figures- but seemingly a little uneasy.   Perhaps she’d rather have been painted with some of her books, perhaps she’s worried that the cook misunderstood her instructions over dinner- we can only guess.  Or perhaps Moroni just wasn’t terribly good company as she had to hold the pose for hours on end; though he painted some very characterful old ladies, his female subjects are generally less convincing than their male counterparts  and some modern critics have speculated that he may have been gay.

 

Not all Moroni’s aristocrats were so overtly cultured.   Faustino Avogadro’s Albani wife may have been as cultured as Isotta but Moroni’s portrait of him below emphasises the warrior, or at least the fighter, in him.   He’s still wearing some of his jousting kit and his tournament armour is strewn on the ground (which doesn’t say much for his support crew- armour of that quality cost plenty and needed careful maintenance) while he rests his arm on a gorgeously plumed helmet.   The eye however is drawn to the brace on his left leg, which perhaps slightly undercuts the martial image (the painting was for many years known as  ”The Knight with the Wounded Foot”).   It’s now thought that Avogadro wore this all the time because of a congenital weakness in his ankle ligaments- which leaves me wondering just how effective a jouster he actually was, especially in those elements of tournaments which were fought out on foot.    There is a slightly louche aspect to his expression; is he actually a bit of a wannabe, only playing at being a serious competitor in knightly sports?   Whatever the seriousness of his disability, it didn’t stop him being one of those who slashed and hacked the Brembati to death in church.   He fled Bergamo and was ingloriously dead within a year, falling down a well in Ferrara when hopelessly drunk- a sad end for Moroni’s jaunty sportsman.

 

The local Venetian Governor, Antionio Navagero, looks surprisingly friendly and affable below given that Bergamo can’t have been the easiest posting in the mid 1560’s- though these is a slightly world-weary air to his gaze.  It’s not clear whether he’s just received the sealed letter he holds or is about to hand it over for onward delivery; if the former, it might be the latest denunciation of a local trouble maker to the authorities, meaning more difficult work for him.   He obviously did a good job during his years in Bergamo, or at least managed the various interest groups successfully as he was given a notably positive write up in local chronicles.   The striking feature of his portrait, however, is the huge and very visible codpiece he’s wearing.  Presumably this is a power statement along with his furred gown and red costume; one wonders if there are more subtle messages about the man encoded here….

 

In his later Albano years Moroni tended to simplify his portraits.  It’s possible that, as I suggested above, this was a simple response to more difficult trading conditions and a less affluent clientele who weren’t seeking ways to work coded references to their family mottos and heraldic devices into the art.   It may also be that Moroni himself became more and more focused on his sitters and inclined to strip away superfluous background detail.  Instead of standing in front of complex classicising architecture, his subjects now look out from a monochrome background.    In many cases, they look round at us over a shoulder or at an angle, as if interrupted in the middle of something.   The elderly man at the top of this piece, possibly the writer Pietro Spino, has evidently been interrupted in the middle of reading and marks his place with his finger, hoping  the disturbance won’t last too long.   Given his fur lined clothes and his hat, it must be a cold day.  There is a certain weary patience and wisdom in his gaze, but one senses that he wants to get back to his reading as soon as possible; there is so little time left for scholarship and he wants to make the maximum use of his remaining days.   As someone who loves reading and isn’t young any more, I find it rather affecting on a personal level.

Not all his Albano sitters were lower status.   Some of his old clients came back once they’d done their time.  Gian Girolamo Albani, patriarch of the Albani clan, is a study in black and white well before Whistler came up with the idea.    Again he appears to have been interrupted in mid-read but one doesn’t have the sense that this is quite so important to him.   He sits frontally- we’re having a formal audience with him rather than just dropping in.   He looks stern, one senses that five years of enforced exile on a remote island off the Dalmatian coast and dismissal from the various administrative offices he had held in the Venetian administration hasn’t done much to improve the temper of a man who always had a short fuse.   He’s still a man to be reckoned with and not without influence, as his finery shows, and you certainly wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.  Maybe he’s about to make an offer you can’t refuse, maybe he just wants to vent about how shabbily he’s been treated.   As it happened, life was about to take a very strange turn for him; an old family friend was elected Pope and Pius V appointed this most improbable clergyman (he eventually took orders after his wife’s death) a cardinal.   Sometimes God really did move in mysterious ways…..

 

Perhaps the most famous portrait from this period, and the one which arguably most challenged conventions about who qualified for a formal portrait, is below.  It’s generally known as “The Tailor” for fairly obvious reasons.   A stylishly dressed man looks up at the viewer in a rather appraising way, as if pondering whether his visitor is a credible future client.   He holds a pair of large scissors in his right hand; on the table in front of him lies a piece of presumably high quality black cloth no doubt about to undergo cutting to shape.   A huge amount of ink has apparently been spilled on whether the subject of this painting is in fact a producer of bespoke gents suiting, mostly on the assumption that a tailor wouldn’t have been able to afford to commission Moroni to take his likeness and, as a mere mechanical craftsman, even if he did have the money he would have wanted to hide his source of income and look like a member of the leisured elite.   Is he perhaps a nobleman either fallen on hard times or with an unusual hobby?    None of this strikes me as particularly persuasive.    A man at the very top of the tailoring profession would have been making decent money (assuming his clients paid up- the stereotype of the gent not paying his tailor goes back a long way) and would obviously have dressed well as an advertisement for his own skills.  He handled expensive materials and had to create something which pleased his clients, conformed to wider social expectations but also had an element if individual style- not unlike a sixteenth century painter, in fact.  Tradesmen like goldsmiths and jewellers were regularly depicted in art by Moroni’s day; in treating this skilled craftsman as in some senses an artistic peer and showing him about his daily business, Moroni was perhaps extending definitions of gentility rather than radically subverting them.

 

 

Roman Diversions

 

When exactly does intrusive press reporting stop being a gross violation of personal privacy and become something else- a historic document or even art?    And at what point does ephemeral press photography destined for tomorrow’s tabloid front page or next week’s magazine exclusive turn into the product of an artist’s eye and consciousness?   I found myself musing on these questions (without, I must admit, finding an entirely satisfactory response to them) while catching another exhibition just before it closed.

The show in question was at the Estorick Gallery (regular readers will know this is a favourite place).  Entitled “The Years of La Dolce Vita”, it highlighted the photography of Marcello Geppetti and, to a much more limited extent, that of Arturo Zavattini.  Zavattini was Fellini’s chief cameraman on the eponymous film (and many of his other productions) and his photos offer a behind the scenes view of its making.  In many ways it’s a rather unrevealing affair; Zavattini was, after all, part of the “company” and it’s reasonable to assume that all the photos were taken with the full knowledge and consent of those depicted.  Even “off duty” moments of relaxation during the shooting are pretty tame.

Geppetti was a rather different, and more complex, kettle of fish.  He had started out as a conventional news photographer with an ambulance chasing streak whose first moment of fame had come covering a fire in a hotel on the Via Veneto in Rome (ironically later to be the core of the café society immortalised in “La Dolce Vita”) and never stopped covering “hard” news stories throughout his long career.  This side of his work is only tangentially referenced in the Estorick show with a shot of Robert Kennedy visiting Rome just weeks before his assassination.    His fame, however, rests on his role as the most prominent and talented of the pack of photographers dedicated to snapping the comings, goings and excesses of the film stars who passed through Rome in the decade or so from the mid 1950’s to the mid 1960’s when the major Hollywood studios shipped their stars over to the Eternal City to make movies there.  He’s sometimes taken as the model for the Paparazzo character in Fellini’s film (and hence, indirectly, the man who gave a particular style of intrusive photo-journalism its name).   This is a slight exaggeration- the character was a composite of several celebrity chasers active at the time, of whom Geppetti was just the most successful and notorious- but he certainly acted as a technical advisor on the film and put in a cameo appearance. 

The primary reason Geppetti’s subjects were in Rome was economic.  Hollywood studios couldn’t transfer the profits they were making from European markets back to the US due to exchange control restrictions.   Rome had top class production facilities at Cinecitta (a legacy of Fascist era investment in the film industry which had never been fully used before war came) along with talented cameramen and film crews who cost a lot less to hire than their American counterparts.   Italy offered lots of wonderful locations to film in and a touch of the exotic for American audiences.   In this context it made perfect sense to spend the cash blocked in Europe to make films which, with luck, might make profits in the US.   From an Italian perspective, hosting American film makers kept facilities operational which would otherwise have struggled to survive on the basis of purely domestic demand and paid for studio upgrades which the domestic industry could not have afforded.  While Italian film makers may have resented the American presence only the most dogmatically Communist entirely rejected the spin-off benefits it brought; indeed Italian directors were often very happy to take advantage of the presence of authentic Hollywood stars and include them in their casts.   Italian (and indeed other European) performers were only too pleased to take parts in US-made films and Italian audiences lapped up the products of the Dream Factory.  If the gritty Neo-Realism of the immediate post war years had ever had a mass audience in Italy, this had largely evaporated by the mid 1950’s in favour of more escapist fare.       Inevitably the quality of the works produced in Italy under those circumstances was very variable; it was no doubt symbolic that one of the last major productions created in this period, just as changing rules on taxation and currency convertibility began to undercut the economic rationale for this approach to film making, was the monumentally expensive and loss-making “Cleopatra”, which indirectly provided Geppetti with one of his iconic (and most profitable) photos.

For American stars, shooting in Rome had many attractions.   The dollar went a long way in what was still at heart an impoverished semi-rural country, though one changing fast under the impact of post-war industrialisation; one could live even more lavishly than in Beverly Hills at limited cost.   The social life was every bit as lively as back home, with the opportunity to rub shoulders with genuine(ish) aristocrats if that was one’s inclination.   Above all, there was a certain air of freedom and room for transgression.   In Rome the stars were at one remove from the rather suffocating conformism of 1950’s America which affected how even film idols were expected to present themselves to the public.   There was the opportunity to let hair down and take risks.   The downside of this apparent freedom was embodied by Geppetti and his colleagues.  The studios were far less able to manage media coverage of their key assets than they would have been in the US and the apparently insatiable Italian appetite for gossip and pictures of the stars, fed by a whole sector of magazines aimed at a mostly female audience, meant that they could hardly set foot out of doors or have a banal dinner in the local trattoria without the accompaniment of flash bulbs.   It probably wasn’t much comfort that their Italian colleagues faced exactly the same ordeal. 

There’s a tendency now to regard Geppetti as an unjustly neglected artist on a par with the great photo-reporters like Capa or Cartier-Bresson.    I’m not totally convinced by this, at least on the basis of the exhibition (and fully recognising that Capa and Co undoubtedly also took a large number of pretty banal photos alongside the iconic works they’re remembered for).     Geppetti undoubtedly had an eye for people and could take some striking and very thought-provoking images.   Take the example at the top of the page.  A very young and very sexy Brigitte Bardot, out and about in Orvieto north of Rome (I assume on location) turns her back on a wall of press photographers and police to give us a dazzling smile.  It’s a beautiful meditation on fame and media coverage, creating a sense of intimacy between us, the viewers, and the star; there’s a sense that she’s sharing a moment of amusement at all the fuss her presence has created and that she’s allowed us (via Geppetti) privileged access denied to the common herd of snappers in the background.  It is perhaps revealing, however, that she isn’t actually looking into Geppetti’s lens either.  It’s also notable that this photo, which must surely have been created with her collaboration and consent, doesn’t really fit into the stereotype of his work as a photographer of the unexpected and unguarded moment, zig-zagging through the Rome traffic on his motor scooter with a camera specially adapted so that he could shoot on the move if need be (as when he caught Anita Ekberg at the wheel of her Mercedes below) or gatecrashing events to catch the stars at play.

 

The photos in the show which did fit that stereotype were a bit of a mixed bag.   Some are wonderfully strange, like the image of Frank Sinatra and an unidentified heavy coming out of a theatre in full evening dress; pop-eyed, they look as if they’ve seen a ghost or something equally disturbing.  There’s something faintly menacing about the shot, subliminally playing into the sulphurous, Mafia-linked, side to Sinatra’s reputation.   Sophia Loren looks bored to distraction by the company of Carlo Ponti (though he must have improved his conversational skills eventually, given that the couple were to enjoy many years of married life together).  Michelle Morgan causes a  traffic jam by losing her shoe on a Roman pedestrian crossing (surely taking her life in her hands relying on Italian drivers to obey the rules of the road-unless, of course, the shot was carefully staged).   Audrey Hepburn, stylish as always, takes her equally stylish pooch for a walk in a bustling Roman street. 

 

Most, though, are pretty uninteresting.   There are, after all, only so many ways you can take photos of people drinking in a bar or sitting down in restaurants for a meal, even if there might be a bit of slightly predictable comedy to be had at the expense of foreigners struggling to come to terms with spaghetti (Jane Mansfield clearly hadn’t picked up the knack when Geppetti shot her and her husband Mickey Hargitay in a Roman restaurant).  

 

There may well have been contexts which made these photos “work” in journalistic terms but are now accessible only to those well versed in the life and times of the stars concerned- I can see that who was dining with whom might have been very hot news for the gossip sheets of the day, for instance- but they weren’t really spelled out in the exhibition.  Equally there’s only so much interest to be derived from seeing Hollywood stars of the 1950’s and 60’s behaving like “normal” tourists in Rome, eating ice creams or towing bored teenage children round the sights.   It would also have been helpful to have some sense of how the photographs were presented in the magazines which bought them- this was, after all, photography created for a very specific market.   Were all the shots in the show published- and if not, what might that say about shifting views of what makes a “good” photograph?

Perhaps my viewing of the exhibition was influenced by knowing that it was curated by Steven Gundle.  He’s an academic historian with an interest in topics like the use and abuse of glamour and feminine beauty in Italian society since 1800, on which he has published serious academic tomes.  More relevant to this exhibition, however, was a much more “popular” book called “Death and the Dolce Vita”, which examined a murky and never properly elucidated murder case involving a young Roman woman whose body was washed up on a beach near Ostia Lido (Rome’s local seaside resort).  The rather bungled investigation spiralled off in all directions, drawing in members of the arty Roman cafe society who also mingled with the foreign stars, louche Roman aristocrats with big titles and little money, dubious property developers with links to the Fascist past and so on.   There were political overtones (one of the suspects was the wayward son of a prominent figure on the left of the ruling Christian Democrat party), allegations of sex and drug orgies involving the rich and famous and, inevitably, claims of cover-ups and conspiracies.  It’s an interesting book, but (at least in my view) rather weakened by pages and pages of rather gossipy stuff about the cinematic milieu which Geppetti was snapping.   The young woman whose death is the nominal focus of the book was a cinema fan and there were some links between the list of suspects and that world but in truth they’re pretty tenuous and much of the material on Hollywood stars in Rome looked as if it had escaped from another book with even fewer academic pretensions.  

Having read Gundle’s book (on sale in the Estorick bookshop at the time) it was tempting to see the exhibition as being in some sense the “show of the book” even though the rather sketchy interpretative material provided in the galleries and the catalogue never mentioned the case and none of the photos had any obvious links to it.   There were rather oblique references to the “dark side” of the world Geppetti covered but in truth there wasn’t much visible evidence of this in his photos, for fairly obvious reasons.   Even a skilled gatecrasher like Geppetti would presumably not have obtained access to a really heavy duty sex and drug orgy- and if he had, he had too much of a sense of self-preservation to take photos there as (a) it would have been highly dangerous to do so and (b) there would almost certainly have been no market for them in his usual press outlets.   The Italian magazine press might have been more overtly intrusive and willing to print certain stories than its US counterpart but there were clear limits to its coverage.  Marital infidelity and wild parties in nightclubs were one thing, serious criminal behaviour or such taboo activities as gay sex were quite another.   A little transgression added to the glamour of the beautiful people whom Geppetti photographed; he wasn’t in the business of probing much deeper.

As a result there was very little that could overtly be put under the “stars behaving badly” rubric in the show.  The fact that everybody seems to be smoking certainly doesn’t count- though it is a nice reminder of how societal attitudes have shifted over the past half century or so.   I don’t think Raquel Welch dancing on the table on-set under the amused eyes of Marcello Mastoianni counts either, fun shot though it is.   

 

Of course the context point made earlier comes into play here; it isn’t necessarily immediately obvious that they are behaving badly without background information which the news stories these photos would have been slotted into would have provided.   Take one of Geppetti’s most notorious photos below.   In some respects it’s very forward looking- the use of long lenses to spy on people would now be regarded as one of the core concerns over intrusive press coverage but was something of a novelty in the 1960’s.   The victims here- Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, taking a break from shooting “Cleopatra”- would probably have been unhappy at being photographed in a private moment at the best of times; what made this photo so scandalous was that both of them were married to other people at the time and its appearance on magazine front pages in Italy and beyond caused a huge scandal as both marriages came messily apart in public.  One could see this as the foundational image of a whole style of celebrity journalism which is with us yet- and (at least here in the UK) is part of wider arguments over privacy legislation and press regulation.

Beyond that, however, the nearest thing to misbehaviour on camera in the show was a series of photos of various stars getting into noisy disputes with photographers, in some cases to the point of physical assault.  The most bizarre of these involved Anita Ekberg sallying forth from the villa she must have been renting armed with a bow and arrows to confront the press pack.   In fact it’s so bizarre that it’s very tempting indeed to suspect that it was staged.

 

This left me musing on just how many of the supposedly candid shots taken by Geppetti were actually done with the knowledge and consent, however grudging, of the subjects.   Some very obviously are- I’m sure Mickey Hargitay didn’t make a habit of carrying Jane out of restaurants when the cameras weren’t there, for instance.    On the other hand, they can’t all have been but (the long lens Burton and Taylor one apart) it’s very difficult to tell just from looking at them- even the assaults might have been staged (being walloped by a star probably didn’t damage a photographer’s career while punching a snapper on the nose made the star look like an ordinary human being, especially if it was done to “protect” a lady).   In the ultimate analysis Geppetti was an insider, even if he was probably regarded by many of the stars he photographed as a bit of a pest whose attentions you had to tolerate for career reasons.  He was obviously welcome on set.  In other words, you weren’t going to get anything seriously subversive of the movie industry and its stars from him.    The whole modernisation process which Italy was going through- socially, culturally, economically- in the years of La Dolce Vita was hugely controversial and the cinema industry was a lightning conductor.   Damned for its American overtones on the Communist left, blasted as destructive of Italian morals on the Catholic right and sneered at as hopelessly vulgar by intellectual and cultural elites.   Very little of these critiques found their way into Geppetti’s work- or indeed Fellini’s film, which (as the more perceptive contemporary critics noted) mostly reserved its barbs for soft targets and to a considerable extent played to attitudes which it claimed to satirise.    If Geppetti did hold a mirror to a very specific sub-culture at a very specific time, it was a rather less overtly critical one than is sometimes suggested.

As far as the questions posed at the beginning are concerned, I suppose the passage of time does make a difference; it’s hard to be offended over intrusion into the lives of people many of whom are now dead, especially as it’s likely that in many cases they were consenting victims.   There is a legitimate historical interest in Geppetti’s work as the record of a specific, long departed, moment in the history of cinema and even to some extent of Italian society.   I’m less persuaded of the higher claims made for his work in purely artistic terms, even if he took some very fine individual photographs.  It was still worth putting the exhibition on at the Estorick, though….

 

 

Venetian Splendours

 

This one is for my lovely friend Gia in honour of her recent holiday in Venice, which she kindly shared with us on Flickr!

I prised myself away from the World Cup to catch the Veronese exhibition at the National Gallery before it closed last weekend.  This had been billed in a lot of the media as one of the “must see” shows of the year in London but turned out to be a blockbuster which didn’t detonate- there was no shortage of tickets for any of the time slots and the galleries, though not exactly suffering from drifting tumbleweed syndrome, weren’t much busier than they would be on a normal summer Saturday afternoon (the exhibition was hung “round” the Gallery’s own resident Veroneses in the regular gallery space rather than the more standard approach of hosting it in the basement space in the Sainsbury wing).   I don’t quite know why it was something of a box office flop.  My guess is that Veronese isn’t quite as big a name for the ordinary punter as he is for the art critics, there aren’t many iconic images buried in the wider public consciousness that one can hang the marketing on and art dominated by references to Christian and Classical histories and mythologies which are increasingly a closed book to the average 21^st century British (and indeed “Western”) viewer is a bit of a specialised taste.  It doesn’t help that the allegories in some of the paintings on display are so obscure that even specialists can’t agree on what they’re supposed to mean and how they would originally have been displayed and I have to admit that I didn’t find the topics from Classical mythology entirely compelling myself.

Veronese’s life story was pretty uneventful- there’s very little “Agony and Ecstasy” there to spice the show.   He was born in 1528 in Verona, then one of the subject communities under the rule of the Venetian republic which dominated most of the north east of Italy from Bergamo right over to Trieste (what the Venetians called the Stato di Terraferma, as opposed to their Stato di Mare of colonial outposts in the Eastern Mediterranean).   There’s a small story over his name.  “Veronese” is a rather unimaginative nickname which he adopted once he’d moved to Venice.  The “official” name he used was Paolo Caliari, though that wasn’t strictly speaking his family name either.   This was Bazaro but Paolo and his brothers adopted the Caliari name from their mother, who was the illegitimate daughter of a minor noble family; presumably the hope was that this claim to higher status would help in business.   The Bazaros were a dynasty of stone cutters and carvers, so young Paolo grew up in an artistic environment; when it became clear his talents lay in the painting field he was apprenticed to local workshops in Verona (he eventually married the daughter of his first teacher).  His first big break came in his early twenties when a rather economy-minded Gonzaga cardinal, acting as regent of Mantua for his nephews, hired a clutch of young, and therefore cheap, artists to work on decorating the cathedral which had just been remodelled.   Young Paolo did well,  and began getting commissions across the Terraferma.   By 1555 he had moved to Venice, where he remained for the rest of his life picking up regular commissions from individual patrons, religious corporations and eventually the various Councils and Committees that ran the Venetian state.  Apart from a possible visit to Rome he never left the Venetian state; with one minor exception he appears to have led an untroubled and prosperous life, highly regarded by his artistic peers and a regular collaborator with the major architects of the day on prestige building projects.   He died rather suddenly in 1588.  

It was perhaps a good thing for his long term reputation that he died when he did and that the original plan for his younger brother to carry on the family business with Paolo’s sons foundered when the more talented of the offspring died a couple of years after his father.   The Veronese workshop was already having serious quality control issues in the 1580’s churning out uninspired copies of Paolo’s greatest hits, a situation not helped by his own apparent tendency to take on any commissions going at a time when he was already heavily committed to work on redecorating the Doge’s Palace after a major fire.   Veronese was a famously quick worker but one has a slight sense that he was overcommitting in the later years of his life. Admittedly he may have been in a bit of a bind.  Public commissions, however prestigious, were often problematic for a working artist as the Venetian state was not good at paying its bills on time; additional commissions and even hackwork studio copies were essential to keep the business cashflow going.  Nevertheless there is a sense that even the work he did in the Doge’s Palace was a notch or two below his best and he may have been on a downward path in terms of quality himself by then.   Obviously the inferior hackwork didn’t get into the National Gallery show (though it is discussed a bit in the exhibition book) but I have to admit I’m not generally so taken with his later works, mostly done in a very dark and gloomy palate which may have met Venetian taste of the time but didn’t fit Veronese’s talents anything like as well as the clearer, brighter colours of his prime.

As frequently happens with exhibitions focused on Renaissance art, there were obvious gaps in coverage.    None of his work in fresco was going to travel, which ruled out some of his large scale public commissions in Venice as well as the decorated ceilings he did in the rural villas of members of the Venetian elite.   Items which are integral parts of the decoration of major sites like the Doge’s Palace were not going to be on offer.   Italian parish churches fortunate enough not to have had their Veronese altarpieces looted by the French during the Napoleonic Wars are often understandably reluctant to loan them out now- it was remarkable that a couple of major pieces included had in  fact travelled from Italian churches.   A few notable pieces are simply so big that moving them is problematic- one factor presumably influencing the way the show was structured within the Gallery to avoid the need to move one of its centrepiece items even within the building.   Overall, though, it felt like a pretty fair overview of the man’s work.

He wasn’t a very prolific portraitist, for instance (at least not in terms of a straightforward depiction of a given sitter “as themselves”- he had other ways of catering to patrons’ desires to get into the picture) and, given the obvious prosperity and importance of his sitters, it’s surprising how many of the sitters in his Venetian years are either anonymous or have traditional identifications which are probably wrong.  The lady at the top of this piece is a good example; she’s customarily known as “La Bella Nani” on the mistaken assumption that she’s a member of the aristocratic Nani family.   In fact nobody really knows who she is.  It’s only a guess that she’s the respectable wife of a Venetian noble rather than one of Venice’s famed courtesans- the quality of her clothing and jewellery could point either way (and in both cases would probably have contravened the letter of Venetian sumptuary law which sought to regulate who could wear what and could be quite sniffy about even noblewomen wearing clothing this lavish).   The main argument against her being the latter seems to be the rather sexist one that she looks too modest and decorous in her bearing by comparison with portraits by other painters which are known to be of courtesans; this doesn’t seem particularly persuasive and the blonde hair could point the other way (it was pretty well a trade requirement for Venetian courtesans to be blonde, leading to a lively market in hair bleach).   Perhaps it doesn’t really matter- there was a lot more cross-influence in terms of style and fashion between the courtesan sub-culture and elite female looks than a male Venetian governing class with strong misogynistic tendencies was ever comfortable with.

 

 

One of Veronese’s brothers was in the textile trade (he’s listed as an “embroiderer” in a tax assessment, which probably means he ran a workshop rather than necessarily wielding the needle himself) and his son eventually went into the wool business after the painting workshop folded.   This professional link to the trade in fine cloth and embroideries perhaps gives a link to Veronese’s obvious love for depicting top quality textiles in all their glory, sheen and shimmer.   The double portrait of the nobleman Iseppo da Porto and his wife Lavinia Thiene from Vicenza and their children (painted fairly early in his career) beautifully bring out this aspect of his work.   Both are clad in the very height of fashion- the deep black of Iseppo’s clothing was extremely expensive to produce to the highest quality.   The fur stole over Lavinina’s arm was carried as a kind of fly whisk-cum- fly paper; it was believed that fur, especially the fur of the marten, drew vermin away from the body (an interesting commentary on the personal hygiene problems even of the elite in sixteenth century Europe).   The marten also had associations with childbirth (martens were believed to give birth without pain), so this may also indicate that Lavinia is pregnant. The adults look towards each other, an image of conjugal harmony.  The children, also dressed up to within an inch of their lives, seem to be treating the experience of having their portraits painted rather differently.  The little girl peers slightly warily from behind her mother’s skirts; her brother would clearly rather run off and play with her and has to be gently restrained by his father.   Veronese had an eye for children and it’s tempting to think that he was a loving father.

 

It’s also tempting to think that he may have been a dog person.   The picture above (again relatively early) has a couple of canines on display- the big docile fellow whom the little girls in the foreground are playing with and the spaniel puppy wriggling in the arms of their brother.   This is a rather extreme example of Veronese’s way of getting patrons into the frame.  Nominally this is a depiction of the meal at Emmaus, from Luke’s Gospel, where the resurrected Jesus reveals himself to a couple of disciples who had passed the time of day with him while walking to the town without realising who he was (the back story is squeezed into the left hand side of the picture).   In practice, however, this event from Scripture is played out before the reverential gaze (at least as far as the adults are concerned) of an unidentified noble family whose servants are doing the honours with the meal.  Inserting patrons into biblical events was not that uncommon and fitted into approaches to devotion which were positively encouraged by many churchmen but this wholesale annexation of a biblical event to the greater honour of the patrons is a bit extreme- I assume the paterfamilias must have insisted that he wanted his whole household to share in the spiritual benefits of his commission.  “Spot the patron” is however a popular game in many of Veronese paintings.

 

There is a distinct element of theatricality in this work, and that’s a common feature in many of Veronese’s paintings.   Time and again his works look like a moment out of a play, framed in a proscenium arch (or even a still from a film…..).   It’s perhaps not a coincidence that there was considerable intellectual interest in the staging of classical drama in Venice during Veronese’s life and what is arguably the first “modern” theatre to survive intact, the Teatro Olimpico in Vicenza, was completed during his lifetime.   It’s a bit more complex, however, as we are not the only audience in many of Veronese’s paintings- time and again the events they depict play out in front of an audience which is itself part of the painting, a busy and bustling world frozen in time.  One spectacular example of this is the National Gallery’s own “Family of Darius before Alexander”.   This was painted for the Pisani family and hung in one of their terraferma villas (and became part of a messy inheritance dispute when the man who commissioned it tried to cut his wife out of his will); in this case the bearded man centre stage presenting the supplicant women is favourite for “spot the patron”.  The scene is set in the Persian court after Alexander the Great’s victory at Issus and occupation of the royal palace.  The Persian queen and her daughters (as well as most of the court staff and servants, to judge from Veronese’s depiction), understandably worried about their fate, have gone out to plead for their lives with the new boss.  Unfortunately they mistake Alexander’s very good friend Hephaestion for the great man; luckily Alexander sees the funny side, forgives them and chivalrously takes them under his protection.   Interested spectators line the balustrades above the courtyard (no doubt mightily relieved that the Macedonians haven’t already sacked the palace).   To the right the armoured winners strike macho poses of domination, backed up by their dogs and even the head of Alexander’s massive horse Bucephalos; on the left the court dwarf and his spaniel huddles up with what I take to be a couple of court eunuchs guarded by a halberdier.   The contrast between masculine winners and feminised losers couldn’t be clearer.  What is less clear is who is who among the winners.   It’s usually assumed that the central figure in red is Alexander (probably on the argument that red is the royal colour so it must be him) but as far as I’m aware there’s no positive written evidence to confirm this and to my eye the body language points to the figure in armour in the right as the king, whose identity has just been revealed to the women.   Either way, there’s a lot of ambiguity here- and we as the audience are placed firmly on the same level as the feminised vanquished.  Veronese is often described as an unintellectual painter but this is a highly sophisticated and ambiguous theatrical effect- as well as a fine example of Veronese’s taste for depicting magnificence and courtly splendour in its full pomp.

This taste got him into the one tight spot recorded in his generally uneventful life- one which gives us a rare chance to hear the painter’s own voice.  He had been commissioned to paint a Last Supper for a Venetian monastery.   Veronese turned this into a Venetian patrician’s fantasy of a meal, in sumptuous surroundings with Jesus and his disciples almost lost among a host of liveried servants, buffoons, uniformed halberdiers, monkeys and so on.   The Venetian Inquisition took exception and hauled him in for interrogation.   This took a rather surreal turn at times- Veronese was pressed over the halberdiers, who were potentially German Lutheran heretics, for instance- and his answers to questioning on why he had included this or that decorative element were almost simple mindedly naïve and literal.   In the end he was released and the painting approved by the Inquisitors- but under the new name of “The Feast at the House of Levi” (on the argument that the biblical Levi, being a very rich man, would have lived in the style suggested in the painting).   You can still see it in the Accademia Gallery in Venice.  There’s been lots of speculation over this episode.  At one extreme it’s been suggested that Veronese was a crypto-Protestant (as, intriguingly, Isetto del Porto was).   At the other, his responses have fed the image of Veronese as a virtual simpleton without a coherent thought in his head.   My guess is that this does him a disservice- playing a bit dumb was a sensible tactic in the situation- but I very much doubt if he was seriously suspected of heresy.   The rules on what a painter could and couldn’t put into a religious painting were very much in flux in the 1570’s and neither the artist nor his questioners were on entirely sure ground.  The Council of Trent had certainly reaffirmed that religious paintings were acceptable in principle (as against much more restrictive Protestant views) but with some rather ill-defined qualifications whose implications were still being worked through when Veronese was interrogated.  One message emerging from the process was that “unnecessary” or “inappropriate” splendour was not allowed any more.

 

This didn’t rule magnificence out, of course, in the right place.   It was fine in an Adoration of the Kings, for instance and, as the example above shows, Veronese could do a suitably splendid Adoration (the exhibition in fact hung two that he had done for different Venetian patrons at about the same time in close juxtaposition- and they weren’t the carbon copies of each other that one might have expected even if there were some common elements).   In the version above the Bethlehem stable becomes a kind of jerry built lean-to extension of a set of massive classical ruins but the three kings are magnificently attired and come with the train of servants suitable to their rank (including a slightly improbable camel).  In addition to them, the Angelic Host provide an audience- as does someone hanging off the roof timbers of the shed.   It’s assumed he’s one of the shepherds, moved over to make way for their betters after leaving a couple of lambs in a cage which would certainly have animal rights enthusiasts in a fury.  By extension it’s also assumed that the figure in white with a similar soft felt hat in the bottom right is also a shepherd, though the author of the exhibition book notes that he must be the best dressed shepherd in art when one takes account of the quality of his clothes and I’m sure the dogs he’s holding never herded sheep in their lives; my guess is that he’s a royal huntsman with his lead dogs.    It’s interesting to note that, while the oldest king and his African colleague reappear in other Adorations and are presumably artist’s models (clearly it wasn’t too hard to find African faces even in a city like Venice somewhat removed from the Atlantic slave routes) the middle king varies.   “Spot the Patron”?

The post-Tridentine rules for religious painting favoured clarity and a degree of restraint in depicting miracles- as well as a certain modest stripping away of the more improbable apocryphal legends associated with certain saints.   The martyrdom of St George above perhaps fits into this mould.   The dragon is nowhere to be seen, long dead (or perhaps tamed, depending on the version).   Instead of glorying in the multiple martyrdoms inflicted on the saint as earlier depictions did (he was martyred seven times, using an ingenious variety of methods of torture but survived them all- in some popular versions rose seven times from the dead), we are at the moment just before the final, definitive, blow from the headsman’s sword.   The saint seems almost oblivious to the pagan priest going through the motions of exhorting him to worship Apollo; calm and composed, he has his eyes fixed on heaven where the saints are already interceding for him and whence an angel has been sent carrying his personalised martyr’s palm.   For all the brutality and anger on the faces around him, it’s a surprisingly calm and composed image without the blood and violence often associated with depictions of martyrdoms.   With the focus on saintly intercession it’s nicely theologically on message and one knows George will make a good end when the sword swings at his neck without having to see the gore.   It fits the churchly rules of the times- and possibly also Veronese’s temperament as he doesn’t seem to have relished the depiction of violence to anything like the same extent as some of his contemporaries.

Not everything Veronese did was on a large scale.  He also did smaller pieces more suitable to private devotions, like the depiction of St Helena’s dream above.   St Helena, mother of the Emperor Constantine, was responsible for rediscovering what was believed to be the actual cross used for the Crucifixion of Jesus; the inspiration for undertaking this early example of Holy Land archaeology was believed to have come to her in a dream.    Again Veronese did more than one account of this theme and they looked radically different.   In the version shown here, a youthful looking and well-dressed lady sits by a window, resting her head on her hand; above her, cherubs heave a cross across her putative line of sight.   There’s nothing to show explicitly that she’s the mother of the Roman Emperor (unlike another version in which she’s clad in royal robes and wears an imperial crown) and she seems to be daydreaming rather than deep in slumber.  The cherubs look as if they’re being hoisted into the flies of a theatre, after playing their role in a piece of devotional drama.  The overall atmosphere is calm and we as viewers are privileged to spectate on the dissolution of the barriers between the visible and invisible; by inference, this can happen to anyone with enough faith, not just the very great and putatively good.

The final piece nicely ties some of these devotional themes together- even if it does come from the late, dark-toned, period.   This was done for the church of St Pantalon in Venice.  St Pantalon isn’t a big name in Western Christianity; he’s a much more familiar figure in the Orthodox world and his presence underlines Venice’s role as cultural intermediary between Christian traditions as well as between Christian and Islamic worlds.   According to legend, he was a medical doctor who converted to Christianity after healing a child through use of a Christian prayer.   Here he is shown about to perform the miracle; he looks upwards for heavenly assistance while a mutilated statue of a pagan deity averts its gaze with what looks like a faintly sardonic expression on its face.   Pantalon’s young assistant offers him his usual medical kit, not required in this case.   The child lies across the knees of an older man in clerical dress.  This is in fact a portrait of the priest who had commissioned the work for his church (“”spot the patron…”)- somewhat daring as this kind of self-glorification by someone of only modest importance was rather frowned on in Venetian church circles.  His presence does however underline the importance of the priesthood in linking heaven and earth as well as its important social and charitable role, all points stressed by the Council of Trent.  Veronese was back on message…