Posts
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Carbonara:
la ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura conversazionale l’esperienza e la
prassi – Cicerone e il pratico – scuola di Potenza – filosofia basilicatese -- filosofia
italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, The
Swimming-Pool Library (Potenza). Filosofo
basilicatese. Filosofo italiano. Potenza, Basilicata. Grice: “I like Carbonara;
my favourite of his tracts are one on ‘del bello,’ – another one on ‘dissegno
per una filosofia critica dell’esperienza pura: immediatezza e reflessione’ –
but mostly his ‘esperienza e prassi,’ which fits nicely with my functionalist
method in philosophical psychology: there is input (esperienza), but there is
‘prassi,’ the behavioural output --; I would prefer this to the tract on the
‘filossofia critica’ since I’m not sure we need ‘reflexion’ to explain, say,
communication – not at least in the way Carbonara does use ‘reflessione,’ alla
Husserl. Conseguito il
diploma liceale, si trasferì a Napoli, frequentando la facoltà di filosofia.
Ottenuta la laurea sotto Aliotta, collabora per “Logos”. Insegna a Campobasso, Nocera
Inferiore, Cagliari, Catania, e Napoli.
Con “Disegno d'una filosofia critica dell'esperienza pura”, rifacendosi
alla filosofia kantiana e riprendendo il discorso idealistico ne mette in
rilievo il tentativo fallito di Gentile di dare concretezza all’astratto.
Nell'attualismo, il ritorno all’atto, al fatto, si risolve infatti nell'atto
sempre uguale e sempre diverso del pensare, unica realtà e verità del pensiero
e della storia: «vera storia non è quella che si dispiega nel tempo, ma quella
che si raccoglie nell'eterno atto del pensare».. Il problema secondo C.
anda esaminato riportandolo alla sua origine, cioè al problema del rapporto tra
esperienza e concetto, tra realtà e concetto così come era stato affrontato
dalla filosofia kantiana e che Gentile crede di risolvere stabilendo un rapporto
dialettico tra il concetto e il suo negativo all'interno del concetto stesso.
La soluzione invece era in nuce secondo C. nella sintesi a priori kantiana dove
convivono forma (segnante) e contenuto (segnato) per cui la coscienza è per un
verso forma, contenitore (segnante) di un contenuto (segnato) storico e per un
altro *coincide* col suo contenuto (segnato) in quanto il contenuto (segnato)
non avrebbe realtà al di fuori della forma della coscienza segnante. La
successiva questione si pone considerando oltre il rapporto del pensiero – il
segnante -- con la materia quella collegata all'origine del pensiero stesso.
Ancora una volta Kant intravede la soluzione nella teoria dell' “io penso” che
però va ora intesa non come la struttura logico-metafisica della realtà
storica, ma come la sua struttura psicologica ma *trascendentale* o
"esistenziale", secondo una concezione della "filosofia
dell'esperienza pura" nel senso che l'esperienza coincide col divenire
della vita dello spirito e deve restare indifferente al problema, ch'è
propriamente di natura ontologica, circa la sua dipendenza o indipendenza da
una realtà diversa dal mio spirito. Il rapporto tra pensiero e materia porta C.
ad indagare quello tra filosofia e scienza con “Scienza e filosofia” in
Galilei, in cui sostiene che mentre da un punto di vista filosofico non si può
andare oltre l'ambito dell'autocoscienza (il mio spirito – Il “I am hearing a
noise” di Grice) del cogito cartesiano, al contrario la scienza si basa sulla
necessità di fondarsi sul mondo esterno (nel spirito dell’altro –
intersoggetivita). Forse la soluzione di questa antinomia, sostiene Carbonara,
va ricercata nell'insoddisfazione dello stesso idealismo verso se stesso non potendo rinunciare a se stesso ma neppure
al suo opposto -- nec tecum nec sine te -- solus ipse. Si interessa anche
della filosofia rinascimentale a Firenze. Nota come in quel periodo si fosse
realizzata una fusione tra il cristianesimo e il neo-platonismo così come ad
esempio in Ficino prete cattolico che visse la sua fede come teologia razionale
dando una base filosofica, trascurando la stessa rivelazione, alla sua
spiritualità religiosa: In Ficino, il platonismo si congiunge al
cristianesimo non soltanto sul fondamento di una religiosità profonda da cui il
primo appare permeato, ma anche per una tradizione storica ininterrotta, per
cui l'antichissima saggezza, ripensata da Platone e dai neoplatonici, si
ritrova trasfigurata ma tuttavia persistente nei Padri della Chiesa e nei
dottori della Scolastica. Come apprendiamo dall'Epistolario di Ficino, la
sapienza e intesa come un dono divino e come mezzo per cui l'uomo può elevarsi
fino a Dio. Tale principio fu poi appreso da Pitagora, Eraclito, Platone,
Aristotele, i neoplatonici. Riemerse nella speculazione filosofica ispirata
dalla Rivelazione cristiana e si ritrovò quindi in Agostino. Lo stesso Cicerone
figura nella catena dei platonici romani. Riallacciandosi a quella
tradizione e meditando sui testi platonici, Ficino concepí il disegno, portato
a termine di ricostruire su fondamento platonico la teologia il platonismo vi è
considerato come il nucleo essenziale di una teologia razionale i cui princípi
coincidono con quelli della rivelazione. Tale coincidenza è il principale
argomento con cui si riesce a dimostrare l'eccellenza del cristianesimo
rispetto alle altre religioni positive. Del resto Ficino è disposto ad
ammettere che qualsiasi culto, purché esercitato con animo puro, reca onore e
gradimento a Dio. Altre saggi: “L'individuo, i dividui, e la storia; Scienza e
filosofia in Galilei; Esperienza; Umanesimo e Rinascimento (Catania) Del Bello;
Introduzione alla Filosofia (Napoli; Materialismo storico e idealismo critico; Sviluppo
e problemi dell'estetica crociana; I presocratici; Esperienza ed umanesimo
(Napoli) La filosofia di Plotino; “Persona e libertà”; Ricerche di un'estetica
del contenuto”; Esperienza e prassi; Discorso empirico delle arti, Il
platonismo nel Rinascimento. In un momento diverso dalla storica ora presente
offrire in veste italiana alla coltura filosofica del nostro paese il sistema
di dottrina morale secondo i principi della dottrina della scienza di Fichte
sarebbe stata opera già esaurientemente giustificata e dalla grandezza di
quel genio speculativo, e dal vivo crescente interesse del nostro tempo per il
suo originale sistema idealistico-romantico, e dalla capitale importanza che
nella struttura del sistema stesso ha la dottrina morale, e dall’opportunità,
quindi, di agevolare la diretta conoscenza di questa a quanti tra noi non
fossero in grado di leggerla e gustarla nè nella classica (nonostante i
suoi difetti) edizione tedesca dovuta alla pietà filiale di Fichte — divenuta
oggi assai rara, ma di recente lori. Fichte, Das System der Sittenlehre
nach leu Prinzipletl (lev Wìsseuschaftslehre, Jena und Leipzig, Gabler V. il
voi. IV delle Opere complete (Sitmmtliche 1 Werke) di Fichte, edite con assai
utili prefazioni da Eli. Ehm. Fichte (Berlin, Veit e C.), dopo altri tre
volumi di Opere postume (Nachgelasseiie Werlce) apparsi per cura dello
stesso editore a Bonn, ma aggiunti come ultimi agli precedenti. I
difetti, che sono stati rim- fedelmente riprodotta (con tatti i suoi
difetti) da Fritz Me- proverati all’edizione di Fichte figlio, consistono,
tra gl’altri a parte le critiche riguardanti l’ordinamento generale degli
scritti paterni (sulle quali v. Ravà, Le opere di Fichte, Rivista di Filosofia)
in errori di stampa, lacune casuali o soppressioni arbitrarie di una o più
parole, aggiunte o trasposizioni di vocaboli, deposizione dei capoversi e
punteggiatura non sempre quali si avrebbe ragione di aspettarsi, ecc. ;
donde non poche nè lievi difficolta per intendere bene e rendere esattamente in
altra lingua il pensiero dell’autore. La qual cosa ci preme far rilevare, anche
perchè non sembri esagerazione, se diciamo che fu lavoro di non poca
lena, sostenuta soltanto dall’interesse per l’opera fiehtiana, quello da
noi compiuto attorno a una traduzione che ci proponemmo eseguire
con la più 'scrupolosa fedeltà al testo originale, ma, in pari tempo,
curando il più possibile la chiarezza del contenuto e l’italianità della
forma. Al quale duplice fine ci parve opportuno di riportare tra parentesi
curve le espressioni genuine e più caratteristiche dell’autore, quando il
nostro idioma non si prestava a riprodurle se non inadeguatamente ovvero
assumendo un certo aspetto di stranezza, e di chiudere tra parentesi
quadre [ J le espressioni aggiunte dal traduttore con intento interpretativo o
dilucidativo. Il lettore, in tal modo, è sempre messo sull’avviso circa i
punti in cui il linguaggio dell’autore è meno trasparente e può giudicare
se talvolta al traduttore — secondo il noto bisticcio - non sia accaduto di
essere involontariamente il traditore del pensiero tichtiano. TI quale pensiero
riesce tanto più difficile a restituire nella sua forma genuina, in
quanto che esso non solo fu iu continua evoluzione e trasformazione, ma
ebbe dal Fichte, più oratore elio scrittore, le mutevoli formulazioni
occasionali adatte alla predicazione, all’insegnamento e alla polemica, anziché
la stabile struttura definitiva di un’opera d’arte destinata a tramandare ai
posteri il documento autentico di un sistema compiuto; e la Dottrina
inorale, di cui ci occupiamo qui, risente anch’essa, nello stile, del
carattere proprio a quella gran parte delle opere del Fichte, che sono o
riproduzioni o preparazioni, ampiamente elaborate in iscritto, di lezioni
e corsi accademici. Si aggiunga a ciò che la Sit- tenlehre, e nel
contenuto e uella forma, è la continuazione c l’applicazione di quella
Wissetischaflslehre che il Medicus, in una sua monografia dedicata al
Fichte, uou esita a chiamare “ il libro, torse, più difficile che esista
in tutta la letteratura filosofica (sie ist vielleicht das schiiieriijste
Rudi in der yesmnten philósophischen Lucratile) „ (cfr. Grosse Denker,
editi a Lipsia, Verlag
Quelle dicus —, uè nella libera e, proprio nei punti ove H
testo è meno chiaro, monca versione inglese fattane dal Kroeger; (in
francese o in altra lingua non ci risulta sia stata mai tradotta, il che
non ha certo contribuito ad accrescerle et Meyer, senza «lata, <la E.
vou Aster) della Dottrina della Scienza abbiamo iu italiano la traduzione
fattane da A. Tilouer (Bari, Laterza) — j si noti, inline, che il Fichte
figlio sconsigliava il Bouillier dal tradurre in altra lingua quelle, tra le
opere del padre, che non avessero un contenuto popolare e fossero
scritte in una rigorosa forma scientifico-filosofica — ecco le sue parole.
Te conseille de ne pas traduire les oeuvres
scientifiques proprement dites, «:t d’ uno forme philosophique
rigoureuse. 11 est à peu près impossi- ble de les traduire «lana votre
luugne; il faudrait les transformer et eu changer l’exposition. Uue
traduction littérale mirait le doublé iu- convénient de taire violence à
votre 1 angue, et de ne pas reproduire le veritable esprit du système. „ (cfr.
MéUiode pour arrivar à la tir bica heureuse par Udite, traditit par M.
Bouillier, aver, uno Introdaction par Fichte le File, Paris, Ladrango): e
si sarà, speriamo, meglio disposti a giudicare con qualche indulgenza le
manchevolezze anche da noi sentite, ma che non riuscimmo ad evitare, so
pur erano evitabili, iu questa nostra traduzione, in cui la lettera doveva
più che mai venir suggerita e giustificata dallo spirito della dot- liiua
tradotta, onde ci s imponeva di continuo la necessità di ripen- norr e,
per quanto ci fu possibile, di rivivere il pensiero del Fichte. 11 Jmc
Gotti*. Fichte, IVerke, Auswahl in sechs Btinden (mit nielli ci en
Bildnisxen Fichtes ), edizione e introduzione di FimtzMediCUS, Leipzig.
Non intendiamo detrarre nulla alle lodi giustamente! tributate d’ ogni
parte a questa nuova edizione delle principali opere del Fichte, condotta
di recente a termine e salutata nel mondo fìlosofico come un importante e lieto
avvenimento, soprattutto per il contributo che porterà alla diffusione e alla
conoscenza della dottrina lichtiana; dobbiamo soltanto osservare che,
almeno per quanto concerne .1 System der Sittenlehre, di cui diamo qui la
traduzione, la collazione del testo nelfediz. del Medicus non presenta
assolutamenta nulla di diverso e nulla di migliorato, rispetto a quella
curata da Lm. Era. Fichte ; se mai, anzi, qualche errore di stampa in più
; onde essa non ci è stata di nessun aiuto. Tanto per la verità. The Science of Etìlica as based on thè Science
of knowledge by Ioh. Gotti. Fichte, tradnz. di A. E. Kroeoeh. edita da
Harris (London, Kegau Paul, Treucli, Trubner et Co., Ltd.). il numero
dei lettovi). Dorante, poi, l’attuale immane cataclisma bellico che sì
inaspettatamente ha tutta Europa sconvolto e le nostre coscienze profondamente
turbato, in questa tragica ora chè tigne il mondo di sanguigno, perchè
proprio nella terra classica dell’idealismo filosofico, sfrenatasi
l'ebbrezza mistica di una supposta superiorità di razza e di coltura, prevalso
un malinteso spirito di egemonia mondiale, straripata la prepotenza del
militarismo, scatenatisi gli istinti e le cupidigie più basse, la civiltà
sembra inabissata nel buio e la scienza si è trasformata, con scempio di
ogni leggo umana e divina, in strumento di barbarie, rinnegando quel carattere
umano che della scienza è e deve essere la vera, sovrana, immortale bellezza,
in questa immensa mina di tutta la scala dei valori, due forti ragioni di
più — contrariamente a quanto potrebbe parere a prima vista — c’inducono
all’opera stessa: da un lato mostrare con quale serenità, imparzialità e
altezza di vedute noi italiani, che più volte nella storia fummo maestri di
civiltà, sappiamo riconoscere, pur quando gli animi nostri siano
agitati da moti sentimentali avversi, il possente contributo di pensiero
e di moralità che gli spiriti geniali, a qualunque nazione appartengano, hanno
recato alla coltura ; dal- 1’ altro fornire, con la divulgazione delle
dottrine morali di un filosofo tedesco come il Fichte — da cui più
specialmente con grave errore si vorrebbe derivare il pangermanismo una prova
di più della radicale deviazione che le fiualità della Germania odierna,
rappresentata dai Nietzsche, dai Treitschke, dai Bernhardi, dai
Chamberlain, dai Woltmaun, segnano rispetto alle idealità
profondamente umane e universali rifulgenti in tutta la letteratura e in
tutta la filosofia della Germania classica, rappresentata da un Leibniz,
da un Lessing, da un Herder, da un Gboethé, da uno Schiller, da un Kant e
dallo stesso Fichte. Perchè anche il Fichte, al pari del suo grande
predecessoro Kant il filosofo della pace a cui Con esattozza soltanto relativa
egli fu contrapposito come il filosofo della guerra, aspirava, pur con
tutte le esagerazioni essenzialmente teutoniche del suo pensiero, al regno
della ragione, al Vemunftstaat, basato sul riconoscimento del valore dello
spirito quale unico, vero e assoluto valore, e costituito da personalità
autonome e responsabili che devono svolgersi soltanto entro le linee di
un ordinamento razionale del tutto. Che se la magnificazione e la
glorificazione della lingua e del popolo tedesco a cui il Fichte
assurge, a cominciare dai Caratteri fondamentali dell’età presente -- Revue
de Métaphysique et de Morale, l’importante articolo di. Basch, L’Allemagne
classique et le pangermanisme. V. inoltre Sante Ferra ni, Fra la guerra e
V Università (Seatri Ponente); in questo discorso inaugurale dell'anno
accademico all’università di Genova, l'A., dopo avere stigmatizzato con
indignata parola “ la nuova sofìstica, più audace e più operativa
dell'antica, die in Germania per decenni lavorò a eccitare gli spiriti e
a iriebbriarsi nel sogno del dominio mondiale a qualunque patto,,, “ le
iniquità senza pari, corruttrici, vigliacche, brutali, e le violazioni dei
patti più solenni che quel popolo sostituisce al valore degli eroi
pagani, alla cavalleria del guerriero medievale „ e u la volontà sinistra
che informò i metodi alla subdola preparazione dell'immane delitto, invita
a distinguere in'quella nazione lo opere dei grandi avi e quelle dei
uepoti : “ Quali e quante pagine troveremmo nei primi, atto a rintuz- i
zare, a riprovare, a distruggere le smodate ambizioni dell’ oggi ! e
quanti successori vedremmo rinnegati!, e, per antitesi, si ferma a
illuminare nella loro sublime purezza le figure del Kant e a» del
Fichte. Grundziige dea gegenviirtigen Zeilullers (Sanimi!. Werke).
Queste conferenze si direbbero quasi altrettanti aifreschi di filosofia
della storia, di cui lo Herder aveva dato il mo. sino ai Discorsi alla,
nazione tedesca (*), attraverso la serie di opuscoli politici intermedi,
hanno potuto giustamente apparire come la radice del pangermanismo, non
ne segue perciò che il Pielite stesso fosse un pangermanista. u Come
! esclama il Basoh, pangermanista quel Fichte che parla a Berlino,
ancora occupata dai francesi, dinanzi a spie francesi, dopo Auerstftdt e
Iena, dopo Eylau e Fried iand, dopo quel trattato di Tilsit di cui
sappiamo le stipulazioni draconiane ! Chi non vede che appunto perchè il
suo popolo era asservito, umiliato, esposto a essere cancellato dalla carta d
Europa con un tratto di penna del- l’onnipossente imperatore francese, e
appunto perchè la Germania era stata spezzettata, la Prussia smembrata,
egli ha, per legittima reazione e con sflflrzo ammirevole,
esaltato, idealizzato, divinizzato quel popolo, opponendo alla
realtà la visione magnifica di un avvenire che a lui stesso appare
problematico? Le Reden sono un’ utopia ; un’ utopia cento volte quel
Germano autoctono, quel Mutterland, quella lingua madre; e il Fichte lo
sapeva bene e 1’ ha dello, e in cui il Ciclite, con una miscela di
nazionalismo mistico o di cosmopolitismo umanitario, tratteggia a grandi
periodi l’evoluzione dei genere umano dalle sue più lontane origini sino
ai suoi più remoti destini futuri, passaudo attraverso le cinque età: ni
dell’ innocenze o ragiono istintiva, b) dell’ autorità o ragione
coercitiva, c) del peccato o ribellione contro la ragione sia istintiva
sia coercitiva, d) della giustizia o arte della ragione, e) della santità o
scienza della ragione. Reden an die deutsche Nailon (Summit.
Werke). Segnaliamo, tra gli altri, i Discorsi ai combattenti tedeschi all’inizio
della campagna (Reden an die deutschen Kricgev zu All funge des
Feldzuges) (Stillanti. 11 erke t VII) e i dialoghi patriottici, Il patriottismo
e il suo contrario (Dei Patriotismus und sein Gegentheil), (Sananti.
Werke, Nacliyel. Werke). det-.fo egli st.esso. Questa lingua, questo
popolo egli li póne non come già esistenti, ma come qualcosa che bisogna
creare, se si voleva salvare la nazione tedesca dalla rovina totale e
impedire che fosse radiata dal numero dei popoli \ilidipendenti. Questa
lingua e questo popolo non erano una realtà, ma un ideale -- o meglio un
imperativo. Del lèsto non abbiamo avuto anche noi, nella nostra
letteratura, un (fenomeno analogo ai Discorsi alia nazione tedesca,
in <\\i<\PRIMATO MORALE E VIRILE [SIC] DEGL’ITALIANI, in cui,
invertendo, il puuto di vista fichtiano, GIOBERTI costrue una filosofa
della storia non meno utopistica, ma che pur tanti petti sdpsse, taute
anime accese negli anni più belli del nostro riscatto? Che se poi il
saggio eloquente ed essenzialmente. opera di fede di Fichte sia inteso non alla
lettera ma nel suo profondo significato filosofico, spogliato dei suoi
particolari riferimenti spaziali e temporali e considerato sub specie
aeternitatis, allora non solo oltrepassa il valore di ubo scritto
d’occasione, ma si eleva all’altezza di un’ opera sublime, perennemente
suggestiva di nobili pensieri e di eroiche azioni. L’ autore, sempre
ispirandosi a quel suo idealismo immanente, che egli contrappone a [Li
il leit-motiv proprio di tutta la filosofia fichtiana porre il dover
essere ossia 1’idealo come condizione creatrice e ragione sufficiente e
spiegazione finale dell’ u essere ossia del reale. Se il Kant potè dirsi
il Copernico dolla filosofia, in quanto trasferì il punto di vista del
problema filosofico dall' oggetto al soggetto, dall'essere al conoscere, Fichte
può dirsi anch’egli il Copernico della filosofia, in quanto spostò di
nuovo quel punto di vista dal conoscere al fare, dall’essere al
dover-esserc: la vera realtà, il vero assoluto sta per lui nell’ideale,
nel dovere. Rivista di Filosofa. A. Faggi, Il “ Primato „ del Gioberti e i
“ Discorsi alla nazione tedesca „ del Fichte. qualsivoglia dogmatismo,
specialmente se materialistico, sostiene in sostanza che non c’è
possibilità di filosofia e di poesia, di religione e di educazione, di
libertà e di progresso, se non là dove lo spirito crei o trovi in sè, e
in nessun modo attinga dal di fuori, il principio propulsore e
direttivo di tutta l’esistenza. Questo idealismo immanent/ egli chiama
filosofia tedesca, ossia viva, di fronte a qualsiasi filosofia straniera,
ossia morta. E che intende egli, per tedesco ? Non occorre ricordare che secondo il Fichte
vi sono dué sistemi filosofici rigorosamente conseguenti, ciascuno dal
suo punto di vista: il dogmatismo, l’ idealismo. Ul^cio della filosofia è
spiegare l’esperienza, la quale è costituita dalle rappresentazioni delle cose.
Ora si può a) o far derivare la rappresentazione dalle cose, come fa il
dogmatismo, b) o far derivare la cosa dalla rappresentazione, cóme fa
l’idealismo. Lo scegliere l’una piuttosto che l’altra delle dué vie
possibili dipende dal carattere individuale. Un sistema filosofico basterebbero queste parole a mostrare quanta
fede pratica, quanta iniziativa personale ed energia spirituale Fichte mettesse
nella sua filosofia e quanta ne esigesse da chi questa filosofia voglia
comprendere non è uno strumento
inanimato che si possa a piacimento possedere o alienare : esso scaturisce dal
più profondo dell’anima umana: “ Iras far eine Philosophie man wàihle,
hangt... davon ab, was man far ein Mensch ist: demi ein philosophisclies
System ist nicht ein todter Hausrath, dea man ablegen oder abnehmen honnte,
irte es mis beliebte, sonderà es ist beseelt durch die Seele des
Menschen, der es ìiat. „ (Erste Ein leitung in die Wissensehaftsle'ire,
Scimmtl. IVerke). La scelta sarà diversa secondo che prevarrà in noi il
sentimento dell’indipendenza e dell’attività o il sentimento della dipendenza e
della passività; un carattere flaccido per natura, ovvero rilassato e
incurvato dalla schiavitù dello spirito, dal lusso raffinato o dalla
vanità, non s’innalzerà mai all’idealismo: 11 ein von Notar schiaffar oder
durch Geistesknechtschaft gelehrten Luxus and Eitelkeit erschla/fler
und gekrùmmler Chardhter toird sich nie zum Idealismus erheben. E ciò,
indipendentemente dalle ragioni teoretiche che anch’esse dànno
un’incontestabile superiorità di filosofia esaurientemente persuasiva
all’idealismo di fronte all’in9ufficiente e assurdo dogmatismo. Nel
settimo discorso, in cui si approfondisce il .concotto àe]Y originarie là, e
germanicità di un popolo l’autore stesso ha cura di far rilevar^ u con
chiarezza peretta „ ciò che in tutto il suo libro ha intesò per tedesco
(was uoir in unsrer bishcrigen Schilderung unter Deutschen verstanden haben). “
Il vero e proprio punto di divisione egli scrive sta in questo: o si crede che
nell’uomo ci sia qualcosa di assolutamente primo e originario, si crede
nella libertà, nell’infinito miglioramento e nell’eterno progresso della nostra
specie, oppure si nega tutto ciò e si crede di vedere e comprendere
chiaramente che è vero tutto il contrario. Coloro che vivono creando e
producendo il nuovo, coloro che, se non hanno questa sorte, almeno
abbandonano decisamente quel che non ha valore (das Nichtige) e vivono
aspettando che da qualche parte la corrente della vita originaria venga a
rapirli con sè, coloro che, non essendo neppure tanto avanti, almeno
presentono la verità, e non l’odiano o non la paventano, ma l’amano:
tutti costoro sono uomini originari e, considerati come popolo, sono un
popolo vergine (Urvolk), sono il popolo per eccellenza, sono tedeschi.
Coloro, invece, che si rassegnano a essere un che di secondo e derivato e
chiaramente concepiscono e riconoscono sè stessi come tali, tali sono in
realtà, e sempre più tali divengono in forza di questa loro credenza;
essi sono un’appendice della vita che una volta prima di loro o accanto a
loro viveva per impulso proprio, essi sono l’eco che la roccia rimanda
di [S’intitola: Noch tiefere Erfassung der Ursprunglichkeit utid
Deutscheit eines Volkes (Sammtl. Werke, nella trad. ita!. Burich,
Palermo, Sandron). una voce già spenta, e, considerati come popolo, non
sono un popolo vergine, anzi di fronte a questo sono stranieri ed
estranei (Fremete und Andando-) Ecco, dunque, che cosa significa:
tedesco! non già il tedesco considerato Ine et nune, ma il simbolo di un
tipo ideale, onde Fichte, continuando, aggiunge: u Chiunque crede nella
spiritualità, nella libertà e nel progresso di questa spiritualità
mediante la libertà, egli, dovunque sia nalo, qualunque lingua
parli (wo es auch geboren seg und in welcher Sprache cs reile) e
dei nostri, appartiene a noi, ci seguirà; chiunque, invece, crede nella
stasi generale, nella decadenza, nel ricorso circolare e pone a governo del
mondo una natura morta, egli, dovunque sia nato, qualunque^lingua parli,
è non-tedesco (undeutscll), è per noi uno straniero, ed è desiderabile
che quanto prima si stacchi completamente da noi. I Discorsi alla nazione
tedesca, dunque, soltanto occasionalmente si rivolgono al popolo germanico,
mentre nella loro profonda verità si rivolgono a tutti i popoli moderni,
a tutti gli uomini che hanno fede nella libera spiritualità, di
qualunque paese essi siano, additando a ciascuno la via sulla quale si
può servire alla propria patria particolare e insieme alla gran patria comune,
si può essere a un tempo nazionalista e cosmopolita, perchè gl’ interessi
supremi ed essenziali dell’umanità sono sempre e dovunque gli
stessi. Ma a dimostrare in modo* 1 definitivo quanto l’autore
dei Discorsi sia alieno dal cosidetto pangermanismo sta il [ Reden an die
deutsche Nalioti (Stimmll. Werke), il nerette delle parole "
dovunque sia nato ecc. „ è nostro discorso decimoterzo, donde trae maggior luce
il significato di tutti gli altri. Si direbbe che i pangermanisti, ai
quali piace farsi forti dell’auLorità del uostro filosofo, si siano
di proposito arrestati dinanzi a questa sua arringa, che pure è il
punto culminante verso cui tendono le rimanenti e che può dirsi un vero
catechismo antimperialistico. Tutto ciò che all’imperialismo della
Germania odierna sembra l’ideale che essa sarebbe chiamata ad attuare: il
possesso di colonie, l’esclusiva libertà dei mari, il commercio e
l’industria mondiali, le guerre di aggressione e ili conquista, la
barbarie scientificamente organizzata, le vessazioni sui paesi
invasi, la visione di una monarchia universale, l’egemonia
assoluta, vi ò rappresentato come odioso e insensato. Ammettiamo pure che
il Fichte abbia combattuto questa criminosa megalomania perchè essa
s’incarna sotto i suoi occhi nella Francia napoleonica; non è men
vero, però, che l’ideale opposto, a lui caro, rispondeva in modo reciso a
tutta una concezione politica che fa di lui il figlio e il rappresentante
più genuino della rivoluzione francese. La sua vita, i suoi scritti di
filosofia pratica e di filosofia della storia nte sono prova ampia,
piena, sicura, e se anche subirono modificazioni, queste riguardano non il suo
pensiero e i suoi sentimenti, i quali in fondo rimasero sempre gli
stessi, ma le mutate circostanze esteriori, il mutato aspetto della
Francia, divenuta, da repubblicana e liberatrice, imperialistica e liberticida.
Nato popolo figlio di un povero tessitore, infatti, comincia la vita
avviandosi al mestiere paterno e guardando le oche, egli sempre po-
[Kedeii ecc. (Sàmmll. I Verke) polo è rimasto nel più profondo
dell’anima, per quanto ricca e forte sia divenuta poi la sua coltura, a
qualunque sommità della scienza, dell’eloquenza e della gloria
siasi inalzato il sùo genio. Già sin dagl’inizi della sua fama si
rivela un democratico ardente, giacobino quasi, irrecouciliabile avversario di
ogni pregiudizio religioso, politico e nazionalistico. Subito dopo la sua
Rivendicazione della libertà di pensiero dai principi d'Europa die /ino
allora l'acecano oppressa, egli, nei suoi Contributi alla rettifica
dei giudizi del pubblico sulla rivoluzione francese, plaude ai principi dell’89
col fervido entusiasmo d’un uomo la cui classe usciva redenta da quel
grande atto di liberazione sociale, e aterina la sua fede nella
rivoluzione stessa, proclama i diritti del popolo, frusta a sangue il
militarismo, maledice alle guerre mosse da interessi o da capricci
dinastici, e lancia contro principi e monarchie assolute i primi strali di
quell’eloquenza appassionata che fa di lui forse il più grande oratore
della Germania. Zuruckfarderung der Denkfreihe.it von den Filrsten
Europas, die eie bisher unterdriikten (Sdmmtl. If erkeI). Beitriige zar
Berichtigung der Urtheile des PubVcuins iiber die franzòsische Revolution
(Sananti. Werke). In queste sue prime opere politiche, elio per lungo
tempo furono messe all’indice in tutta la Germania, Fichte mostra che la
rivoluzione francese fu il prodotto necessario della libertà del
pensiero, che la persona morale ha il diritto di elevarsi contro lo
Stato, e che l’uomo uscito dalle mani della natura è autonomo, e che è
inalienabile il diritto dei cittadini di moditicare la costituzione, di uscire
da un’associazione politica per crearne una nuova, di fare ciò che
appunto si chiama una rivoluzione. Fine ultimo degli uomini ò la
coltura di tutti per la libertà, ma le monarchie, egli afferma, invece di
lavorare al perfezionamento dei sudditi, sono state centro di depravazione
morale. Come hanno inteso, infatti, i sovrani la coltura dei sudditi a
loro affidati? Sotto forma di educazione alla guerra; perchè, dicono
essi, la guerra coltiva. Qra, è vero che la guerra Il Fondamento del DIRITTO
NATURALE secondo i principi inalza le nostre anime a sentimenti e azioni
eroiche, al disprezzo del pericolo e della morte, alla noncuranza dei
beni continuamente esposti ni saccheggio, a una simpatia per tutto ciò
che ha aspetto umano, perchè i pericoli e i dolori sopportati in comune
stringono di più gli altri a noi. Ma non crediate di vedere in queste mie
parole un panegirico della vostra follia bellicosa, o fors’anco l’umile
preghiera che l’umanità dolente v’indirizzerebbe perchè non cessiate dal
decimarla con guerre sanguinose. La guerra non inalza all’eroismo se non
le anime già per natura eroiche; incita, invece, le anime poco nobili
alla ruberia e all'oppressione della debolezza priva di difesa. La
guerra crea a un tempo eroi e vili rapinatori, ma aitimi ’ delle due
specie quale in numero maggiore ? „ (cfr. Sàmmtl. Werke). Nel
fondare e governare i loro Stati i monarchi mirano a rafforzare la loro
onnipotenza all’interno, ad allargare le loro frontiere all’esterno: due
fini, questi, tutt’altro che favorevoli alla coltura dei loro sudditi. 1
monarchi pretendono di essere i custodi del necessario equilibrio delle
forze europee; ma questo fine, se è il loro, è perciò anche quello dei
loro popoli? “ Credete proprio egli domanda ai principi tedeschi che l'artista
o il contadino lorenese o alsaziano abbia molto a cuore di veder
menzionata la propria città o il proprio villaggio, nei manuali di
geografia, sotto la rubrica dell’impero germanico, e che por ottenere ciò
butti via lo scalpello o l’aratro? Il pericolo della guerra, ossia di ciò
che lede e ferisce a morte la coltura, ultimo fine dell’evoluzione umana,
deriva unicamente dalla monarchia assoluta, la (piale tende per necessità
alla monarchia universale. Sopprimete questa causa, e tutti i mali che ne
derivano scompariranno anch’essi, e le guerre terribili e i preparativi
della guerra, ancor più terribili, non saranno più necessari. Più oltre,
poi, troviamo Fichte antisemita e anti-militarista: antisemita contro quegl’ebrei che
sono refrattari ad assimilarsi alle nazioni in mezzo a cui pluvi vono anti-militarista
contro l’esercito del suo tempo che
mette il proprio onore nella propria umiliazione e trova nell’impunità per le
sue angherie contro i borghesi e i contadini un compenso ai pesi del
proprio stato. E continua. Il più
brutale semi-barbaro crede acquistare con la divisa militare una
superiorità sul contadino timido e spaventato, che sopporta le sue
prepotenze e i suoi insulti per non essere, per soprammercato, anche
bastonato.Il giovincello che può vantare più antenati, ma non certo più
coltura, considera la propria spada come un titolo sufficiente per
guardare dall’alto e con disprezzo il commerciante, l’uomo di scienza e
l’uomo di Stato. \Vilt della Dottrina della scienza e Lo Stato
commerciale chiuso contengono auch’essi una filosofia politica che, scaturita
interamente, oltreché dal pensiero kantiano, dai principi della rivoluzione
francese, supera quel pensiero e questi principi per le conseguenze
economiche che egli fu il primo a trarne, e approda aH’atfermazione di
un diritto dei popoli e di un diritto dei cittadini del mondo
(Volker- und Weltbnrgerrechl) e alla necessità di un’anione di popoli (
Vdlkerbund) ben diversa da uno Stato
di popoli (Volkerstaat) — che garantisca la giustizia e porti
gradatamele alla Pace perpetua (zUm ewigen Friede) Grundlage des Natnrrechte
nach Prinzipien dee ìVissenscliafls Pin e (Siimmil. Werhe, IH). Ber
geschlossene Handelsstaat (StillimiI. Werhe, III). Vediue- auclie la
traduz. ita!, di tì. B. P., Dell'intimo ordinamento di uno Stato ec<\,
Lugano, e l’altra (anonima) Lo Stato secondo ragione e lo Stato
commerciale chiuso, Torino, Bocca. Ecco, sommariamente, la dottrina
politico-economica del Fichte: La radice più profonda dell’Io è l’Io
pratico o la libera volontà; e poiché alla libera volontà di eiasenu
individuo si contrappone quella degli altri, nasce una libera azione
reciproca tra lo diverse volontà individuali, per regolare la quale gli
uomini'hanno concluso IL CONTRATO SOCIALE – “un mito” – H. P. Grice -- da cui è
uscito lo Stato. Nello Stato il potere legislativo appartiene alla comunità dei
cittadini; l’esecutivo può essere affidato sia all’elezione (democrazia), sia
alla cooptazione (aristocrazia), sia all’elezioue e alla cooptazione
insieme (aristodemocrazia). Tutte queste forme di governo sono egualmente
legittime, purché vi sia accanto a esse uu altro potere ìndipendente,
VSforato, il quale decida dei casi in cui il potere esecutivo, essendo
caduto in errori o colpe, deve risponderne dinanzi alla comunità. Oltre a
questo contratto sociale-politico, il Fichte, oltrepassando la prudenza
borghese di Kant, il quale ammetteva come legittima l’ineguaglianza
economica accanto all’eguaglianza politica, istituisce un contratto
sociale-economico (Eitjenthumverlrag) egli proclama originari in ciascun
uomo il diritto alla vita e il diritto al lavoro, e di fronte alla
proprietà privata (prodotti del suolo coltivato, bestiame, case, mobili, ecc.)
dichiara proprietà dello Stato ciò che la natura produce da sola e ciòcia' la
col- sino all’alt,imo anno della sua vita, nelle lezioni sulla
Z>n/- letti vitti produce meglio del
singolo individuo (miniere, foreste, grandi industrie, seryizì pubblici,
ecc.). Per l’elaborazione dei prodotti naturali richiede corporazioni di
competenza tecnica, e sulla qualità o quantità dei prodotti industriali
il diritto di sorveglianza Ha parte dello Stato. Donde segue la necessità
che da uu lato i cittadini ri- uuuzino alla libertà industriale, e
dall’altro si stabilisca uno scambio armonico tra i prodotti naturali e i
prodotti industriali, essendo reciprocamente gli uni indispensabili alla
produzione degli altri. Per questo scambio si è formata la classe
speciale dei commercianti. Per impedire ai produttori di elevare ad arbitrio i
prezzi dei prodotti, lo Stato accumula iu magazzini generali, mediaute
prestazioni in natura degli agricoltori e prestazioni d’opera degli
artigiani, i frutti della terra e gli strumenti del lavoro, si che i
prezzi veugouo livellati. Per obbligare i produttori a vendere, lo stato mette
iu circolazione la moneta, la quale rappresenta la somma di ricchezza che
può essere venduta, e rende possibile a uu produttore di cedere i suoi
prodotti anche in un momento iu cui non gli occorra ancora di prendere in
cambio altri prodotti. E atiinehè sia garantita la proprietà e regolata
la circolazione dei prodotti e mantenuto l’equilibrio tra agricoltori,
industriali e commercianti equilibrio che sarebbe turbato
dall’importazione di prodotti stranieri, dei quali i cittadini debbono
assolutamente poter fare a meno - è necessario che lo Stato vieti tutti
gli accessi ai commercianti di fuori e ai contrabbandieri di dentro, che
sia cioè uno Stato commerciale rigorosamente chiuso. Fichte si
ripromette le conseguenze più vantaggiose per la moralità del popolo
fortunato elio adotti la perfetta chiusura commerciale e viva soltanto di
ciò che ò prodotto e fabbricato dal paese, venduto e consumato nel paese
(cfr. Der geschlossene llandelsstaat, Sàmmll. ÌVerke), e conclude che di li
innanzi sarà la scienza il miglior legame intemazionale tra tutte le nazioni
divenute Stati chiusi : perché “ nessuno Stato della terra, dopoché il
sistema politico-economico dianzi descritto sia diventato universale, e
siasi fonduta pace perpetua tra i popoli, avrà il menomo interesse a celare ad
altri le proprie scoperte, giacché ogni Stato potrà servirsene soltanto
all’interno per il proprio sviluppo e non già per opprimere gli altri
Stati o acquistare una qualsivoglia preponderauza su di essi. Nulla, quindi,
impedirà la libera comunicazione tra i dotti e gli artisti di tutte le
nazioni: di 11 innanzi i giornali, invece di guerre e battaglie, trattati
di pace e di alleanza, conterranno soltanto notizie dei progressi della
scienza, delle nuove invenzioni, del perfezionamento della legislazione e
degli trina dello Sialo, tenute a Berlino, proprio quando la Prussia
si preparava a quella guerra d’indipendenza che egli tanto si era adoperato a
suscitare, si domanda ancora una volta quale sia la guerra
legittima (der Wahrhafte Krieg) e risponde: Una guerra è giusta
soltanto qualora la libertà e l’indipendenza nazionale di un popolo siano
attaccati; gli uomini, per compiere il loro destino, devono formare
società libere, e uno Stato non ha valore se non in quanto può
contribuire all’avvento del regno universale della libertà e della
ragione. A questa guerra veramente popolare vuole Fichte nelle sue
le- ordinamenti di governo; e. ogni Stato si affretterà ad arricchirsi
delle scoperte degli altri popoli.
Nè si ha a temere, del resto, dalla chiusura commerciate dei
singoli Stati il loro isolamento, perchè i rispettivi sudditi, iu quanto
cittadini del mondo (Weltbiirger), circolano liberamente da uno Stato
all’altro, portando seco i diritti inerenti alla persona e alla
proprietà; occorre anzi, per questo, una legislazione comune che
garantisca tali diritti e punisca l’ingiustizia commessa dal cittadino di uno
Stato a danno del cittadino di un altro Stato. I diversi Stati, inoltre,
fanno contratti, concludono trattati e sono rappresentati gli uni presso
gli altri da ambasciatori. Nel caso che uno degli Stati contraenti violi
il contratto, la guerra è 1’ unico mezzo per punirlo di questa
violazione. Ma ogni guerra è aleatoria, e se proprio lo Stato che violò
il contratto rimanesse vittorioso, in quanto più forte?! A evitare tale
ingiustizia bisogna che un’Unione distati, meglio ancora, un’unione di
popolim Vslkerbund, s'impegni a punire, viribus uniti, lo stato che,
appartenente o no all’unione, si rifiuti di riconoscere l’indipendenza
degli stati uniti o violi un contratto concluso con uno di essi, Orundlage
des Nata rrechts nach Prinsipien der Wissenscliaftslelire, Sa minti- Werke.
Quanto più questa unione si allarga, estendendosi a poco a poco su tutta
la terra, tanto meglio è assicurata la pace perpetua, der ewige Friede,
che è il solo rapporto legale tra gli stati. La guerra dev’essere soltanto
mezzo al fine supremo, che è la conservazione della pace; mai fine a sé stessa.
Die Slaalslehre oder uber das Verhaltniss des Urstaates zum
Vernunftreiche (Siimintl. Werke). zioni preparare gli uditori, perchè è questa
la guerra legittima, la guerra cioè in cui non si tratta di
famiglie regnanti, ma in cui il popolo si leva a difendere la propria
vita, la propria individualità, le proprie prerogative, la guerra a eui
soltanto i vili vorrebbero sottrarsi, e per cui invece i cittadini con
esultanza daranno i loro beni, il loro sangue, rifiutando ogni proposta
di pace sino a che non siano garantiti contro ogni minaccia ulteriore. L’oratore,
è vero, contrappone ancora una volta qui il carattere germanico al
carattere neolatino e specialmente al francese, per concluderne che non
bisognava aspettarsi certo da un Napoleone, strangolatore della nascente
libertà della Francia rivoluzionaria, l’attuazione del regno di giustizia
che l’architetto del mondo affidava invece al popolo tedesco; ma ciò
attesta anche come il filosofo patriota fosse sempre sotto la medesima
ispirazione che lo animava veut’anni prima nel suo entusiasmo per
la rivoluzione francese; e, malgrado tutte le apparenze in contrario, è
sempre la medesima ispirazione quella che traspare nel Disegno ili uno scritto
politico della prima cera, destinato a illustrare il proclama del re di PRUSSIA
“ Al mio popolo, quivi il Fichte, se, dinanzi al pericolo mortale che
minacciava la nazione tedesca, riconosce la necessità di porle a capo
come despota sovrano (Zwingherr) il re di PRUSSIA, uou perciò rimane meno
fedele al suo ideale democratico; per lui
ha dovuto riconoscerlo lo stesso [Veber den Begriff des wahrhaften
Krieges (Summit. Werke) «a dem Entwurfe zu etnei- politischen Schrift
ini FruhUnge (Stimma. Werke). Treifcscbke la Repubblica, senza re, senza
principe, senza signori, è sempre il vero Stato di ragione. Passato
il pericolo, il sovrano stesso dovrà adoperarsi con tutte le sue forze a
disabituare i suoi sudditi dalla soggezione, a Fichte nini die nationale
Idee, in Historische und politiseli Aufsalse, 4. ediz. Leipzig, Hirzel. Nodi
inumo- sehwebt ihm als hòchtes Zini vor Augeu eine “ Republik dei-
Deutschen oline FUrsten und Erbadel dodi er begreift, dosa diesea Zini
in weiter Ferne liege. Fui- jetzt gilt ee da* “ die Deutscbeu sioh
selbst mit Bewus 9 tsein maoheu „ ». Si, è vero, il Fichte colloca in
un tempo ancora assai lontano la vagheggiala attuazione del suo
ideale repubblicano, al punto che uno ilei frammenti di una sua opera
politica, scritta a Kònigsberg e rimasta incompiuta s’intitola: La repubblica
tedesca sotto il suo V." protettore (Die Republik der Deutschen su Anfani des
sirei- und zwanzigsten Jahrhunderls, un ter ihrem fiinften Reichsvogtei,
ina intanto quale coraggioso e severo linguaggio rivoluzionario egli
tiene contro i principi alemanni, cosi in questo frammento come altrove! Cou la
spietata crudeltà del chirurgo che, per guarire radicalmente una piaga
purulenta, affonda il bisturi nel pili vivo delle carni, egli mette a
nudo tutti i difetti e le turpitudini del suo tempo e del suo paese e
propone come rimedio una nuova costituzione, la quale dovrebbe stabilire
l’eguaglianza di tutti' i popoli teutonici e non ammettere altra disuguaglianza
tra gl’individui elio non sia quella del- p ingegno; una costituzione adatta
a una nazione come la germanica, la quale, die’egli, pressoché incurante
del giudizio dello altre nazioni, ha la caratteristica di raccogliersi in se
stessa e di min chiedere nulla più che di vivere pacificamente secondo il
proprio genio. Una nazione, la quale, còme la tedesca, non mira che ad
affermare e conservare per sé la propria torma disesistenza (ibr
eigentìiiimliches St'jti) e in nessun modo a imporla ad altri
(keinesweges anderen es aufzudringen), non senza intenzione é stata
collocata in mezzo a popoli, i quali, tosto che abbiano acquistato una mediocre
quantità di coltura, sentono il bisogno di diffonderla al di fuori;
nell’eterno disegno della storia umana essa è destinata a servire di diga a
questa intempestiva invadenza e a fornire non solo a sé stessa, ma a
tutti gli altri popoli d’Europa la garanzia di poter progredire, ciascuno
a suo modo, verso il fine comune (sie seg [die deutsche Natimi ],
im eteigen Entwurfe eines Menschengeschlechles jm Qanzen, bestimint,
als ein Damm dazustehen gegen jene unzeitige Zudringlichheit, und
uni renderli, in altri termini, capaci di fare a meno di lui.. u Se
cosi non dovesse avvenire nel futuro della Germania — esclama egli con
forza importerebbe poco che una
parte di essa fosse governata da un maresciallo francese come
Bernadotte, nel cui spirito almeno sono passate le visioni entusiasmanti
della libeità, piuttosto che da un signorotto tedesco, tronfio
d’orgoglio, immorale e di una brutalità e di un’arroganza sfrontate „
('). Quando si leggano queste parole contenute in quel medesimo Scritto
politico della primavera. ISIS, che non interamente a torto si è potuto
considerare come il luogo letterario in cui l’autore si è più inoltrato
sulla via del nazionalismo, e quando si ricordi il noto particolare della
vita del Fichte, ili avere cioè dopo la disastrosa campagna di Russia, impedito
come un orrendo delitto il macello a tradimento della guarnigione
lfaucese rimasta a Berlino, chi vorrà ancora vedere nel nostro filosofo
un pangermanista a cui si possa far risalire la responsabilità non solo
delle teorie insensate degli odierni teutomani, ma persino del cinismo
satanico con cui e per terra e per aria e per mare pretendono apnichf
tuie sich, sonderà nudi alien anderen europaischen Vblkern die Garantie
zu leisten, ilass sie auf dire eigene Weise laufen konnten zìi detti
gemeinsamen Siete) (Sdmmtl. Werke). Quale stridente contrasto tra
l'ufficio storico-politico che il Pielite assegnava alla nazione tedesca o
quello che la Germania odierna pretende arrogarsi ! Aus dem Enluourfe eie.
{Siimitili. ÌVerke). « Weun wir dahor nieht im Auge behielten, vvas
Deutschland zu werden hat, so 18ge an sich nicht so viel durun, ob ein
franzusischer Marscliall, wie Bernadotte, an dem weuigstens friiher
begeisternde Bilder der Freiheit voriibergegangen sind, oder ein
deutscher aufgehaseuer Edel- maun, ohne Sitten uud mit Rohlieit und
frechem Ueberrauthe, iiber eineu Theil von Deutschland gebiete. ] plicarle
i novelli barbari odierni, i rossi devastatori joiù veri e maggiori dello
stesso Attila flagellum Dei? Tanto più tempestivo, e tanto più salutare e
confortevole ci sembra, dunque, dinanzi alla mostruosa degenerazione del senso
morale di cui dà spettacolo l’odierna nazione tedesca, ostentando di non
riconoscere altro diritto all’infuori del despotismo e della forza bruta,
rievocare dalla letteratura classica di questa stessa nazione la dottrina
morale di uno dei più grandi assertori e della forza del diritto e del
diritto che individui e pispoli hanno alla giustizia, all’indipendenza,
alla libertà. Chi abbia seguito nella storia della filosofia le
vicende toccate alla dottrina di
Fichte ('), avrà notato come al grande entusiasmo e ai vivaci
dibattiti suscitati dal suo primo apparire succedesse per vari decenni un
immeritato oblio, dovuto al predominio delle 1 dottrine uscite dal
suo seno e specialmente dello hegelismo, i cui rappresentanti,
imponendo alla storia della filosofia un loro preconcetto di scuola,
quello cioè di non tener conto nella speculazione prehegeliana se non di
quanto avesse contribuito a preparare il sistema del loro maestro, avevano
abituato a vedere nel Fichte nulla più che il pensatore da cui era
derivato un deciso indirizzo idealist ico alla speculazione post kantiana.
Vani furono gli sforzi del figlio ilei Ficht.e, Ema- Ofr. in proposito A.
Ravà, Introduzione allo studi» tirila filosofia (li Fichte, Modena,
Formiggiui, V., per es., Karl Ludw. Michelet, Geschichte der lefzten
Sy- steme der Philosophie in Deutschland voli Kant bis Hegel (Berlin), in
cui alla prima filosofia del Fichte seno dedicate le miele Ermanno, per
mostrare il valore che la filosofia, paterna aveva per sè stessa. Soltanto col
risvegliarsi dello spirito nazionale germanico, risorse la fortuna del
grande rigeneratore della coscienza tedesca, del filosofo popolare,
dell’oratore eloquente, del fervido nazionalista, ilei supposto pangermanista;
ma, appunto per questa circostanza, l’attenzione fu rivolta di
preferenza alla sua filosofia politica, arbitrariamente o
artificiosamente interpretata, e il centenario della nascita del Fichte fu
solennemente celebrato da tutta la Germania ilei voi. I, e alla seconda
filosofia; A. Oli', avendo avuto il torto di prendere quest’opera come
guida principale per una conoscenza della filosofia tedesca postkantiana,
fu trattò a un’eccessiva reazione contro il Kant e contro lo
hegelismo nel suo libro: Hegel ri la philosophie allemande (Paris).
Di Em. Ehm. Fichte, oltre le Prefazioni (dianzi ricordate) a vari degli
undici voli, delle Opere complete di G. A. Pielite, vedi ancora: i
Beitràge sur Charuk'teristik dar ncueren Philosophie (Sulzbach) di cui la
2.“ ediz. può considerarsi come un’opera nuova; il voi. Fichte ' s Lehen
and litterarlscher Briefwechsel (Sulzbach, ISSO), con cui, prima ancora
che con la pubblicazione delle opere, cercò richiamare l’attenzione sulla
personalità e sull’attività pratica del padre, affinchè nascesse cosi
gradatamente anche l’interesse per il suo pensiero; e infine V Introduci
ion (in frane.) alla Méthodc pour arriver à la vie blenheureuse par
Fichte (traduz. Bouillier) (Paris). V., per es.: t due voli, del Busse,
Fidile und sei ne Bezìehung zar Gegenwart des deutsehen Volkes (Halle),
la conferenza dello Zeli.eh, l'idi lo aìs Politiker (ristampata in
Zelleh, Vor- Irdgr und Abliandlinigen, Leipzig) e l’opuscolo del
Lassalle, Melile's poìilisches Vermdchtnis and die neuesle Gegenwart
(Hamburg, ristampato in Lassallk, Reden und Schriflen, Berlin). Bisogna, invece,
uscire dalla Germania per trovare un’esposizione prettamente storica e
serenamente obiettiva di tutta la filosofia del Fichte quale si ha nella solida
opera del Willm, Histoire de la Philosophie allemande drpttis Kant
jusqu’k Hegel (Paris), opera premiata, su relazione del de iléinusat,
dall'istituto di con significato più politico che filosofico; mia singolare fatalità, poi, (che
sembra un’ironia della storia a chi intenda il vero senso delle teorie
politiche del Fichte) ha voluto che il cèntenario della sua morte coincidesse
con l’irrompere improvviso della premeditata aggressione pangermanistica!
Francia e ancora utile e pregevole, nonostante la sua vetustà; la si può
leggere con profitto anche dopo le ampie ed eccellenti monografie
posteriori del Fischer (Fichles Leben,\Verke und Lehre, Heidelberg) e del Leon
(La philosophie de Fichte et ses rapportò uvee la conscience coti tempo
faine, Paris), il quale ultimo dedica al suo soggetto un lungo studio e un
grande amore. Questo carattere politico-nazionalistico degli scritti
usciti in occasione del centenario del Fichte fu ben rilevato da von
Rkichi.IN- Memusco nel suo articolo l)er hundertòte Geburistng ./. O. Fichtes (in Zeitschrift fiir Philosophie uud philos. Kritih,
Halle). Vedine
la lunga lista nell’UKBERWKO-HEiNZE. Grundriss der Geschiclite dcr
Philosophie, IV, Berlin; qui basti ricordare per tutti il discorso già citato
del Treitbchke, Fichte i ind die nutionale Idee. L’uso e l’abuso del
Fichte a scopi patriottici e imperialistici non cessa io Germania col conseguimento
dell'unità tedesca. Più di una volta le conferenze tenute nelle università
tedesche in occasione del natalizio dell’imperatore hanno avuto per argomento
preferito la personalità o qualche dottrina particolare di Fichte: per
es., all’università di Strasburgo, terra di conquista, Windelband fa
un’alta affermazione di germanismo parlando dell’idea dello stato tedesco
secondo Fichte; Windelband, Fiehte's Idee des dentschen Stante, Freiburg i.
Breisgau. All’università di Kiel, Martius inneggia al cinquantesimo anno
di Guglielmo II, ricordando la vita e l’opera d’un uomo, il quale
grandemente co-opera all’elevazione e all’emancipazione delle forze
morali della Germania, e della cui azione efficacissima, insieme e accanto
alla concezione politica dello Stein, ricorre oggi il centenario; d’un uomo,
a cui appunto ora la nazione tedosca si appresta a dimostrare la propria
gratitudine inalzandogli un monumento nella capitale [e il monumento è poi
sorto a Berlino], insomma, di Fichte, (Redc zur Feier des Geburtstages
seiner Majeshit des Deutschen Kaisers Kdttigs von Preiissen Wilhelm 11 von Golz
Martius, Kiel). Se tra molti scritta' rolli di occasione cominciò ad
apparire qualche studio serio di tutta l’opera fichtiaua, il suo aspetto,
per lo spostamento dell’attenzione dal lato politico ai fondamenti teoretici
del sistema, è non meno unilaterale di quello che continuarono a
presentare, in tempi più recenti, le dissertazioni te le monografie sulla
dottrina giuridico-sociale del [Ricordiamo, per es.: Lòwio, Die
Philosophie Fichte’s iiach (lini Gesaimntergehnisse ihrer EntuHchelung
und in ihrem Verhiiltnitise zìi Kant unii Spinosa, Stuttgart [l’Autore, seguace
del dualismo de[ Giintlior e perciò d’indirizzo radicalmente opposto
a tinello di Fichte, mira specialmente a mostrare la logica
coerenza in cui le due diverse forme assunte dal sistema fichtiauo
stanno al principio fondamentale del sistema stesso anche là dove, secondo lui,
si contraddicono, pei concluderne l’insufficienza del principio stesso]; il
L.\s- soN, .Fichte Un Verhaltniss zu Kirche und Slaat (Berlin)
[l’Autore, dominato, com’è, dall’ idea religiosa quale può rientrare
nella concezione hegelismi, considera fondamentale la seconda forma
della lilosolia lichtiana, quella in cui prevale il pensiero religioso,
pur giudicandola non riuscita e insoddisfaeeute] ; e sopra tutti il già
ricordato Fibciusr, Fichtes Leben, Werke und Lehre (Heidelberg, Geschichtc
der neueren Fhilosophic) opera veramente classica per la larghissima
e accuratissima esposizione di quasi tutte le opere del grande
idealista; in essa si sostiene la tesi che le due forme della filosofia fichtiana
non sarebbero che duo opposte direzioni assuute rispetto allo stesso
principio fondamentale del sistema: uel primo periodo il Fichte, partendo
dalla lilosolia teoretica, si sarebbe elevato alla filosofia del diritto, alla
lilosolia morale, alla filosofia religiosa, all'Assoluto; quivi, infatti,
il postulato di quell'ordiuamento morale del mondo, che per lui la tutt
uno con 1 In assoluto e con Dio (die lebendige unii loirkende moralische
Ordnung itti selbst Goti), è il punto di arrivo; noi secondo periodo,
invertito il cammino e trasformato quel postulato da punto di arrivo in
putito di partenza, il Fidilo avrebbe preceduto dall’Assoluto alla
religione, alla morale, al diritto e alla scienza. — Più denigratore che
profoudo è stato giustamente giudicato, infine, il libro del NoàCK, J. G.
Fichte nach sei non Leben, Leliren und Wirken (Leipzig). filosofo
tedesco, inopportunamente staccata da tutto il resto deli’edifizio
speculativo. Anche nella maggior parte degli odierni studi storici
sul Lichte divenuti più che mai frequenti dopoché al moto neo-kantiano
iniziatosi al grido: ritorniamo al Kant! (zurìick zu Kant!) si associò,
come orientamento filosofico, un moto neo-fichtiano: ritorniamo al
Fichte!j(zuriick zu Fichte!) che è andato sempre più accentuandosi
dagli ultimi decenni del secolo scorso ai giorni nostrf è \11 ritorno a Kant si suole farlo
risalire alla celebre lezione dello Zellar: Ueber die Bedeutung und
Aufgabe der Er/ iJnntnistheorie (Heidelberg); ma già il Weisse
pronunziava a Lipsia un discorso: In welchem Sitine sich die deutsche
Philisopkie wieder a " Kanl zu orientieren hai (Leipzig),. dal quale
si rileva la sua avversione alla dialettica hegeliana e il suo sforzo por
contrapporre al panteismo idealistico un teismo etico. n? V '
m P ro P oa ìto I’Uebeuweg-Hbinzb, Grundtjss der Geschichle (ter
p/iilosop/tie seit Beginn des neunzehnten Jahrhundcrts (Berlin), Elnwìrkung
Fichtes auf neuere Lahren. Se ne ricava il largo é potente influsso che
la filosofia fichtiana, intesa sia come idealismo soggettivo, sia come
idealismo etico, sia come panpsichismo, ha esercitato e sopra le varie nuove
dottrine sorte in Germania e sopra menti speculative di altri paesi
(Inghilterra, Nord-America, ecc.). Per la recente e assai ricca letteratura
intorno al nostro filosofo vedi lo stesso voi. dell’Uebervveg-Heinze,
Baldwin, Dictionary of philosophy and psychology, London, e per quella
recentissima, ancor yù abbondante, cfr. i
voli, editi da Rude, Die P/iilosop/tie der Gegemoarl (Heidelberg) e
contenenti pressoché tutta la bibliografia filosofica. Nel centenario della
morte del Fichte e scoppio della guerra europea) la Bibliotheh fUr
Philosop/tie, edita da Stein, pubblica l’opuscolo di Stàhler, Fichte, ein
deutscher Den/ter (conferenza tenuta nel circolo tedesco di Charcow in Russia),
in cui FA., movendo dal bisogno spirituale oggi sempre più intensamente
sentito di una nuova orientazione circa la concezione del mondo, affermava
essere appunto Fichte il più atto a fornire una chiara risposta alla questione,
una forse da rilevare una certa esclusività d’interesse, corrispondente
all’ interesse prevalentemente critico e gnoseologico che ha animato siuo a
ieri il pensiero contemporaneo; di guisa che in questa rifioritura di
studi fichtiani, mentre alla teoria della conoscenza ò assegnato
per lo più il posto d’onore, le altre parti del sistema, in ispecie le più
pratiche, vengono relativamente lasciate nell’ombra. Il che nuoce alla
dottrina e anche alla figura del nostro filosofo, le quali così risultano
monche e diminuite, e spesso oscurale e falsate; quando invece Fichte reclamava
sempre e vivamente che i futuri critici non giudicassero la sua
concezione se non nella sua totalità, se non ponendosi cioè in quel punto
di vista centrale, da cui si dominano e s'illuminano tutti gli aspetti; tanto
più, poi, che nessuu’altra concezione come la sua aspirava a essere una
rigorosa unità, organica, inscindibile, completa, a rispecchiare, quasi,
queiraltra rigorosa unità, altrettanto massiccia quanto severa e
semplice, che era la personalità stessa di Fichte, il quale appartiene
all’eletta schiera di spiriti eminenti che nella storia deH’uinauità
seppero unire in intima connessione la speculazione filosofica con la
vita vissuta, fondendo armonicamente pensiero e azione, investendo del medesimo
prorisposta che 11 non ha nè corna nè denti (die u tceder Horner nodi
Zàhne hai), ed essere sempre Fichte “ la stella polare (der Leit- sternj
verso la quale possiamo di nuovo orientare la nostra vita e il nostro
sapere „ (cfr. la prefazione). Peccato che l’opuscolo dello Srahler
uscisse accompagnato nello stesso anno da altri due volumetti della stessa
Biblioteca, riguardanti, sebbene con intento puramente storico, figure
filosofiche ben diverse dall’ideale figura del Fichte, e di significato
più sintomatico in quel nefasto anno, e cioè: il Protagoras-Niclzsche-Stirner
di B. Iachsiann e il Nietzsches Metaphysik- limi ihr Verhdltniss zu
Erkenntnialheorie u. Ethih di S. Flemming. fondo interesse le più fredde
concezioni astratte della ricerca teoretica e le più ardenti questioni
concrete dell’attività pratica, intensificando la luce diffusa dalla loro
opera in- stauratricè nel campo del sapere col calore irradiantesi
dalla loro missione riformatrice nel campo del dovere. E invero non
si può negare al sistema del nostro filosofo la sua principale caratteristica :
quella di essere cioè È veramente ammirevole in Fichte che Zeller
giustamente definiva anche per il carattere morale un idealista nato il rapporto stretto che uni sempre la
sua vita alla sua dottrina. Jamais la
manière d’agir et di sentir cosi scrive Bauthoi.mf.ss nella sua
Ili- gioire critique des doefriu^s religieuses de la philosophie moderne
(Paris) — jamais la conduite et l’àrae ne fu- rent séparées chez lui de
la manière de penser et de voir. Ce qu : il croyait était eu méme temps
le nerf de sa volonté, le soufflé et. l’inspiration de son existence entière.
Prenant au sérieux tous les mou- vements de son intelligence, il vonlait
vivre de ce qu' il coucevait, et taire vivre ce qu’ il savait, cornine il
ne vonlait savoir que ce qu’ il pouvait aimer, admirer et pratiquer. Ce
n’ótait pas lii l’héroique effet d’uu parti pris, c’était le propre de sa
naturo méme, où lo seu- timent de la valeur morale, de la diguité
personnelle, se confondait avec une telle hauteur de pensée, avec une
hardiesso de speculatimi si intrèpide, qu’ elle pouvait, semidei- la
rósolution d’nn caractère l'u- domptable. La ilestiuée, il est vrai,
avait surtout coutribué à Pac- croissemeut de nette énergie, de cette
trempe primitive. Fiofite avait eu longtemps à combattre, non seulement
des adversaires et des enne- mie, mais les soucis et la misère, le froid
ot la faim. Avant, do lutter pour la libertà de penser et pour P
indépendance de sa patrie, il avaiti pour s'assurer le pain dn jour,
endnré tout.es les rigueurs matórielles ot sociales; et de tant
d’èpreuves diverses, il était sorti plus vigoureux, plus courageux, plus
convaiucu de ce que peut et vaut la no- b lesse d’àme. Ausai ne
saurait-ou contempler, sans ètre à.la foia tou- chó et fortifié, le
tableau de ses souffrauces et de ses victoires, na'i- vemeut et
inodesteraeut trace dans cette Vie et correspondance, qu’ a publiée lo
lils qui porte si eonvenablemeut son illustre nom. con tutti i suoi difetti, i
suoi errori e, diciamolo pure, la sua oscurità un vero sistema. In esso
trovi subito un’idea che l’ha generato tutto quanto, che ne è il
centro, l’anima e ne fa l’unità : idea ovunque presente e ovunque
feconda, da cui nascono il metodo, le divisioni, gli svolgimenti, le
applicazioni, e da cui germogliano in ogni direzione soluzioni, buone o
cattive, a tutti i problemi teoretici e pratici. Esso è non solo uno nel suo
insieme e omogeneo nelle sue parti, ma universale: tutte le grandi questioni
intorno a Dio, all’uomo, alla natura, e ai loro rapporti, rientrano nel suo
quadro e vi si coordinano; vi si potranno notare lacune, rifacimenti,
mutevolezza di atteggiamenti e di espressioni, indefinitezza di disegno e
incompiutezza di linee, ma ciò va attribuito più alle contingenze
esteriori in mezzo a cui il sistema si svolse (‘), che non alla sua idea
ispiratrice, la quale, posta l’universalità della dottrina a cui dà vita,
non poteva non esercitare un influsso auch’esso universale sulla coltura del
tempo e delle età posteriori sino a noi, assicurando così al nome
dell’autore una fama imperitura nella storia dello spirito umano. Intorno itilo
svolgimento del pensiero fichtiano et'r. \V.Kaiutz, S ludi<’u z.
EnUoicklungsgeschichU der Fichteschen Wissemchaftslehre (Berlin) e nnolie
E. Focus, Vom Werden rlreier Denker : Fichte, Schelling, Schleiermachcr, Tiibingen.
cfr. anello IC. Voit LÀNDlSK, Geschichte der Philosophie, Leipzig, Schlegel
considera la Wissenschaftslehre di Fichte una delle “ tre maggiori
tendenze del secolo (circi griissten Tetidenzen iteti Jahrshunderts) „
accanto al Wilhelm Meister del Goethe e alla Rivoluzione francese. E
innegabile che il filosofo di Jena fu il filosofo per eccellenza della scuola
romantica, le cui idee, a giudizio concorde degli storici e in
particolare dello I-Iaym, che su ciò insiste ctm forza (cfr. Die
romantische Schuie), sono derivate in Quale questa idea ispiratrice? È
l’idea più alta e, pei la coscienza comune, la più paradossale che sia
sorta nella storia della filosofìa : la sintesi, cioè, di due termini in
apparenza così inconciliabili come l’io e il non-io, il conoscere e l’essere,
la libertà e la necessità, lo spirito e la natura, nel monismo superiore, nella
“ superiore filosofia (Jiohere Phihsophie) direbbe lo Schelling, della
libertà. Il sistema del Fichte consiste, intatti, in una * filosofia
della libertà e poiché il suo principio metafisico s’identifica con l’ideale
morale, giustamente fu chiamato un Idealismo elico. La vecchia metafisica
s’intitolava scienza dell’essere, ontologia, e nell’essere riponeva
l’assoluto, il reale, e dall’essere derivava ciò che dev’essere l’ideale.
Secondo Fichte, invece l’assoluto, il
principio ultimo e supremo da cui veniamo e a cui tendiamo non ù 1 essei e,
ma grandissima parte dalla Dottrina tirila scienza. E si spiega la
predi- lezione dei romantici per un sistema come il ttchtiano, il «piale
trasforma il kantismo ancora esitante in un idealismo assoluto, e a tutto
uscire, sotto il rispetto metafisico, da «piella stessa genialità dell’
lo, da cui i romantici tutto derivavano sotto il rispetto estetico. Fu
detto anche Idealismo soggettivo, ma tale definizione e ei- ronea, perchè
V Io che il Fichte pone al principio di tutto il suo sistema non è l’io
individuale, sì bene 1 ’/o collettivo, universale, che sta a fondamento
di tutti gl’individui, l’/o,assoluto, l’originaria incognita X, dalla cui
unità, ancora chiusa in sè stessa e incosciente, dovrà uscire, in virtù
di quel misterioso urto (Ansiosa), che è il t eus er m china di tutta la
metafisica Uchtiana, l’antitesi cosciente del soggettivo e
dell’oggettivo. Il mio lo assoluto - dice Fichte - non è l’individuo;
soltanto cortigiani offesi e filosofi irritati contro di me hanno cosi
male interpretato la mia filosofia, per attribuirmi l’infame dottrina
dell’egoismo pratico (mein absolutes Teh tst mcht das Individuili» ; so
haben beleidigte Hóflinge und drgerhchc Phiìo- sophm mich erklàrt, uni
mir die sehandliche Lehre des prahtischen Egoismus anzudichten. Cfr. G.
Ws ioi.lt. Zar GescMchte derneue reti Philosophie (Hamburg). il
dovere, è un ideale che non è, ma dev'essere. L’essere in quanto essere,
in quanto quid stabile e compiuto, in quanto cosa o materia inerte, a
rigore non esiste ; la fissità, l’immobilità di ciò che chiamiamo sostanza, sostrato,
materia, non è che apparenza. Agire, tendere, volere, ecco in che
consiste la realtà vera. L’universo è il fenomeno della Volontà pura, il
simbolo dell’ Idea morale, che è la vera cosa in se, il vero Assoluto.
Filosofare significa com vincersi che l'essere non è nulla, che il dovere
è tutto; significa riflettere sul proprio io empirico, individuale,
unica ultivilà libera che tende incessantemente ad attuare ciò che dev'
essere, ossia il Dovere, il Bene, /.’ Io assoluto, universale; significa
acquistare la coscienza di por- lare con sè la libertà che crea e
soggioga il mondo, appunto per attuare il Dovere, il Bene, l'Ideale
morale, l Io o la Libertà assoluta. Il Kant aveva bene ammesso
che il soggetto, ossia la ragione e la libertà, impone una forma e una
legge agli oggetti della conoscenza: dell’ Io egli aveva fatto, si,
il legislatore del mondo, ma non era giunto a farne addirittura il
creatore; poiché aveva lasciato sussistere ancora, ili fronte al
soggetto, uu oggetto, una cosa in sè, capace d’imporre un limite al
soggetto. Per il Fichte, invece, il quale dà all’ io empirico un
significato universale, questa pretesa cosa in sè, ultimo residuo del
dogmatismo, è una chimera che bisogna esorcizzare, perchè è
semplicemente la parte dell’ Io ancora incosciente che il progresso
della conoscenza trae a poco a poco alla luce della coscienza ;
sarebbe assurda, infatti, di fronte alla Libertà assoluta, alIo assoluto e
universale, una materia non creata da lui e a lui imposta dal di fuori. E
poi, questa misteriosa cosa in sè. supposta al ili là di ogni conoscenza,
questo essere senza intelligenza, a che si riduce, se non a un
contenuto mentale (Oeilankending ) e quasi a un fantasma, creato da
noi stessi a spiegarci le sensazioni e le rappresentazioni che in noi
sorgono, non per libera creazione nostra, ma prodotte dal di fuori. Se un
limite esiste all'attività del- ]> jo, gli è perchè l ’lo stesso lo
pone liberamente alla propria attività illimitata, con lo scopo di avere il
modo di sopprimerlo e di esentare cosi quella stessa attività propria e
di rivelare a si stesso la propria essenza, che è la libertà. La moralità
e la virtù, del resto, non suppongono lo sforzo e la lotta? bisogna,
dunque, per attuarle, crearsi perenue- mente ostacoli e superarli; onde V
Io nel primo momento della propria evoluzione “ pone sè stesso, tesi, nel
secondo momento u contrappone a sè il non-Io, antitesi, e nel terzo
momento si riconosce nel non-Io, sintesi. Tre aiti, questi, a cui corrispondono
i tre modi di esistenza, i tre oggetti del sapere, che sono l’io, il
mondo, il tu. Guai se l’7o desistesse un solo istante dali’esercizio
della propria libera attività! cesserebbe immantinente di esistere;
di qui il carattere titanico che il Fischer ammira nel- p Jo fichtiano,
destinato per natura sua a continuamente agire, produrre, volere. Per
approssimarsi in qualche modo al concetto dell lo iich- tiauo nel quale
va ricercato il fondamento di ogni esperienza, giova fare completamente
astrazione da qualsiasi contenuto rappresentalo della nostra coscienza
empirica. Dopo questa immensa sottrazione, si consideri la
rappresentazione più vuota che possa pensarsi, 1 unica affermazione che
non abbisogni di nessuna dimostrazione, il principio logico d’identità: A
è A, col quale uon si afferma nemmeno che zi esiste, ma soltanto che: se
A esiste, A dev’essere A. Orbene, quantunque con tale affermazione si formuli
soltanto una vuota venta e Un cosi intenso idealismo non era mai
sorto prima.del Pielite. Esso insegna che il variopinto e multisono
mondo sensibile, che si estende nello spazio e si svolge nel tempo,
non ha esistenza propria e indipendente : 1’ unico ch'e veramente esista è l’
lo. E lo stesso Io esiste solo in quanto agisce. Dal suo operare, dal suo
rifrangersi in In e non-lo, sorge per lui il mondo visibile, percepibile
e connesso da non i ponga
nessuna esistenza, si compie, tuttavia, un atto del pensiero, un giudizio, e un
giudizio d’incrollabile certezza, il quale porta direttamente a porre e a
riconoscere 1'esistenza reale dell’/o. Infatti, donde proviene il verbo “è”
con cui il primo A è messo in relazione col secondo A, il soggetto col
predicato? Il nesso tra i due termini del giudizio è beu soltanto nell’/o e per
opera dell’/o. Dunque, nellu precedente proposizioue: A è A, ebe è la più
evidente, per quanto la più vuota di contenuto, che si possa formulare,
si nasconde già l’ lo, si trova già l’attività certa di aè stessa; perché,
meutre per A non si ha il diritto di fare, oltre il giudizio ipotetico:
se A esiste, A è A, nnehe il giudizio categorico: A esiste, in quantiche
anatale affermazione richiederebbe un’ulteriore dimostrazione, per V Io,
invece, anello se non sappiamo assolutamente nulla più di questo: che è
A, possiamo dire non solo: se V Io esiste, l’ Io è l’/o, ma altresì: l’
Io esiste (ciò elio ricorda l’agostiniano e il cartesiano: Cogito ergo
sum). Ma V Io è, per natura sua, essenzialmente attività, e, prima
ancora di acquistare coscienza dei propri prodotti, dei propri atti, e di
sè stesso, crea, con la sua immagiuazione produttrice, perenne e
inesauribile, le innumerevoli rappresentazioni, che poi lu riHeasioue
farà apparire alla sua intelligenza come oggetti, come non-lo;
perchè va sempre ricordato questo punto originale della dottrina del
Fichte - il non-lo, ossia il mondo esterno, è posto ilall’/o inconscio,
non già dall' Io cosciente; è un prodotto, quindi, anteriore a quella
relazione di antitesi e sintesi tra soggettivo e oggettivo che è la coscienza,
e quando la coscienza nasce, s’impone a essa come già dato. Così, grazie
a questa produzione inconscia dell’ immaginazione dell' lo — di
quell’immaginazione che già per il Descartes era il trait d’union tra l’anima e
il corpo, e per il Kant l’intermediaria tra le intuizioni pure della
sensibilità e le categorie dell’intelletto —, il non-lo apparisce all’
intelligenza come un limite dal di fuori senza essere perciò estraneo
all’/o, essendo sempre un prodotto dell’/o inconscio. leggi, il quale
perciò non è che il sistema delle nostre rappresentazioni, il rispecchiarsi
dell’ lo nell’/o. Ma anche questo rispecchiamento non ci rivela in modo puro e
immediato ]’ intima essenza del nostro spirito, perchè non uel rappresentarsi
è il nostro più alto operare, non nel rappresentarsi è tutto il nostro
Io. Noi operiamo veramente soltanto nel libero volere morale; noi
attuiamo completamente il nostro Io soltanto «piando, con attività
rinnovata al lume della coscienza, ci sforziamo di soggiogare il mondo
delle rappresentazioni scaturite dall’inesauribile fonte dell’ lo
inconscio il quale mondo non è che “ il materiale sensibilizzato
del nostro dovere (unsre Welt ist das versinnlichte Muterial unsrer
Pjlicht) e ci sforziamo di trasformarlo nel mondo della libertà, nel
mondo soprasensibile ed eternamente in fieri del Bene; poiché, esclama il
Fichte, essere liberi è nulla, divenir liberi è il cielo (frei se‘in ist
nichts, frei wenlen ist dei' Ilimmel)! La costruzione filosofica del Fichte può
dirsi monolitica, ed è tale da superare in semplicità persino quella
eretta, da un punto di vista e con centro «li gravita affatto
opposti, dallo Spinoza: al Jacobi
il sistema del filosofo tedesco appariva il rovescio del sistema del
filosofo olaudese. E qui sta il vantaggio della concezione fichtiana
anche sulla kantiana; il Kant non aveva tanto fornito un sistema,
quanto, piuttosto, i germi e i materiali per più sistemi; nella lotta
contro il dogmatismo e contro lo scetticismo egli aveva voluto inalzare
alla scienza propriamente detta, più che un tempio, una fortezza; e, per
rendere questa fortezza iuespuguabile da tutti i lati, ne aveva
costruito -i bastioni quasi in tempi diversi, quasi in stile diverso
: onde nella sua filosofia non solo rimane il dualismo inconciliabile tra
l’essere e il conoscere, tra il conoscere'e il lai e, ma nell ambito
stesso del conoscere manca una rigorosa unità tra i diversi poteri conoscitivi,
tra la sensibilità con lo sue intuizioni pure, l’intelletto con le sue
categorie, la ragione con le sue idee metafisiche. Il filosofa di
Ko- nigsbei'g da una parte pareva chiudere lo spirito umano tutto
nel giro del proprio mondo interno, nel fenomeno, dall altra gli lasciava
intravedere, al di là di questo mondo interno, un altro mondo, il
noumeno, avvolto sempre da densa nebbia e sempre refrattario alla
conoscenza. Donde la domanda : questo mondo esistente in sè è quello
stesso che ci si i ivela nella voce della coscienza, ed è possibile
tiadui lo in atto con la pura e buona volontà? La risposta di Kant, almeno
nell’espressione datale dall’autore, se non nello spirito dell’autore
stesso, era stata cosi cauta, che ognuno poteva trarne le conseguenze a
suo proprio rischio. Iusomma, non si poteva non riportare l’impressione
che nella, dotti ina kantiana la verità fosse svelata soltanto a
mezzo, e che a essa mancasse, dal punto di vista scientifico, cosi il
fondamento come il coronamento. Fichte, invece, da quel pensatore ben più
ardito e deciso ch’egli eia e che si era formato sullo stampo dello
Spinoza, s’impossessò dei materiali kantiani, e fece della Critico un sistema
unitario: Tutto ciò che è, è per noi; tutto ciò che è per noi, può essere
soltanto per opera nostra; nell’attività dell’ lo è racchiuso il conoscere e
l’essere, il sensibile e il soprasensibile, il reale e 1’ ideale ;
nell’autocoscienza (Selbstbeiousstsein)
lo stesso Kant aveva già insinuato che la misteriosa incognita
nascosta sotto i fenomeni sensibili poteva benissimo essere quella stessa
che portiamo con noi è l’unità di tutti i poteri dello spirito, l’unità
delle forme cosi del fenomeno come della cosa in sè che sta a fondamento
del fenomeno, l’unità del sistema delle nostre rappresentazioni e del sistema
dei nostri doveri, l’unità della nostra essenza teoretica e della nostra
essenza pratica: 1’ unità, e con 1’ unità il fondamento e il coronamento
di tutta la dottrina. Se il Reinhold aveva cercato un principio
superiore, come principio unico indispensabile a dare forma sistematica
di scienza alla dottrina della conoscenza, se il Beck aveva interpretato
lo spirito della filosofia kantiana nel senso idealistico, se il Jacobi
aveva reclamato l’eliminazione della cosa in sè ecco nella filosofia di
Fichte soddisfatti tutti insieme questi desideri, e in pari tempo
fornita ai risultati della CRITICA DELLA RAGIONE 1’evidenza richiesta
dallo Schulze. La filosofia di Kant, raccoglie, a dir cosi, in un'unità
vivente tutti i germi e principi motori del pensiero moderno, e il
sistema di Fichte non è che una delle direzioni che poteva prendere il
kantismo. La direzione fichtiana, quindi, scaturisce naturalmente
dalle premesse kantiane, ma non deve considerarsi perciò, come vuole
Leon, quasi l’unico e necessario completamento del kantismo. Altre
direzioni, assai divergenti dalla fichtiana, l'anno capo
legittimamente aneli’esse a Kant, dei cui discepoli può ripetersi ciò che
CICERONE (si veda) diceva dei diversi discepoli di Socrate: ALII ALIVII SVINPSENVIT.
Fichte è un kantiano — Grice un hardieiano -- all’incirca nel medesimo senso
che L’ACCADEMIA è socratica, e sta allo Spinoza come Platone a VELIA (si veda)e;
con Kaut afferma l’ideale morale, con Spinoza l’unità dei “ due
moudi onde la Bua filosofia, dicemmo già, è un’originale sintesi, forse
Unica nel suo genere ai tempi moderni, di ciò che sembra
assolutamente inconciliabile: il monismo e la libertà, il mondo delle
cause o il inondo dei fini. Anziché ritornare sui singoli problemi della
Critica della ragione, egli s’impadronisce del centro animatore di
quella Critica, e trae fuori dal pensiero fondamentale dell’
auto-attività dello spirito, in quanto forza reale e fine a sé stesso, un
uuovo quadro del mondo di grandiosa arditezza, entro il quale
l’idealismo, che nella filosofia kautiana era latente sotto 1’ involucro
di prudenti re- La filosofia di Fichte, abbiamo detto, è una
filosofia della libertà, poiché ha per principio una realtà
assoluta, intesa come Io pratico, come Attività pura, come
Auto-determinazione, ed è uno sforzo poderoso per dedurre da questo
principio oltreché le condizioni della vita etica, anche le funzioni
della ragione teorica, celebrando in tal modo quel primato della ragione
pratica che Kant già proclama, e facendo perciò della ragione pura un
organo della moralità. L’attività dell’ Io assoluto alterna i suoi
atti di produzione inconscia con i suoi atti di riflessione cosciente, la
sua direzione centrifuga ed espansiva che si protende verso l’infinito,
con la direzione centripeta e coustrizioni, viene chiamato a potente vita, e
ciò che di sublime il grande lilosofo dell’ imperativo categorica aveva
insegnato intorno alla libertà morale di fronte alla necessità naturale,
viene tradotto dal linguaggio di un moderato contegno in quello di un
energico entusiasmo. li mondo può comprendersi soltanto in base allo spirito
e lo spirito soltanto in base alla volontà. La dottrina di Fichte è
tutta nel vivere e nel fare, tanto vero che comincia non con la
definizione di un concetto, ma con la richiesta di un atto, Thathandlung,
Poni te stesso, fai con coscienza ciò che bui fatto inconsapevolmente
ogni qual volta ti sei chiamato io, analizza questo atto di
autocoscienza e riconosci nei suoi elementi le energie da cui scaturisce
ogni realtà Questa intima vitalità del principio lichtiaiio, che ricorda
l'atto puro aristotelico e il perpetuo divenire eracliteo, e in
conseguenza della quale Dio, anziché una sostanza assoluta già compiuta,
sarebbo un ordino cosmico sempre attenutesi, mai attuato, si ridette
anche uell’opera filosòfica dell’autore, il cui spirito, fiero e irrequieto, si
svolse iu continua lotta non solo nella pratica, ma anche nel pensiero.
Nelle sue lezioni, come nei suoi scritti, spesso egli riprende daccapo
la serie delle sue deduzioni e sempre iu modo diverso e quasi conversando
coi suoi uditori e coi suoi lettori, mai trascurando le possibili
obiezioni da parte di questi; sicché il suo filosofare sembra compiersi
trattile che arresta la prima e respinge V Io in sè stesso; pone a sè
stessa l’urto (Anstoss) della sensazione, il limite della
rappresentazione, l’intoppo del non-Io ; è insomma teoretica : soltanto
al fine di diventare pratica. Tutto 1’ apparato della conoscenza non
serve che a darci la possibilità di compiere il nostro dovere: quel dovere che
è 1’ unica realtà vera, 1’ unico in-sè (An-sich) del mondo fenomenico,
perchè le cose sono in sè ciò che noi dobbiamo farne; 1’io teoretico pone
oggetti, affinchè 1’io pratico trovi resistenze -- Gegenstand, oggetto, è
qui preso come sinonimo di Widerstund, resistenza. L’oggettività esiste
soltanto per essere la materia indispensabile all’azione, per ricevere da
questa la forma che deve elaborarla e inalzarla sì da rendere sempre più
visibile alla presenza d’interlocutori, è come un filosofare in
comune e per più rispetti richiama alla mente il dialogo platonico. Del
resto al Fichte sarebbe parsa vana una filosofia avulsa dal suo ambiente
naturale, l’umanità, ond'egli si faceva un dovere di agire e influire
energicamente sui suoi contemporanei e su quanti fossero in relazione con lui,
e visse in continuo coutatto col mondo e con la società; al contrario del Kant,
tra la vita e la speculazione del quale non appare certo Io stretto
connubio che è nel nostro filosofo ; infatti, i rapporti sociali e tutto il
contegno esteriore del grande solitario di Konigsberg furono, rispetto alla sua
vita interiore e al suo pensiero, cosi indifferenti come il guscio al
gheriglio ma turo ; mentre il Kant per molti e molti auui aveva portato
entro di so,i suoi gravi pensieri senza che alcuno sospettasse nemmeno
che cosa accadesse nell’ intimo di questo professore che senza differenza
dagli altri teneva i suoi corsi universitari, il Fichte, invece,
impaziente di ogni ritardo nella missione rigeneratrice, a cui con
orgogliosa coscienza di sè si sentiva chiamato, lasciava prorompere la
manifestazione delle sue idee, anche se non definitivamente elaborate,
man mano che scaturivano dal profondo della sua anima agile e trasmutabile e
disposta agli atteggiamenti più diversi secondo i campi a cui si
applicava, secondo i problemi ché affrontava, secondo i momenti in cui
agiva. 1’ attività dell lo. In conclusione, noi siamo Intelligenza
Per poter essere Volontà. La Dottrina della Scienza, quindi, nel sistema
del Fichte, è tutta in servigio della filosofia pratica, la quale,
attraverso la dottrina del diritto, va a culminare nella dottrina morale,
e'mira ad attuare quel regno dei fini che Kant contrapponeva al
regno delle cause, e che jier il nostro filosofo consiste nell’adempimento
completo del Dovere, nel dominio assoluto dell’ lo, nel trionfo supremo
della Libertà. E invero, mentre da un lato la Dottrina della Scienza
ci apprende che il fondo, l’essenza dello spirito umano non è
l’intelligenza ma 1’ attività, non il pensare ma il volere nella forma,
almeno, in cui attività e volere sono accessibili all’uomo, e che
l’intelligenza — pur essendo inseparabile dall’attività, da cui è
condizionata e di cui e condizione
resta subordinata all’ attività come la forma al proprio
contenuto, come la riflessione al proprio oggetto, d’altra parte la
Dottrina morale ci mostra il procedimento con cui lo spirito umano si sforza —
il che è preciso suo dovere di prendere coscienza, mediante
l’intelligenza, di quell’attività pura, di quella volontà, di quella
libertà infinita, che è appunto il fondo suo, la sua essenza assoluta.
Dal che risulta evidente lo stretto nesso che avvince la Dottrina morale
alla Dottrina della Scienza ; quella si deduce direttamente dai principi
di questa, in quanto la moralità, secondo il Fichte, non è che uno
dei momenti pii importanti, anzi il più essenziale, dell’ attuazione di
quell’ Io puro, di quella Libertà assoluta che la Dottrina della Scienza
pone al di là dei limiti di ogni coscienza, e da cui l’io empirico deriva
e a cui l’io empirico aspira. Il passaggio dall’ Io puro, assoluto e
infinito, per via di limiti e determinazioni, all’ io empirico,
relativo e finito, ossia dalla Libertà all’Intelligenza, è il
problema a cui pili specialmente si applica la dottrina della scienza
; il passaggio dall’io empirico, relativo e finito, per via di
superamenti e liberazioni, all’Io puro, assoluto, infinito, è il problema
a cui più specialmente si applica la Dottrina morale. L’ un problema è il
reciproco dell’ altro, e la soluzione di entrambi dipende dalla soluzione
dell’antinomia tra la finitezza dell’Io-intelligenza, attività
oggettivante (che pone oggetti, limitazioni, resistenze), e
l’infinitezza dell’ Io-libertà, attività pura (= che ha per essenza l’assolutezza,
l’illimitatezza, l’autonomia). E come Fichte risolve tale antinomia con
quell’attività a un tempo finita e infinita che è lo sforzo (Streben) —
attività finita, perchè lo sforzo implica una limitazione, una
determinazione, che impedisce l’immediato compimento dell’atto nella sua
infinità; attività infinita, perchè questa determinazioue non ha nulla di
assoluto, di fisso, è un limite che l’attività fa indietreggiare
incessantemente per conseguire l’infinità, ne segue che l’idea dello
sforzo è, nella sua filosofia, il cardine fondamentale dell’ attività
teoretica non meno che dell’ attività pratica, dell’ Intelligenza non
meno che della Volontà, della Dottrina della Scienza non meno che
della Dottrina morale. Nella Dottrina morale, a oui ora è rivolta la
nostra attenzione, lo sforzo esprime la tendenza dell’Io a identificare
la sua attività oggettivante con la sua attività pura, e lo svolgimento
dell’ Io è tutto nel rapporto tra queste due attività : l’infinita Libertà
non può attuarsi se non at traverso la limitazione e l’Intelligenza, ma
non c’è limitazione uè Intelligenza se non rispetto all’infinita
Attività pura elle di continuo le sorpassa. Lo sforzo, quindi, può
definirsi un’attività in cui l’infinito è posto non come stato attuale,
ma come meta da raggiungere, un’attività in cui 1’ adeguazione del finito
e dell’ infinito non è, ma dev'essere, un’attività, insomma, che ha per
contenuto il Dovere e che del Dovere è a sua volta il contenuto.
Diamo, in breve, il disegno della Dottrina morale. La Dottrina morale si
apre I) con un’ Introduzione, in cui sono sinteticamente presentati i
presupposti filosofici dell’etica; e si svolge in tre Libri, dei quali
II) il primo trae da quei presupposti il principio della moralità)
il secondo deduce da essi la realtà e l’applicabilità di questo
principio) il terzo fa l’applicazione sistematica del principio stesso, ed
espone quindi la morale propriamente detta. I presupposti filosofici dell'
etica, contenuti nell’Introduzione e perfettamente conformi alla Dottrina
della Scienza, muovono dal principio che la vera filosofia soltanto
allora è possibile, quando si abbia un punto in cui il soggettivo e
l’oggettivo, l’essere in sè e la rappresentazione di esso non siano divisi, ma
facciano tutt’uno, e che un tal punto si trova nell’EGOITÀ o io puro,
nell’Intelligenza o Ragione. Senza questa assoluta identità del soggetto e
dell’oggetto nell’Io, la quale peraltro non si lascia cogliere
immediatamente come un dato della coscienza attuale, ma soltanto argomentare
per via di ragionamento, la filosofia non approda a nessun risultato.
Bisogna, dunque, ammettere un’Unità fondamentale e primitiva, la
quale, tosto che nasce una coscienza attuale o anche soltanto
l’autocoscienza, si scinde necessariamente in soggetto e oggetto, poiché “
solamente in quanto io, essere cosciente, mi distinguo da me, oggetto
della coscienza, divengo cosciente di me stesso. Bisogna ammettere, inoltre,
che l’oggettivo abbia causalità sul soggettivo, e viceversa il
soggettivo sull’oggettivo, per rendere concordi tra loro, e in generale
possibili, il pensiero e il pensato, la ragione e il suo dominio sulla
natura. E appunto perchè il legame causale tra soggetto e oggetto è
duplice — ognuna delle due parti è causa ed effetto dell’altra: il
soggettivo è effetto dell’oggettivo nel conoscere, Soggettivo è effetto
del soggettivo nell 'operare, la filosofia si divide in teoretica e
pratica. Senonchè, come avemmo già occasione di notare, l’Io
puro, ossia l’Unità soggettivo-oggettiva ancora indivisa, non è un fatto
(Thatsache ), ma un atto ( Thathand - tutiff), la sua natura originaria è
attività: è, dunque, pratica. Perciò il principio : “ Io mi trovo come operante
nel mondo sensibile è di capitale importanza per il nostro
conoscere. Da esso comincia ogni coscienza ; senza la coscienza della mia
attività non è possibile nessuna autocoscienza, senza l’autocoscienza nessuna
coscienza di un quid diverso da me. Infatti, la percezione della mia
attività suppone una resistenza al di fuori di noi; “ ovunque e in quanto
tu percepisci attività, tu percepisci necessariamente anche resistenza ;
altrimenti tu non percepisci attività (Ora la resistenza è affatto
indipendente dalla [Sittenlehre (Stimanti. Werke.) Cfr. pvec. Sittenlehre.
mia attività, è anzi il suq opposto; è qualcosa che esiste soltanto e in
nessun modo agisce, qualcosa di quieto e morto, die tende semplicemente a
rimanere quel che è, qualcosa che nel proprio campo contrasta
all’azione*della libertà, ma non può mai invadere il campo di questa.
Un qualcosa di simile, dunque, è pura oggettività, e si chiama.,
col suo proprio nome, materia. Senza la rappresentazione di una tale materia,
niente resistenza alla nostra attività, quindi niente attività, niente
autocoscienza, niente coscienza, niente essere. La rappresentazione
del puro oggettivo resta così dedotta necessariamente dalle leggi
stesse della coscienza. Con la medesima necessità con cui viene dedotto il
puro oggettivo, viene posto anche il suo contrario, il soggettivo, ossia
1’ attività propriamente detta, sotto la forma di un’ agilità (Agililàt)
o forza efficiente. Ma poiché nella coscienza, quasi come in un prisma,
ogni unità si rifrange in soggetto e oggetto, così in essa, avvenuto lo
sdoppiamento dell’Io puro in soggettivo e oggettivo, anche il soggettivo si
sdoppia a sua volta, e si ha da una parte 1’ attività propriamente detta,
veduta come una forza reale, come un oggettivo esistente in me,
dall’altra il soggettivo, fonie inesauribile di questa forza reale, fonte
originaria non derivante da nessun oggettivo, e dalle cui
profondità oscure e inaccessibili sgorga, con libero, spontaneo e
talora impetuoso moto interno, l’infinita varietà delle nostre
rappresentazioni, dei nostri concetti ; per conseguenza la mia attività
ossia il soggettivo ancora indiviso nella sua unità anteriore alla
coscienza —, quando sia veduta attraverso il tramite della coscienza, appare
come un oggettivo, che da un lato scaturisce da un soggettivo
perennemente rinascente a ogni estrinsecarsi dell’oggettivo, dall'altro
determina l’oggetti vita pura dianzi chiamata materia. Così si rivela
alla coscienza la nostra assoluta auto-attività, la cui essenza sta nel
produrre rappresentazioni, nel creare concetti, e la cui manifestazione
sensibile dicesi libertà. Ciascun concetto, riguardato come determinante
l’oggettivo in virtù della propria causalità, diventa un concetto-line,
e allora esso stesso appare un qualcosa di oggettivo e si chiama uua
volizione; e lo spirituale che in noi si considera come principio immediato
delle volizioni dicesi volontà. Spetta, dunque, alla volontà agire
sulla materia ed esercitare causalità nel mondo sensibile ; ma ciò non
le sarebbe possibile se non avesse uno strumento che sia esso
stesso materia, ossia quel corpo articolato che è il nostro [Nel Leon
trovasi ben descritta la natura dell’attività spirituale nel senso
fichtiano, attività clic è, a un tempo e continuamente, produzione di sè
e riflessione sopra di sè, oggettivazione e soggettività, io reale e io ideale,
attualità e potenzialità; chi voglia intendere una tale attività, che ha
la caratteristica di esistere e di essere anteriore alla propria esistenza,
devo ricordarsi che essa non va pensata alla maniera delle cose, perché,
contrariamoute alla natura di queste ultime, la cui realtè si esaurisce
tutta quanta nell'essere oggettivo, l’attività spirituale può ripiegarsi
su di sé, può riflettersi. E a ciò si deve quel fenomeno meraviglioso e
cosi lontano dal meccanismo materiale, per cui 1’ esistenza ideale
determina l’esistenza reale, l’idea ha causalità, lo spirito è libertà.
Onde si vede che la libertà è proprio (come il Kant aveva ailermato,
senza però dimostrarlo) il comiuciamento assoluto d’uno stato, la
creazione di un’ esistenza seuza rapporto di dipendenza reale con un’
altra esistenza. E si vede altresì che solamente l’essere ragionevole,
dotato d’intelligenza e riflessione, è capace di libertà, poiché in lui
soltanto è possibile una causalità in forza di un
concetto. organismo. E invero u io, consideralo come un principio di
attività nel mondo dei corpi, sono un corpo articolato, e la
rappresentazione del mio corpo non è altro che la rappresentazione di me
stesso come causa nel inondo materiale 5 e perciò, mediatamente, non
altio che un ceito aspetto della mia attività assoluta. Volontà e
corpo sono quindi una medesima cosa, riguardata però da due lati
diversi: una medesima cosa, perchè soltanto fin dove si estende
l'immediata causalità della volontà sul corpo, si estende il corpo
articolato, necessario strumento della causalità sulla materia;
riguardata però da due lati diversi, perchè, in virtù dell’ azione sdoppiatrice
della coscienza, la volontà appare come il soggettivo che esercita la sua
causalità sul corpo, e il corpo come 1 ’oggettivo i cui mutamenti
coincidono con quelli di tutta l’oggettività o realtà corporea.
Similmente una medesima cosa, riguardata però anch’ essa da due lati diversi,
sono la natura che la mia causalità può cangiare, ossia la costituzione
e l’ordinamento della materia, e la natura non cangiabile, ossia la
materia pura : la natura mutevole è l’oggettivo considerato soggettivamente
e in connessione con 1’io, intelligenza attiva ; la natura immutevolo è
Soggettivo considerato oggettivamente e soltanto in sè. Secondo il
precedente ragionamento, i molteplici elementi che l’analisi ritrova nella
percezione della nostra causalità sensibile vengono dedotti dalle leggi
della coscienza e ridotti all' unità, all’ unico assoluto su cui si tonda
ogni coscienza e ogni essere, all 'attività pura. Questa attività, in virtù
della legge fondamentale della coscienza, Sittenlehre. per cui 1 essere
attivo non si comprende senza una resistenza su cui agisce, non si comprende
cioè se non come un Io-soggetto operante sopra un non-io-oggetto, appare
sotto forma di efficienza su qualcosa fuori dell'Io. Ma tutti gli
elementi contenuti in questa apparenza, a partire dal concetto-fine propostomi
assolutamente da me stesso, sino alla materia greggia del mondo esterno su
cui esercito la mia causalità, non sono che anelli intermedi
dell’apparenza totale, e perciò semplici apparenze anch’essi. L’unico
reale 1 vero è la mia auto-attività, la mia indipendenza, la
mia libertà. Da tali presupposti bisogna ora dedurre il
principio della moralità. L’ uomo trova in sè un’ obbligazione assoluta e
categorica a fare o non fare certe azioni indipendentemente da ogni fine
esteriore, la quale si accompagna immancabilmente con la natura umana e
costituisce la nostra caratteristica morale. Donde ha origine questa
obbligazione o Dovere, che vai quanto dire la leggo morale, ossia il'
principio della moralità? Secondo che esige la Dottrina della Scienza,
tale origine non va ricercata altrove che in noi stessi, nell’ Jo. Onde
il primo problema da risolvere a tal fine è:^ u Pensare sè stesso
come puramente sè stesso, ossia come distaccato da tutto ciò che non è io.
La soluzione di questo problema si ottiene così : Io non trovo me stesso
se non nella mia volontà, se non come volente ; e trovarsi volente
significa riconoscere in se una sostanza che vuole. L’intelligenza è la
coscienza puramente soggettiva; la coscienza del proprio io in
quanto io non può nascere che dalla volontà,. Ma la volontà non si
concepisce se non supponendo qualcosa di diverso dal1’ io, perchè ogni volontà
reale è una determinata volizione che ha un concetto-fine, che tende cioè
ad attuare un oggetto concepito come possibile, un oggetto che stia fuori
di noi. Ne segue che, per trovare me stesso e nuli’altro che me
stesso, bisogna fare astrazione da questo oggetto esterno della mia
volontà: ciò che rimane allora sarà il mio essere puro, la volontà assoluta, il
principio della nostra filosofia. Ne segue altresì che il carattere essenziale
e distintivo dell’ io è una tendenza ad agire di propria iniziativa e
indipendentemente da ogni impulso estraneo, a determinare sè stesso in modo
incondizionato e autonomo, è, in una parola, la libertà. Ora, appunto
questa tendenza e questa libertà costituisce l’io preso in sè, l’io
considerato all’ infuori di ogni relazione con checchessia di
diverso da sè. Ma ogni essere non è se non in quanto viene
riferito a un’ intelligenza, la quale sa che esso è ; in altri
termini suppone una coscienza. L’io, quindi, non è se non in quanto
si pone, non è se non in forza della coscienza che ha di sè; onde esso
deve avere la coscienza di quella tendenza alla libera auto-determinazione che
dicemmo costituire la sua essenza. E invero l’io che, mediante l’intelligenza,
pone sè stesso come tendenza all’autonomia assoluta o libertà, è un
essere il cui principio si trova non in un altro essere, ma in un quid di
categoria diversa l’unico quid che
possa concepirsi oltre l’essere — e cioè nel pensiero, inteso non come qualcosa
di sostanziale, sì bene come attività pura, come movimento
dell’intelligenza senza restrizioni e senza fissità. Orbene, da questa
intima fusione dell’io in quanto tendenza all’attività assoluta o libertà
e dell’io in quanto intelligenza, dell’io in quanto essere e dell’
io in quanto riflessione, è possibile dedurre il principio della moralità.
Come? L’io assoluto, non ancora rifratto dal prisma della
coscienza, è determinato, come abbiamo detto, dalla sua tendenza
all’attività assoluta, e questa determinazione diventa oggetto o contenuto
dell’ intelligenza. Ma, siccome l’Io assoluto nella sua unità integrale,
nella sua semplicità e identità originaria non può essere mai oggetto
della coscienza, bisogna che questa si sforzi di apprenderlo, almeno per
approssimazione, attraverso la dualità dell’essere oggettivo e della
riflessione soggettiva, mediante quella specie di espediente che consiste
nel considerare il soggettivo e 1’oggettivo come determina»tisi
reciprocamente l’uno l’altro, come complementari, quindi come inseparabili
e impensabili l’uno senza l’altro. E allora, se si concepisce il soggettivo
come determinato dall’ oggettiv'o (nel qual caso nasce quella relazione
psicologica che si chiama sentimento), essendo l’oggetto, rispetto al
soggetto, qualcosa di per sè stante, di fisso .e permanente, si troverà
che il contenuto del pensiero è immutabile e necessario e che l’intelligenza
impone a sè stessa la legge di una attività propria e assoluta. Se poi si
concepisce l’oggettivo come determinato dal soggettivo (nel qual caso
nasce quell’altra relazione psicologica che si chiama volontà), essendo il
soggetto, rispetto all’ oggetto, qualcosa di mobile, di attivo e
indipendente, si troverà che l’io si pone come libero. Si arriverà cosi
combinando, i due risultati, la legge necessaria da una parte e la
libertà illimitata dal1’altra all’ idea di una legge che l’io liberamente
-impone a sè stesso: la legge ha per contenuto la libertà, e la libertà è
sottoposta alla legge. Legge e libertà, per tal modo, si determinano
reciprocamente : esse fanno insieme una sola e medesima unità. Tra la
libertà ( = attività incondizionata e illimitata) e l’autonomia ( =
imposizione spontanea di una legge a sè stesso) non c’ è incompatibilità;
esse nascono entrambe da quello sdoppiamento che è dovuto alla natura
dell’ attività spirituale e che è a un tempo posizione di sè e
riliessione sopra di sè, oggetto e soggetto. In altri termini, si ha qui
l’intima fusione, nel- 1’ unità dell’ io, tra 1’ intelligenza, che
concepisce la nostra essenza come libertà, e la volontà, che è 1’
attuazione del1’autonomia, tra la libertà-concetto e la libertà-atto, e
il legame che unisce 1’ una all’ altra è di causalità non Inec-
canico-coercitiva ma psichico-imperativa, è di necessità non teorica ma
pratica, è il legame morale del dovere. La libertà-idea non può non
tradursi, dece tradursi in libertà- realtà; il Dovere, obbligazione per
eccellenza, sta nell’attuare l’essenza nostra, nel divenire, attraverso la
coscienza, quel ohe siamo in fondo al nostro essere assoluto
anteriore alla coscienza, nel renderci cioè liberi ; e in ciò precisamente
consiste il principio supremo di tutta la moralità, il quale per tal
guisa risulta dedotto, come ci proponevamo, dalla natura dell’
io. Posto l’io, è in pari tempo posta anche la tendenza all’assoluta
auto-attività, alla libertà; ma la libertà non acquista valore se non per
un’ intelligenza che ne faccia la legge determinante delle nostre azioni
; ne segue che l’io deve sottoporsi con coscienza e quindi con libertà
alla legge della propria natura, che è la legge della
libertà, senz’altro fine che la libertà, stessa. La moralità,
appunto perchè esprime direttamente l’essenza dell’io, la sua praticità
assoluta e la sua autonomia, è una perpetua legislazione dell’io imposta a sè
stesso, sotto un triplice rispetto : rispetto all’adozione stessa della
legge morale, adozione la quale non può essere che una libera
sottomissione, una spontanea adesione alla logge; rispetto
all’applicazione della legge a ciascun caso particolare, applicazione
nella quale il giudizio morale è sempre un atto di autonomia, un consenso di
noi con noi stessi ;rispetto al contenuto della legge, uel quale
contenuto è evidente che ogni determinazione della volontà da parte di
una causa estranea a sè stessa, che vai (pianto dire alla ragione,
costituirebbe un’eteronomia affatto contraria alla legge morale. Per tal modo
si può concludere che la vita morale tutta quanta non è altro che una
ininterrotta auto-legislazione dell’io, una perenne autonomia dell’essere
razionale; e dove questa autolegislazione cessa, ivi comincia l’ immoralità.
IH- - Alla deduzione del . principio della moralità segue la deduzione
della realtà e dell’ applicabilità del principio stesso, senza di che
quest’ ultimo rimarrebbe un’ astrazione e la morale si ridurrebbe a un
formalismo vuoto e sterile. Invece la morale ha una realtà, la
legge morale ha efficacia nel mondo sensibile in cui viviamo ; onde
il principio della moralità è non solo vero, logica). A chiarire ancor meglio
la deduzione della legge morale dall’Io, ricollegandola con i principi e
le conseguenze della Dottrina della Scienza giova il seguente schema
fornito un mente possibile e giustificato dalla ragione, ma
altresì reale e applicabile : reale, perchè è un concetto che deve
attuarsi nel mondo sensibile ; applicabile, perchè il mondo sensibile è
tale, per origine e natura, da prestarsi come strumento all’attuazione di
quel principio. da Fischer (Geschichte der neuem Philosophie, Fichte
unti seine Vorgànger) e nel quale viene simboleggiato lo sdoppiarsi
dell’ Io nella coscienza teorica e il suo reintegrarsi nella legge
morale: Io Soggetto = Oggetto Coscienza (Divisione) Soggetto
Autoattività Causalità del
Concetto Libertà Oggetto Materia Causalità della Materia Necessità Libertà
= Necessità Legge della Libertà Libertà sotto la Legge della Libertà (Assoluta
Autonomia) Legge Morale. Come si vede, qui la realtà del principio
morale non è la realtà già attuata di ciò che esiste nel mondo meccanico
dei fatti naturali o nel mondo giuridico della convivenza sociale, ma la
realtà di ciò che deve esistere nel mondo morale della volontà; le prime
due specie di realtà sono sotto la categoria della necessità (leggi
naturali) o della coercizione (leggi sociali), l’ultima, invece, di cui
ora si tratta, è sotto la categoria della contingenza, della libertà
(legge morale). Infatti, il principio della moralità dianzi dedotto
è a un tempo un principio teorico, in quanto l’io si determina da
sè dinanzi a sè stesso come essere assolutamente indipendente e libero — il che
costituisce la materia della legge morale —, e un principio pratico, in
quanto l’io impone da sè a sè stesso 1’ attuazione della propria natura il che
costituisce la forma (imperativa) della legge morale. Ogni singolo io è libero,
ecco il principio teorico ; Ovatterai ogni singolo io come un essere
libero, ecco il principio pratico derivante, sotto forma di comando,
da quel principio teorico. In sostanza la legge pratica della libertà
potrebbe formularsi così: Opera secondo la conoscenza che hai della natura e
del fine originario degli esseri Giusta i principi della Dottrina della
Scienza, le cose che abbiamo posto fuori di noi non sono, in fondo,
che le nostre idee ; di qui l’armonia tra la determinazione teorica degli
oggetti e gl’ imperativi morali che da questa determinazione teorica
scaturiscono rispetto agli oggetti stessi. La spiegazione dell’ accordo dei
fenomeni con la nostra volontà sta nell’accordo della volontà con la
natura, a cominciare dalla natura nostra : noi non possiamo volere se non
ciò a cui ci spinge 1’ impulso naturale ; questo impulso non è la legge
morale, ma^ legge morale non può nulla comandare il cui oggetto non sia
nella sfera di questo impulso. L’essere ragionevole, il quale deve
porre sè stesso come assolutamente libero e indipendente, non può far
ciò senza in pari tempo determinare teoricamente il suo mondo mediante la
rappresentazione ; e la sua libertà, che è un principio pratico, esige
che questa determinazione teorica da parte del pensiero si mantenga e si
completi mediante l’azione da parte della volontà. L’azione della liberta dell’
io sul mondo determinato come rappresentazione consiste nella modificazione di
uno stato del mondo stesso mercè il dominio di un concetto anteriormente
posto ; è la produzione di una realtà conformemente a un’idea data
come suo principio ; significa, per conseguenza, proprio l’inverso della
rappresentazione, la quale è la determinazione di un concetto secondo una
realtà anteriormente posta. E come l’enigma della rappresentazione, ossia
il rapporto tra la cosa e l’idea, trovava la sua soluzione nell’identità
originaria dei due termini, essendo la cosa un prodotto inconscio dell’ io,
similmente qui il l’apporto tra il concetto e la realtà ha il suo
fondamento nel fatto che la produzione di questa realtà non è la produzione di
una cosa in sè, di una realtà assoluta, che sarebbe in qualche modo
esteriore alla coscienza, ma è sempre uno stato di coscienza, una
determinazione dell’ io. E allora non è più questione di sapere come sia
possibile nel mondo una modificazione da parte della libertà, poiché,
essendo il mondo esso stesso un prodotto della libertà, un limite che
l’io pone a sè stesso, è questione di sapere come sia possibile,
mediante la libertà, un cangiamento nell’io, un’estensione dei suoi
limiti ; e se si osserva che 1’ io, oggetto di questa modificazione, è l’io
limitato., ossia l’io empirico, e che la legge della libertà, sotto la
quale si operano nell’ io empirico queste modificazioni, esprime l’io
puro, l’io assoluto, è evidente che il problema circa la realtà del
principio morale, circa l’attuazione della libertà, si riduce, in fondo,
alla questione già esposta anteriormente circa i rapporti tra l’io
empirico, naturale, e l’io eterno, assoluto Sittenlehre. Per dedurre ora la
realtà e la conseguente applicabilità del principio dell’ etica, bisogna
dedurne la materia e la sfera d’ azioue, bisogna stabilire, cioè,
anzitutto l'oggetto della nòstra attività in generale, poi la causalità
reale dell’essere ragionevole. Quanto al primo punto si ha questo teorema.
L’essere l'agionevole non può attribuirsi nessun potere, senza pensare in pari
tempo qualcosa fuori di sè a cui quel potere sia diretto; egli, infatti,
non può attribuirsi la libertà, senza pensare più azioni reali e
determinate come possibili per opera della libertà, e non può pensare
nessun’ azione come reale e determinata, senza supporre all’ esterno qualcosa
su cui quest’ azione sia esercitata. Esiste, dunque, fuori di noi e posta dal
pensiero, una materia a cui la nostra attività si riferisce e che
può essere modificata all’ infinito. Quanto al secondo punto si ha
quest’altro teorema. L’essere ragionevole non può trovare in sè
nessun’applicazione della propria libertà, ossia nessun volere reale,
senza in pari tempo attribuire a sè stesso una reale causalità o
efficienza sul mondo esterno r, e non può attribuirsi una siffatta
causalità o.efficienza, senza determinarla in una certa maniera. Ora,
l’attività pura non può essere determinata in sè, altrimenti non sarebbe
più pura; essa non può essere 'determinata se non da ciò che le si
oppone, ossia dai suoi limiti. Questi limiti non possono essere percepiti se
non nell’esperienza sensibile e, inquanto oggetto d’intuizione sensibile,
consistono in una diversità o varietà di materia. Onde l’io, il quale non
sarebbe attivo se non si sentisse limitato, viene posto come un’ attività che
preme, per allargarli, sopra i limiti entro cui lo rinserra la diversa
materia che gli resiste, il nou-io che gli si oppone. L’essere
ragionevole, dunque, esercita una causalità reale nel mondo sensibile, e
tale causajit.à consiste non già nel creare o distruggere la materia su cui
si esercita tale materia è
condizione indispensabile per l’attività dell’essere ragionevole, ma
nell’introdurvi ulteriori determinazioni nuove ; u io ho causalità „
significa sempre: u io allargo i miei confini che vai quanto
dire: io attuo progressivamente il concetto di libertà secondo che mi è
imposto dalla legge morale, pur non giungendo mai a un’ attuazione completa. Di
guisa che la nostra esistenza, mentre uel mondo intelligibile è legge morale,
nel mondo sensibile è azione reale: il punto in cui le due esistenze si
riuniscono è la libertà intesa come facoltà assoluta di determinare
1’azione mediante la legge. Risulta da quanto precede che il principio della
moralità, ossia la libertà, non può attuarsi se non opponendo
all’attività pura dell’ io una limitazione o un sistema di limitazioni, e
imponendo alla medesima attività un progres [Abbiamo qui una delle
idee fondamentali del sistema ficbtiauo, cioè: l’impossibilità per noi
di separare il sensibile dall’intelligibile, la negazione del dualismo,
l’assurdità di concepire nell’ àmbito della coscienza un carattere noume-
nico radicalmente distinto dal carattere fenomenico. Secondo Fichte
scrive Léon il sensibile è la condizione per l’intelligibile; Benza il
sensibile, il quale determinandolo lo attua, il puro intelligibile
rimarrebbe allo stato di potenza indeterminata e vuota. Questa concezione
segua la rovina del misticismo, che pretende isolare lo spirito dal corpo
e relegarlo in una sfera chimerica ; l'Io fichtiano – cf. l’io griceino –
Fichte’s I, Grice’s I -- non è fatto di singoli pezzi separabili ad arbitrio;
esso forma in tutti i suoi elementi una gerarchia, un vero
organismo. sivo ampliameuto di
questa limitazione o sistema di limitazioni. Il che si verifica anche quando si
tratti non di un fine ultimo, come la libertà assoluta, ma di fini
intermedi. Il più spesso’ci accade di non poter attuare immediatamente un
determinato fine scelto dalla nostra volontà, e siamo costretti, per conseguirlo,
a servirci di certi mezzi già determinati in* antecedenza senza il nostro
intervento : non perveniamo al nostro fine se non attraverso una
serie di gradi interposti ; che equivale a dire : tra il sentimento
da cui sono partito con la volontà e il sentimento a cui mi sforzo di
giungere intercedono altri sentimenti, di cui ognuno è l’esponente dei
limiti che mi si oppongono, limiti che con la mia causalità, con la mia azione,
io fo indietreggiare ogni volta di più, estendendo cosi pi-ogressiva-
mente la mia attività reale. La mia causalità, dunque, appare come un’azione
continua e diversa, come una serie ininterrotta di sforzi e di sentimenti
svariati ; poiché essa è assolutamente una e identica in quanto attività,
ma presenta tuttavia infiniti aspetti multiformi a causa della multiforme
resistenza che incontra da parte degl’ infiniti oggetti esterni; esterni,
s’intende, e posti indipendentemente da noi, per chi non adotti o ignori il
punto di vista della filosofia trascendentale e rimanga al punto di
vista della coscienza comune. Intesa nel modo descritto, la causalità
dell’ essere ragionevole contiene in sé la sintesi assoluta della conoscenza e
dell’ attività, determinantisi reciprocamente nella concezione e nel
perseguimento di un medesimo fine. L’essere ragionevole, infatti, non ha una
conoscenza se non in seguito a una limitazione della propria attività, tesi; ma
d’altro canto non ha attività se non in seguito a una
conoscenza (antitesi) ; conoscenza e attività sono poste come identiche
nella volontà, sintesi. Come si ottiene questa sintesi? Basta pensare
all’ essenza originaria dell’ io oggettivamente considerato : sappiamo
che tale essenza è assoluta attività e nuli’altro che attività; e poiché
l’attività, oggettivamente presa, è impulso, e nell’io nulla esiste o
accade di cui egli non abbia coscienza, cosi, posto nell’ io oggettivo un
impulso, vien posto altresì iu esso un sentimento di questo impulso. Il
sentimento o coscienza primitiva dell’impulso è, dunque, l’anello sintetico
in cui con l’attività è posta la conoscenza e con la conoscenza
l’attività. Soltanto è da aggiungere che, se dal punto di
vista pratico la conoscenza e l’attività sono inseparabili, la coscienza
che accompagna qui l’impulso non è affatto la coscienza riflessa e iu nessun
grado una riflessione libera ; in essa non c’ è neppure quella specie di
libertà che caratterizza la rappresentazione e che ci permette di non
rappresentarci l’oggetto, di fare cioè astrazione da esso ; è una
coscienza tutta spontanea, che s’impone a noi con necessità, è un
sentimento di cui non siamo in nessun modo padroni. Il sistema d’impalisi
e di sentimenti di che s’intesse 1’io empirico oggettivo deve quindi
concepirsi come natura, come la nostra natura, come cioè qualcosa di
dato, di non prodotto da noi, d’ indipendente dalla libertà, ma su
cui la libertà può esercitarsi, e si esercita, allorché l’io-soggetto ne
fa oggetto di riflessione e consente o no a soddisfarlo ; e invero, tosto
che riflettiamo sui nostri impulsi originari, non siamo più dominati da
essi ; sono essi, invece, dominati da noi, perchè dipende da noi
assecondarli o no ; comincia allora il vero ufficio della nostra libertà
cosciente. Nasce così la differenza tra la facoltà appetitiva inferiore
del semplice impulso di natura e la facoltà appetitiva superiore del
medesimo impulso sottoposto alla riflessione e alla libertà. Giova
chiarire meglio la facoltà appetitiva inferiore, prima di passare alla
superiore. Abbiamo detto che essa costituisce ciò che in noi si chiama
natura; ma bisogna distinguere la natura nostra dalla natura delle cose
in cui regna il puro meccanismo. Nel mondo meccanico non c’è
attività propriamente detta, c’ è soltanto una trasmissione di urti
attraverso tutta la serie di cause ed effetti, senza che nessun anello
produca o modifichi la forza trasmessa. Nella natura nostra, al
contrario, c’è una vera spontaneità, la quale non è ancora la libera
causalità del pensiero, del concetto, perchè è una necessaria
determinazione dell’esistenza reale per opera di questa esistenza stessa, ma
sta tuttavia al disopra del puro meccanismo, perchè consiste in una
determinazione proveniente da una serie di cause ed effetti disposta non
più secondo un ordine lineare di successione, sì bene secondo un ordine
ricorrente di reciprocanza ; quivi, infatti, le singole parti sono a un tempo
effetti e cause del tutto, onde si ha quel che si dice un or- (Per essere
più chiari : l’impulso e il sentimento che l’accompagna mancano di
libertà; la volontà e la riflessione che ne è condizione hanno per
essenza la libertà; a parte, però, questa differenza di capitale importanza ma
soltanto formale, l’impulso e il sentimento, per quanto riguarda il loro
contenuto materiale, sono identici alla volontà e alla riflessione; l’oggetto a
cui tendono necessariamente i primi diventa l’oggetto liberamente accettato o
ripudiato dalle seconde. gallismo, ossia una costituzione, la
quale, lungi dal dipendere da un’azione esterna, Ira in sè stessa il principio
della propria determinazione, è dotata insomma di spontaneità,. La
reciprocanza di azione tra le parti di un tutto organico in natura si spiega
così: a ciascuna di esse le altre non lasciano che una certa quantità di
realtà, onde ciascuna parte per la rimanente realtà che le manca non ha
che una tendenza o impulso risultante dallo stato determinato delle altre parti
: ciascuna tende a formare il tutto, a integrarsi con la realtà delle
altre ; e cosi in un’ unità organica la realtà è in proporzione inversa
della tendenza (o impulso) derivante dalla mancanza di realtà; realtà e
tendenzfP (o impulso) si completano a vicenda ; ciascuna parte tende a
soddisfare il bisogno di tutte, e tutte a loro volta tendono a soddisfare
il bisogno di ciascuna ; ogni singola parte tende a combinare la propria
essenza e la propria azione con l’essenza e l’azione delle rimanenti, e
questa tendenza giustamente si dice impilino plastico (Bildungstrieb), cosi nel
senso attivo come nel senso passivo della parola, perchè è la facoltà a
un tempo così d’imprimere come di ricevere forme. Questa facoltà
organizzatrice è universale, essenziale, inerente a tutte le parti e a
tutti gli elementi, onde ciò che si chiama un tutto naturale, ossia un
tutto chiuso, può altresì chiamarsi un prodotto organico della natura, a
costituire il quale certi elementi della natura, in virtù della causalità
di cui questa è dotata, hanno riunito il loro essere e il loro operare
in un solo e medesimo essere, in un solo e medesimo operare. Ciò posto,
ecco quanto accade in quel tutto organico della natura che è l’io
individuale, empirico, a partire dai più bassi impulsi sino alle più alte
tendenze. Iu ciascun io individuale, appunto perchè esso è un
tutto organico della natura, l’essenza delle parti consiste in una
tendenza a conservare unite a sè altre determinate parti, e siffatta
tendenza, se attribuita al tutto, dicesi impulso all' autoconservazione ; alla
conservazione, s’intende, non dell’esistenza in generale, che è
un’astrazione, ma di un’esistenza determinata. L’impulso
all’autoconservazione, che è poi la tendenza a perseverare nel proprio
essere, porta 1’ essere organico a inferire a sè certi oggetti
della natura; di qui l’appetito o la brama verso questi oggetti,
appetito o brama dapprima vaghi e indeterminati, quasi COME IL PRIMO GRIDO
INARTICOLATO DELL’ORGANISMO ANCORA INFANTE, POI SEMPRE PIÙ DETERMINATI E
DIFFERENZIATI, COME IL LINGUAGGIO ARTICOLATO DELL’ORGANISMO ADULTO. E — si
noti bene — non già la diversità degli oggetti determina lo
specificarsi dei vari appetiti e desideri; al contrario, i diversi modi del
desiderio, mediante le proprie determinazioni, si creano i propri oggetti. La
coscienza o l’intelligenza* che ci rappresenta gli oggetti non è che il
riflesso dei nostri istinti,, inclinazioni, tendenze, della nostra
vita pratica in generale; non, dunque, gli oggetti suscitano, quasi
loro fine, gli appetiti, ma gli appetiti hanno il proprio fine in sè
stessi, nella propria soddisfazione, e noi non perseguiamo, attraverso gli
oggetti, altro che i nostri desideri esteriorizzati nelle cose. Ma se è
così, se ciò che ci sforziamo d’ottenere è non l’oggetto — il quale si riduce
a im simbolo, sì bene la soddisfazione della nostra tendenza, della nostra
brama, in altri termini, il nostro godimento, il nostro piacere, si comprende
come, tanto dal punto di vista della pura natura irriflessa, quanto da
quell» della riflessione sulla natura, sia il piacere il fine supremo
della nostra condotta ; di guisa che, nel primo passaggio immediato dallo
stato di pura natura allo stato di coscienza riflessa, la nostra azione cangia
di forma da necessaria e istintiva diventa libera e riflessa, e tale
cangiamento ne modifica radicalmente il carattere, ma il suo contenuto
rimane ancora il medesimo, è ancora il piacere: al punto da far sembrare
che l’uomo con la riflessione non si elevi al di sopra della natura, se
non per sottoporlesi meglio e perseguire con pili luce e sicurezza il fine
edonistico. Ora, finché è spinto al piacere e dipende dagli oggetti dei
suoi appetiti, ]' uomo rimane confinato nell’ esercizio della
facoltà appetiti va inferiore. Ma l’attività ragionevole in lui tende con
coscienza e riflessione a determinarsi assolutamente da sé, a rendersi
indipendente da ogni oggetto che non sia essa stessa, quindi anche e
soprattutto dal piacere; e allora la nostra azione si differenzia da
quella compiuta allo stato di pura natura, oltreché per la forma, anche
per il contenuto, essendo questo costituito non pili dal piacere —
comunque ricercato, per istinto cieco e necessario, ovvero per volontà,
cosciente e libera, ma dalla libertà stessa, che è l’es senza nostra e il
nostro vero fine supremo. L’ uomo si eleva cosi all’esercizio della
facoltà appetitiva superiore, di quella che appartiene non a lui prodotto
di natura, ma a lui spirito puro. Ciò non ostante, le due facoltà appetitive,
l’inferiore e la superiore, costituiscono un solo e medesimo impulso
originario dell’io, dell’io veduto da due lati diversi : nella facoltà
appetitiva inferiore, ossia nell’ impulso naturale, mi concepisco come oggetto,
uella facoltà appetitiva superiore, ossia nell’impulso spirituale, mi
concepisco come soggetto, mentre tutta la mia essenza si ritrova nell’
identità del soggetto e dell’oggetto, ò soggetto-oggetto. Dall’azione
reciproca dei due impulsi nascono tutti i fenomeni dell’ io ; ma entrambi
si fondono in un unico e medesimo io, onde debbono essere conciliati, unificati
; ed ecco in qual modo : l’impulso superiore rinunzia alla purezza della
propria attività — purezza che consiste nel non essere determinato da un
oggetto —, lasciandosi determinare da un oggetto, e l’impulso inferiore
rinunzia al piacere in quanto fine, al piacere per il piacere ; si ha
così per risultato della loro unione un’ attività oggettiva, il cui
oggetto e fine ultimo è un’ assolute libertà, un’assoluta indipendenza da
ogni natura;'un fine, questo, proiettato all’infinito e perciò irraggiungibile
raggiungerlo sarebbe porre termine in pari tempo all’attività e alla
natura che dell’attività è il limite correlativo, la condizione
indispensabile; un fine, tuttavia, a cui è possibile avvicinarsi sempre più,
facendo uso della libertà e della facoltà appetitiva superiore. Non si
obietti qui — dice il Fichte ( Sittenlehre) che un’approssimazione
all’infinito è contraddittoria, in quantoche un infinito a cui potessimo
avvicinarci cesserebbe d’essere un infinito e diverrebbe in certo qual
modo suscettivo di misura. L’infinito non è una cosa, un oggetto posto
come dato e verso il quale si avanzerebbe come verso un termine fissato
in precedenza, ma è igu ideale, ossia appunto ciò che si oppone alla
realtà del dato, ciò che nessun dato può esaurire ; Infatti, grazie alla
sintesi dianzi descritta, l’io svelle sè stesso da tutto ciò che sembra
trovarsi fuori di lui, entra in possesso di sè e si pone dinanzi a sè
come assolutamente indipendente, essendo l’io riflettente indipendente per sè
stesso, l’io riflettuto tutfc’ uno con l’io riflettente, ed entrambi uniti in
una sola inseparabile persona, alla quale il riflettuto dà la forza reale
e il riflettente la coscienza. La persona così costituita non può più agire
ormai se non secondo e mediante concetti, e poiché tutto ciò che ha
la propria ragion d’ essere in un concetto è un prodotto della libertà,
cosi d’ ora innanzi l’io non agirà più se non liberamente, anche quando
non faccia che assecondare l’impulso di natura, perchè anche in tal caso egli
non opera meccanicamente ma con coscienza, e in lui non più il
cieco impulso naturale, si bene la coscienza da lui acquistata di questo
impulso naturale è il primo fondamento del suo operare, il quale perciò è
libero come poco fa notammo — se non nel contenuto, almeno nella forma. Ma che
significa essere libero e agire liberamente? Prima di giungere alla
riflessione l’io è di natura sua e questo ideale clie portiamo in
noi stessi indietreggia dinanzi a noi man mano che ci eleviamo verso di
esso. Noi possiamo bene allargare i nostri limiti, inalzarci sempre più verso
la libertà, ma non possiamo mai sopprimere totalmente questi limiti, attuare
cioè la libertà; a qualunque grado di liberazione noi si giunga, la libertà
assoluta rimane sempre un ideale. Insomma, .con l’idea di un progress o
infinito il Fichte risolve la contraddizione tra la libertà e la natura :
la natura deve tendere alla libertà come a un fine infinito, e se
l’infinito potesse essere attuato, la natura s’identificherebbe con la libertà
; la realtà di questo progresso non è nel conseguimento impossibile di un fine fissato a un dato
punto, ma nel valore sempre più alto della nostra azione. (Cfr. Léon)] libero,
ma per un’ intelligenza fuori di lui, non già per sè stesso ; per essere
libero anche agli occhi propri egli deve porsi come tale, e come tale non
si pone se non allorché diventa cosciente del suo passaggio dallo stato
indeterminato a uno stato determinato. L’ io determinante e l’io
determinato scftio un solo e medesimo io, prodotto dalla sintesi del
inflettente e del riflettuto, dell’ io-soggetto e del1’io-oggetto. Per siffatta
sintesi la concezione di un fine diventa immediatamente azione e l’azione
diventa conoscenza della libertà. Senonchè l’indeterminatezza non è
soltanto uon-determinatezza (ossia zei'o), sì bene un deciso
librarsi tra più possibili determinazioni (ossia una grandezza negativa)
; altrimenti essa non potrebbe essere posta e sarebbe un nulla. Ora, finché non
intervenga la facoltà appetitiva superiore, non si vede in che modo la libertà
possa scegliere tra più determinazioni possibili; perchè: o si
trova in presenza del solo impulso naturale, e allora non ha nessuna
ragione per non seguirlo, anzi ha ogni ragione per seguirlo; ovvero si
trova in presenza di più impulsi la quale ipotesi non si comprende nel
caso di cui ora si tratta e allora
seguirà naturalmente il più forte ; nel- l’una e nell’altra ipotesi,
dunque, nessuna possibilità d’indeterminatezza. Siccome però l’essere
ragionevole non può esistere senza quella tra le condizioni della sua
ragionevolezza che si chiama sentimento morale e consapevolezza della
libertà, bisogna bene ammettere, nell’ impulso originario delirio, un impulso
ad acquistare la coscienza e della moralità e della libertà. Ma tale
coscienza, si è visto, ha per condizione uno stato indeterminato, e non
si produce se l’io obbedisce unicamente all'impulso naturale ; occorre,
dunque, che vi sia nell’io un impulso o tendenza a trarre dal
proprio seno, e non già dall’impulso naturale, il contenuto o
l’oggetto dell’azione; occorre, in altri termini, che vi sia una tendenza
alla libertà per sè stessa, e che alla libertà formale quella per cui lo
stesso risultato, che la natura avrebbe prodotto se avesse potuto ancora
agire, nasce invece da un nuovo principio, da una nuova forza, ossia
dalla coscienza libera si aggiunga la libertà materiale quella per cui si ha non solo un nuovo
principio operante, ma altresì una serie di effetti tutta nuova anche nel
contenuto, onde non solo è l’intelligenza la forza che opera, ma essa
intelligenza opera qualcosa di ben diverso da ciò che avrebbe operato la
natura. In virtù della libertà materiale io mi sento emancipato dall’
impulso di natura, gli oppongo resistenza, e tale resistenza, considerata come
essenziale all’ io, quindi come immanente, è essa stessa un impulso, l ’impulso
purodell’ io. L’impulso naturale si manifesta come iuclinazione e,
per il fatto che io posso dominare la sua forza e sottoporla alla
mia libertà, questa forza diventa qualcosa di cui non fo stima. L’impulso
puro, invece, in quanto mi eleva sopra la natura e mi pone in grado di
contrappormele con la più semplice risoluzione, si manifesta come tale da
ispirarmi stima e da investirmi di una dignità, la quale, essendo al disopra di
ogni natura, m’ impone rispetto verso me stesso; l’impulso puro, anziché
al piacere, porta al disprezzo del piacere ed esige l’affermazione e la
conservazione della mia assoluta indipendenza e libertà. L’adempimento di
questa esigenza e il suo contrario significano rispettivamente l’accordo
e il disaccordo tra l’ideale tendenza essenziale dell’ io puro all’assoluta
libertà e il reale stato accidentale dell’io empirico ; suscitano,
quindi, il mio interesse
m’interessa, infatti, ossia tocca direttamente il mio sentimento, tutto
ciò che lia immediata relazione col mio impulso fondamentale, si accompagnano,
dunque, a piacere o dolore; ma e questo è di capitale importanza si
tratta qui di stati affettivi che non hanno nulla a fare con
l’affettività comune, perchè consistono in una contentezza e in un
disgusto di sè la cui natura non si confonde mai con quella del piacere o
del dolore dei sensi. Il piacere sensibile che nasce dall’ accordo tra
l’impulso naturale e la realtà non dipende da me in quanto sono un io,
ossia in quanto sono libero ; esso è tale da strappare me a me, da
rendermi estraneo a me stesso e da farmi dimenticare in esso ; è, in una
parola, involontario, e questa qualità lo caratterizza nel modo più
esatto. Altrettanto vale del suo opposto, ossia del dolore sensibile. Il
piacere morale, al contrario, che nasce dall’accordo tra l’impulso puro e
la realtà, è qualcosa non di estraneo ma di dipendente dalla mia libertà,
qualcosa che potrei aspettarmi in conformità d’una regola, come non potrei
aspettarmi, invece, il piacere involontario ; esso, quindi, non mi
trasporta fuori di me, anzi mi fa rientrare in me stesso e, meno
tumultuario, ma più intimo del piacere sensibile, m’in- [Intorno al
concetto dell’ interesse Fichte fa una specie di digressione (
Sittenlehre) per meglio illuminare la sua trattazione sul sentimento morale e
sulla coscienza morale. fonde, in quanto soddisfazione e
auto-stima, nuovo coraggio' e nuova forza. Similmente il suo opposto,
ossia il dolore morale, appunto perchè dipende dalla libertà, è un
rimprovero interno, si associa a un sentimento di auto-disistima e
sarebbe insopportabile se il sentirci ancora capaci di provarlo non ci
risollevasse dinanzi a noi stessi, e non ravvivasse la coscienza della nostra
natura superiore e della nostra assoluta libertà, insomma la coscienza morale
fdas Oetoissen), vale a dire : la consapevolezza immediata dell’adempimento
del dovere, dell’accordo cioè tra l’azione (nel mondo della natura) e il
fine ideale (la libertà). Ora, la coscienza morale si connette strettamente
con l’impulso morale, il quale è di natura mista, perchè partecipa a un
tempo dell’impulso puro e dell’impulso naturale. Come? Ogni volizione
reale tende all’azione e ogni azione si porta sopra un oggetto : ogni
volizione reale, quindi, è empirica. E poiché non posso agire sugli oggetti se
non mediante una forza fisica, la quale non proviene che dall’impulso naturale,
cosi ogni fine concepito dall’intelligenza finisce per coincidere con 1^
soddisfazione di un IMPULSO NATURALE. Certo, chi vuole è l'io -intelligenza non
già la na- /M/'fl-iucoscieuza ; ma, quanto al contenuto, il mio
volere non può avere materia diversa da quella che la natura
vorrebbe anch’essa, se di volere fosse capace : non c’ è libertà circa la
materia delle azioni. E allora quale causalità rimane all’impulso puro,
che pur non può esserne destituito? Affinchè rimanga una causalità all’
impulso puro, bisogna che la materia dell’azione sia conforme a esso non
meno (Siltenlekre) che all’IMPULSO NATURALE. Tale duplice conformità si
comprende soltanto così: l’impulso puro nell'operare tende alla piena
emancipazione dalla natura ; ma i limiti che l’attività dell' io impone a
sè stessa costringono l’operare entro i confini dell’ impulso naturale ; onde
l’azione conforme a questo secondo impulso diventa conforme anche al
primo quando al pari di esso tenda alla piena emancipazione dalla natura,
si trovi cioè in una serie di sforzi, continuando la quale all’infinito,
l’io si approssima sempre più all’indipendenza assoluta. Deve esservi una
serie di tal genere, che muova dal punto in cui la persona si trova posta
per la propria natura e si prolunghi all’ infinito verso il .fine supremo
e ideale si badi bene a questo
appellativo che esclude ogni possibilità, di attuazione completa di ogni
attività, altrimenti uon sarebbe possibile una causalità dell’
impulso puro : questa serie si può chiamare la destinazione morale
dell’ essere ragionevole finito, e seguendola possiamo sapere in ogni
momento quale è il nostro dovere. Il principio della morale può, dunque,
formularsi cosi. Adempì in ogni momento la tua destinazione. Quel che in ogni
momento è conforme alla nostra destinazione morale, ossia al fine a cui
si dirige l’impulso puro, è in pari tempo conforme all’impulso
naturale, ma uon tutto quel che è conforme all’impulso naturale è conforme alla
nostra destinazione morale. Appunto perciò l’impulso morale è misto: esso
riceve dall’impulso naturale la materia dell’operare, dall’impulso pui'O la
forma; per esso io debbo agire con la coscienza di adempiere un dovere ;
gl’ impulsi ciechi della natura, come la simpatia, la compassione, la
benevolenza spontanea, in quanto tali non hanno nulla di morale, perchè
contraddice alla moralità il lasciarsi spingere ciecamente. L’impulso
morale differisce profondamente dal cieco impulso naturale, e molto ai
avvicina all’ impulso puro, perchè la sua causalità è ambigua, può avere
effetto e può anche non averne, perchè esso comanda: sii libero (cioè: sii in
grado di fare e di a'stenerti dal fare). E in questo comando appare per
la prima volta un imperativo categorico, un imperativo che è un
prodotto nostro proprio (nostro in quanto siamo intelligenze capaci
di agire per concetti), e il cui oggetto è il fine non subordinato a nessun
altro fine. L’impulso morale, infatti, non ha per fine nessun godimento ;
esso esige u la libertà per la libertà. È poi evidente in questa formula
imperativa il duplice significato della parola “ libertà la quale sta a
designare nel primo posto un operare in quanto tale, ossia un puramente
soggettivo, e nel secondo posto uno stato oggettivo che dev’essere
conseguito, ossia 1’ ultimo fine assoluto, la piena nostra indipendenza
da tutto ciò che è fuori di noi. In altri termini : io debbo agire con
libertà per divenire libero; e soltanto determinandomi da me stesso e non
seguendo altro che le ispirazioni del sentimento del dovere agisco con
libertà e divengo veramente indipendente dalla natura, veramente libero.
A questa distinzione tra la libertà come attività e la libertà come risultalo,
che è di così grande importanza nel nostro sistema, se ne aggiunge
un’ altra entro il concetto stesso di libertà intesa come attività: la
distinzione, cioè, tra la forma e la materia dell’attività libera; distinzione
da cui nasce la divisione della dottrina morale e con cui si passa all’
applicazione sistematica del principio della moralità. Fichte discorre delle
condizioni formali della moralità delle nostre azioni, del contenuto
materiate della legge morale; e dei doveri. Il principio formale di
ogni moralità può enunciarsi così. Opera sempre secondo la convinzione
che hai intorno al tuo dovere. Questo imperativo o legge che
presuppone naturalmente e logicamente una libera volontà— si scinde in
due precetti, di cui 1’ uno concerne la forma o la condizione : u procurati la
convinzione di ciò che è tuo dovere; l’altro la MATERIA o il condizionato.
Fai ciò che ritieni con convinzione tuo dovere 9 failo soltanto perchè lo
ritieni tale Ora, la convinzione nasce dall’accordo di un atto della
facoltà giudicatrice coll’impulso morale, e il criterio della giustezza della
nostra convinzione è un sentimento intimo al di là del quale non si
può risalire, perchè con esso si raggiunge 1’ espressione diretta della
nostra essenza assoluta e della nostra finalità. Per conseguenza, la
coscienza morale, che in quel sentimento ha radice, va immune per natura sua da
dubbio e da errore, non può ingannarsi, nè è suscettiva di
rettifiche da parte di un’ inconcepibile coscienti più interiore, è
essa stessa giudice di ogni convinzione e le sue sentenze non ammettono
appello. Voler oltrepassare la propria coscienza morale per timore che
possa essere erronea, sarebbe come voler uscire fuori di sè, voler
separarsi da sè stesso. È condizione formale della moralità, quindi, non
decidersi [Della volontà iu particolare e della sua natura cosi opposta
al juro meccanismo, il Pielite tratta nella Sitlenlehre] all’azione se
non per soddisfare alla propria coscienza morale, all’impulso originario
dell’io puro, senza sottostare ad altra autorità che non sia quella della
propria convinzione, del proprio giudizio. Chi, dunque, agisce senza consultare
la sua coscienza, senza essersi prima assicurato j delle decisioni di
questa, agisce, come suol dirsi, senza coscienza, e perciò immoralmente, è
colpevole e non può imputare la sua colpa ad altri che a sè stesso. Similmente
opera senza coscienza, e perciò senza moralità, chi si lascia guidare
dall’autorità altrui, perchè la convinzione della coscienza morale e la
certezza della sua giustezza non nascono mai da giudizi estranei, ma traggono
origine esclusivamente dal soggetto: sarebbe una flagrante contraddizione fare
di qualche cosa che non sono io stesso un sentimento di me stesso. In
conclusione: in tutta la nostra condotta (si tratti della ricerca
scientifica, ovvero della vita pratica) l’azione, per essere morale, deve
uscire da un’intima convinzione, perchè soltanto allora essa
esprime veramente la nostra autonomia spirituale. Ogni azione fatta
per autorità (si tratti dell’ accettazione di una verità che non risponde
in noi a una convinzione, ovvero del compimento di un’ azione che accettiamo
come un ordine) va direttamente contro il verdetto della coscienza, è
male, è I colpa. Giova ricordare che per Fichte non vi sono azioni
indifferenti; tutte debbono essere riferite alla legge morale, uon
foss’altro per assicurarsi che sono lecite; onde anche le azioni più
indifferenti iu apparenza, vanno sottoposte a matura riflessione, sempre
iu vista della legge morale (Siltenlehre). Risulta qui ancora una
volta definitivamente stabilito il primato della ragione pratica sulla
ragione teorica; di quella ragione pratica che agli occhi E facile
argomentare da ciò quale sia la causa del male o della colpa nell’essere
ragionevole finito. Quel che in generale costituisce l’essere ragionevole
trovasi necessariamente ih ciascun individuo ragionevole, altrimenti
questi non sarebbe più tale. Ora, secondo la legge morale, l’io
individuale, finito, empirico, che vive nel tempo, deve tendere a
divenire un’esatta copia dell’Io primitivo, originario, infinito,
extra-temporale; ma, sottoposto com’è alla condizione del t^mpo, non può
acquistare la chiara coscienza di tutto ciò che primitivamente e
originariamente fa l’essenza dell’Io, se non mediante un lavoro
successivo e una progressione nel tempo. Finché questo lavoro più o
meno faticoso e questa progressione più o meno lenta non abbiano compiuto
nell’ io empirico individuale il passaggio dallo stato d’ irriflessione
al massimo sviluppo della coscienza morale, c’ è sempre luogo nella nostra
condotta all’immoralità, alla colpa, al male. Conviene, dunque, seguire
questa storia dello sviluppo della coscienza emjnrica, per vedere
attraverso quali fasi germogli e maturi il seme della moralità, notando a
tal proposito ohe tutto sembrerà succedere come casualmente, perchè tutto
dipende dalla libertà, e in nessun modo da una meccanica legge di natura.
Anzitutto, e al suo grado pivi dàsso, l’io empirico si riduce a
un’attività istintiva ; l’istinto, senza dubbio, si accompagna con la
coscienza, dista però ancor molto dalla di Fichte è veramente la ragione,
e nella quale si attua l’accordo dell’essere e dell’agire, dell’oggetto e
del soggetto, della produzione e della riflessione, e che ci fornisce
l’intuizione, la coscienza immediata dell’ Io assoluto. E risulta anche
come la morale di Fichte fluisca per essere in sostanza una morale del
sentimento.] riflessione; l’uomo allora segue meramente e semplicemente l’impulso
naturale e, così facendo, è libero per un’ intelligenza fuori di lui, ma per sè
stesso è puro animale. I Tuttavia l’uomo può riflettere su questo stato; e
tale riflessione è per natura sua un atto di libertà : essa non è
nè fisicamente nè logicamente necessaria, ma soltanto moralmente obbligatoria:
chi vuole adempiere la propria destinazione e acquistare in sè la coscienza
dell’ Io puro, deve riflettere su questo suo stato, e mercè tale
riflessione si eleva, quasi, sopra sè stesso, si stacca dalla natura,
se ne distingue e le si oppone come intelligenza libera ; acquista cosi
il potere di differire ‘la propria autodeterminazione e di scegliere quindi tra
più modi — la pluralità dei modi nasce appunto dalla riflessione e dal
differimento della risoluzione di
soddisfare l’impulso naturale. Tale scelta si compie secondo una massima
liberamente adottata dall’ io individuale, e perciò profondamente diversa
dal PRINCIPIO supremo che scaturisce dalla legge morale e CHE NON È, COME LA
MASSIMA, UN LIBERO PRODOTTO DELLA COSCIENA EMPIRICA. Per conseguenza, nel caso
di una MASSIMA cattiva, la colpa spetta tutta all’ io individuale. Ora,
in questa seconda fase di sviluppo, dovuta al primo grado della riflessione,
l’io acquista coscienza del fine a cui tende 1’ impulso naturale, lo fa suo e
adotta come regola di .condotta la MASSIMA della felicità. L’uomo rimane
dunque ancora un animale, ma diventa un animale intelligente,
prudente: è già formalmente libero. Soltanto mette la sua libertà
al servigio dell’impulso naturale. La MASSIMA della felicità, per
quanto sia un prodotto della sua libertà, non può essere diversa da quella che
è, e, una volta posta, egli le obbedisce necessariamente. Senonchè la MASSIMA
stessa, e con essa il carattere ohe ne risulta, non ha nulla di necessario
e non è detto che l’io individuale debba arrestarvi»]/ se vi si arresta è
soltanto sua colpa. Nulla lo costringe L progredire, è vero, ma egli deve
e può progredire, facenti uso della propria libertà ed elevandosi
liberamente a qn piu alto grado di riflessione. Il male morale non deriva
ile non dal fatto che l’uomo il più delle volte non esercita la
propria libertà, onde a ragione Kant
riteneva il male radicale innato nell’uomo e nondimeno prodotto dalla
sua libertà. Quando però — con nuovo miracolo della sua
spontaneità — 1’ uomo, nella fase ora descritta, esercita la propria libertà,
una seoonda riflessione si compie, che, al pari della precedente, ha
carattere non di necessità fisica o logica, ma di obbligatorietà morale, e in
virtù di essa nasce una terza fase, nella quale l’io individuale prende
coscienza della sua opposizione rispetto alla natura e della spontaneità
del proprio operare, ed erige questa spontaneità stessa, ossia la propria
volontà, a nuova massima di condotta. Non piu la ricerca della felicità guida
ora le sue azioni, ma il godimento di un’ indipendenza dal nou-io
la quale non ammette freno al proprio capriccio e fa di sè stessa il
proprio idolo. Si ha, quindi, un progresso verso la libertà assoluta, ma
non ancora la vera libertà morale, non ancora la volontà riflessa
sottoposta alla legge del dovere. Anzi, mentre la MASSIMA della felicità è, si,
mancanza di legge, ma non addirittura rovesciamento della legge > n l’ostilità
contro questa, lt MASSIMA della volontà egoistica e arbitraria, invece,
può portare sino alla trasgressione intenzionale della legge. Il carattere
della condotta ispirata a tale MASSIMA è soltanto la soddisfazione
dell’amor proprio, dell’ orgoglio, del bisogno di dominare, ottenuta
a qualsiasi costo, anche di dolori corporei ; e appunto questa
idolatria della volontà egoistica spiega pressoché tutta la storia umana.
Essa riempie grandissima parte del teatro del inondo con le sue lotte e
le sue guerre, con, le sue vittorie e le sue sconfitte. u II
soggiogamento dei corpi e delle anime dei popoli, le guerre di conquista
e di religione, e tutti i misfatti cou cui l’umanità si è disonorata non si
spiegano altrimenti. Che cosa indusse l'invasore, l’oppressore a perseguire il
proprio fine con pericolo e fatica ? Sperava egli forse che per tal modo
si accrescerebbero le fonti dei suoi godimenti sensitivi? No davvero. 1
Ciò ohe io voglio deve accadere, a quel che io dico si deve stare ’ :
ecco 1’ unico principio che lo moveva. Un siffatto culto della volontà
egoistica certamente non è senza una certa aureola di grandezza, poiché
giunge anche al disinteresse: non al disinteresse che deriva dall'
obbedienza al dovere e che solo ha significato morale, ma a un disinteresse
di carattere impulsivo, derivante dal desiderio di suscitare ammirazione,
di cattivarsi stima, e che rimane tuttora una forma di amor proprio e di
orgoglio. E un culto che porta sino al sacrifizio della vita e ci
vuole del coraggio a vincere in noi la natura. Ma questo sacrifizio è
senza valore etico, perché è fatto soltanto al proprio io individuale, è
puro egoismo. Certo, rispetto alla fase precedente, la quale non mira che
alla felicità sensibile, la fase ora descritta segna un progresso e
sta come a rappresentare l’età eroica dello sviluppo morale. Ma dal punto
di vista della moralità nulla di più pericoluso che arrestarvisi, perchè essa
ci abitua a considerare come nobili e meritori, come rari e ammirevoli,
come opera mpererogativa, atti che sono semplicemente doverosi, e a
considerare d’ altra parto tutto ciò che a vantaggio nostro si fa da Dio,
dalla natura, dagli altri uomini, come nulla più che doveri verso di noi.
Con siffatte pretensioni la massima della volontà egoistica e senza,
freno, adottata in questa fase, è peggiore di ogni altra, perchè finisce
addirittura col corrompere le stesse radici della moralità: “ >1
pubblicano peccatore non vale più del fariseo sedicente giusto, in quanto
che nessuno dei due ha il menomo valore ; ma il secondo è assai più difficile a
convertire del primo. Per elevarsi al disopra di questa terza fase basta
che l’uomo con un terzo atto di riflessione, al pari dei precedenti
spontaneo ma inesplicabile, non necessario ma obbligatorio acquisti
coscienza chiara di quell’ originario impulso all’ indipendenza assoluta
che, considerato (analogamente a un eminente grado di capacità
intellettuale) come un dono gratuito della natura, può chiamarsi
genio della virtù, ma che, allo ^tato d’impulso cieco, pi'oduce un
carattere assai immorale. Mercè la riflessione, quell’ impulso si trasforma in
una legge assolutamente imperativa, e poiché ogni riflessione limita e
determina ciò che è riflettuto, anche quell’impulso sarà limitato dalla
riflessione, e da cieco impulso verso una causalità sconfinata
diventerà una legge di causalità condizionata ; riflettendo, l’uomo
sa di dovere assolutamente qualche cosa ; e affinchè questo sapere
si tramuti in azione, bisogna che egli adotti la MASSIMA: adempì il Ino dovere
perchè è tuo dovere. Sorge così la coscienza morale, la quale impone
appunto alla volontà arbitraria, alla volontà senza regola uè freno della
fase precedente, l’obbedienza al principio assoluto della ragione. Una volta
conseguita questa chiara coscienza del dovere, la nostra condotta vi si
conforma necessariamente, essendo inconcepibile che noi ci decidiamo di
proposito e con piena chiarezza a ribellarci alla nostra legge, a
mancare al nostro dovere, appunto perchè è la nostra legge, appunto
perchè è il nostro dovere. Vi sarebbe in ciò, oltre che una
contraddizione evidente, una condotta veramente diabolica, se lo stesso
concetto u diavolo non fosse contraddittorio. Soltanto può accadere che la
chiara coscienza del dovere si annebbii, si oscuri, che la riflessione non si
mantenga sempre alle altezze della moralità, e la nostra condotta, perciò,
cessi di essere conforme alla legge morale. Il dovere primo, quindi, e anche il
più alto, è mantenere la coscienza del dovere in tutta l’intensità della
sua luce e «Iella sua forza. Bisogna vegliare continuamente su noi
stessi, alimentare senza tregua il fuoco sacro della riflessione; possiamo fare
di questa riflessione un’abitudine, senza perciò renderla una necessità,
senza pregiudizio cioè della libertà, allo stesso modo diesi può fare
un’abitudine dell’irriflessione, con cui la coscienza empirica comincia,
e persistere in essa, senza renderla perciò una necessità e senza
escludere quindi 1’ esercizio della libertà. Nella sua Ascetih «fa Animili/ zur
Murai ( Ascetica conir appendice alta Morale) contenuta in Nuahgelarsene
Werke, e tradotta in inglese da Kroeger. Se la coscienza morale svanisce
del tutto, si da non lasciar sopravvivere più nessun sentimento del
dovere, noi The sciunce of Elltics bij Fichte dianzi ricordato Pielite si adopera a fornire il mozzo
pratico per mantener viva o luminosa, una volta nata per opera della
libertà, la coscienza del dovere, 'l'ale mezzo consiste ned’associazione
delle idee, intermediaria tra la necessità della natura e la libertà della
ragione, e precisamente nell’associare in precedenza la rappresentazione
dell'atto futuro con la rappresentazione dell’atto conforme al dovere.
Occorre, in altri termini, che i due propositi : voglio fare quest’azione; non
voglio agire se non conforme al dovere, siano indissolubilmente uniti
in ima sintesi, e la funzione propria dell’ascetica consiste appunto
in questa associazione permanente e anticipata del concetto del dovere
non solo col concetto della nostra condotta in generale il che sarebbe
ancora troppo vago e astratto ma con i concetti di azioni determinate,
soprattutto di quelle ABITUALI, QUOTIDIANE, in cui più facilmente possiamo
peccare per omissione o violazione del dovere. Mentre invece per le azioni
eccezionali e straordinarie difficilmente manca I intervento della
riflessione e la conseguente chiarezza della coscienza. Di qui due
regole: un esame di coscienza generale dei casi in cui siamo più esposti
al pericolo di cadere in colpa; e la risoluzione ferma e sempre attiva di
ridettero, in questi casi, sopra noi stessi e di sorvegliarci, opponendo
alla forza cieoa e alla resistenza passiva di certi stati di coscienza,
divenuti abitudini quasi invincibili, la causalità iutelligAte della
coscienza morale: è noto ohe spesso basta ridettero sulla propria
passione e rendersi consapevoli delle associazioni che la costituiscono per
liberarsene, dissociando mentalmente i fattori da cui nasce e
controbilanciando il piacere che ci aspettiamo dal suo soddisfacimento
col disprezzo che accompagna la trasgressione del dovere. Ma, affinchè l’esame
della propria coscienza abbia valore etico, bisogna che non si riduca a
una pura aulocontemplazione, a un’ analisi fatta quasi per semplice
giuoco estetico. Bisogna, invece, che si proponga la nostra riforma
morale, il miglioramento della nostra attività. Tale esortazione, del
resto, si rivolge non già agli uomini privi di coltura, la cui vita é
tutta rivolta all’azione, ond’essi non ridettono se non per agire, ma
agli artisti, ai letterati, e persino ai lilosotì e ai sacerdoti, per i
quali è frequente il grave pericolo di dimenticare il valore pratico
delle coso, di arrestarsi alla contemplazione e di nou tradurre la
speculazione in azione. ricadiamo in uno degli stati che precedono
la moralità e OPERIAMO SECONDO LA MASSIMA o della felicità o del dominio
arbitrario della nostra volontà egoistica. Se, invece, ci ri mane ancora un
sentimento vago e intermittente del dóvere. possono verificarsi le
seguenti tre specie d’indeterminatezza corrispondenti alle tre condizioni
che rendono determinato il dovere. L’indeterminatezza può concernere la MATERIA
del dovere, cioè l’applicazione della legge morale a un dato caso : in
ciascun singolo caso tra più azioni possibili non ce n è che una conforme
al dovere. Ma, per insufficiente attenzione e riflessione, noi cediamo
segretamente, e quasi a nostra insaputa, a qualche altra sollecitazione e
perdiamo il filo conduttore della coscienza --; il MOMENTO del dovere :
in ciascun singolo caso si deve adempiere subito ciò che è dovere. Ma,
per l’affievolirsi della coscienza, ci illudiamo che non occorra
affrettarsi a ciò, procrastiniamo il nostro perfezionamento e ci
abituiamo a procrastinarlo all’ infinito --; la FORMA del dovere :
l’imperativo morale è categorico, esige obbedienza assoluta e incondizionata. Ma,
se perdiamo di vista tale sua caratteristica, consideriamo il dovere,
anziché come un comando, COME UN SEMPLICE CONSIGLIO DI PRUDENZA che si può
seguire quando piaccia e non costi troppa abnegazione, e con cui si può
anche transigere; di qui quei compromessi, quegli accomodamenti con
la propria coscienza che sono altrettanti modi di eludere la legge morale,
altrettante cause di torpore per la riflessione, e che pongono nel
massimo pericolo la nostra salvezza spirituale, quando per caso non
sopravvenga dall’esterno una forte scossa, la quale ci sia occasione
a rientrare in noi, a ravvederci. Quest’ultima maniera d’intendere il
dovere, infatti, accusa la morale di RIGORISMO impraticabile, sotto lo specioso
pretesto che l’ adempimento del dovere impone troppi sacrifizi, quasi che
non fosse appunto in ciò l’obbligo nostro. Nel sacrificar tutto al
dovere, la vita, l’onore e ogni cosa all’uomo più caramente diletta. Quale
che sia il modo di oscurarsi della coscienza, si può dire in generale che
la causa di questo suo oscurarsi e del conseguente smarrirsi della
moralità, la causa iu- somma del male, va ricercata in una sconfitta
della libertà. Se la riflessione che ci eleva alla libertà consiste in
una creazione da parte della libertà e quasi in un colpo di grazia
che ci strappa all’oppressione della natura, il mantenimento della chiara
coscienza del dovere non può essere che un perpetuo riprodursi di questo atto
creativo, una creazione continuata, uno sforzo incessante della
riflessione, dell’attenzione ; e appunto perciò al menomo affievolirsi della
nostra vigilanza consegue la nosti-a caduta e il trionfo delle forze
antagonistiche della natura, le quali sono sempre e necessariamente in
azione: tosto che cessa lo sforzo morale, l’impulso naturale
inevitabilmente ha il sopravvento e, con la luce della coscienza, si
spegue anche LA VIRTÙ. Ogni uomo, dallo stato di natura, con cui
s’inizia la sua vita in una specie d’innocenza perchè sono ancora
ignorati gli stati superiori in cui l’innocenza primitiva assume aspetto
di colpa, perviene necessariamente alla coscienza di sé stesso: a ciò gli
basta riflettere sulla libertà che ha di scegliere tra più azioni possibili per
soddisfare l’impulso naturale. SIAMO ALLORA IN QUELLA FASE IN CUI EGLI OPERA
SECONDO LA MASSIMA DELL’INTERESSE O DELLA FELICITÀ (Siuenlehre). In questo
grado di sviluppo rimano volentieri, trattenutovi dalla forza d 'inerzia che
l’uomo, in quanto essere sensibile, ha in comune con tutta la natura
fisica. È vero che, in virtù della sua natura superiore, egli deve
'strapparsi a questo stato, e può farlo perchè dotato di libertà. Ma proprio la
sua libertà è impedita in questo stato, essendo essa alleata con quella
forza d'inerzia, da cui dovrebbe invece svincolarsi. Come farà egli a elevarsi
alla libertà, quando per questa elevazione stessa deve far uso
della libertà ? Donde attingerà la forza che faccia da contrappeso nella
bilancia per vincere la forza d’inerzia? Certamente non nella sua natura
empirica, la quale in nessun modo fornisce alcunché di simile. Gli
occorre, dunque, un aiuto superiore. L’uomo naturale qui non può nulla da
sé – ma da un miracolo puo essere salvato. Intanto sappiamo che l’inerzia,
la pigrizia — la quale a forza di riprodursi indefinitamente diviene
impotenza morale — è il vizio radicale, il male innato, il peccato
originale. L’'uomo è per natura pigro, dice assai giustamente Kant. Da pigrizia
nasce immediatamente viltà, il secondo vizio fondamentale dell’ uomo. LA
VILTÀ E LA PIGRIZIA D’AFFERMARE LA PROPRIA LIBERTÀ E INDEPENDENZA NELLO
*SCAMBIO ili AZIONE CON GLI ALTRI: donde tutte le specie di schiavitù
fisica e morale tra gli uomini. In genere si ha abbastanza coraggio
dinanzi a coloro di cui si conosce la debolezza relativa, ma si è disposti
a cedere, a umiliarsi, dinanzi a una supposta e temuta superiorità
qualsiasi. Si preferisce la sottomissione piuttosto che lo sforzo
necessario a resistere. Precisamente come quel marinaio che preferiva le
eventuali pene dell’ inferno al lavoro faticoso di correggersi in questa
vita. Il vile si consola di questa sottomissione forzata con l’astuzia e
con la frode. Da viltà nasce inevitabilmente il terzo vizio fondamentale:
falsità. È questa il risultato di uno sforzo indiretto che si
compie per ricuperare l’indipendenza perduta, quell’indipendenza
che nessun nomo può sacrificare ad altri cosi interamente come il pigro
finge di fare per essere dispensato dalla fatica di difenderla in aperta
battaglia. Falsità, menzogna, malizia, insidia derivano dall’esistenza di un
oppressore, e ogni oppressore deve aspettarsi tali frutti. Soltanto il
vile è falso. Il coraggioso non mente e non è falso. Per orgoglio, se non
per virtù. Ma come pud aiutarsi l’uomo, quando in lui è radicata la
pigrizia, la quale paralizza appunto l’unica forza con cui' egli deve
aiutarsi ? Che cosa gli manca propriamente? Non già t la forza, che egli ben
possiede, ma la coscienza della forza e l’Impulso a farne uso. E
donde gli verrà questo impulso? Non da altra foute che dalla
riflessione: è necessario che l’io empirico, avendo in sè l’immagine dell’Io
assoluto, e vedendosi in tutta la propria bruttezza, senta orrore di sè ;
soltanto per questa via potrà formarsi la coscienza di quel che deve
essere, soltanto di là verrà l’impulso. In genere gl’ individui che
formano la grande maggioranza degli uomini hanno bisogno di apprendere la
propria libertà da altri individui liberi, che essi contemplano come
modelli. Ma vi souo nella moltitudine spiriti eletti a cui fu dato di essere
gl’ iniziatori della moralità e quasi i primi maestri dell' umanità, per
es. i fondatori di religione. Si comprende come costoro, non avendo
attinto dall’ esempio altrui la consapevolezza della propria
indipendenza, e non trovando nella propria natura empirica il principio
dell’ emancipazione da questa natura empirica, si credano ispirati dall'
alto da una grazia soprannaturale, da uno spirito divino, mentre invece non
han fatto che obbedire alla propria natura superiore, all’Io assoluto, di
cui l’io finito e individuale deve divenire la copia fedele. Una volta emancipato dalla schiavitù della
natura e divenuto cosciente della propria libertà formale, l’uomo deve
far uso di questa per compiere l’infinita serie di azioni diretta verso l’assoluta
libertà materiale. Quale la materia di queste azioni? In qual modo l’ io
individuale si puo elevere gradatamente sino a quell’ indipendenza
assoluta, a quello stato oggettivo di libertà, che è il fine ultimo della
sua libera attività soggettiva? L’accennammo già. L’attuazione dello stato
di libertà non si ottiene se non determinando il mondo in funzione
della libertà stessa, operando cioè come chi considera e tratta le cose
dal punto di vista non della loro esistenza data, ma della loro FINALITÀ,
non del loro essere, ma del loro dover-essere, e le modifica perciò e le
adatta progressivamente nella direzione di questa FINALITÀ, di questo
dovere. Tale determinazione del mondo secondo l’idea della libertà,
determinazione posta come obbligatoria e come praticamente necessaria,
costituisce il sistema dei nostri doveri, la materia della moralità. In
altri termini, la morale propriamente detta non è che l’insieme delle condizioni
a cui il mondo va sottoposto e a cui deve prestarsi per essere strumento
all’ attuazione della libertà. Queste condizioni possono ridursi a tre,
perchè triplice è il punto di vista da cui può considerarsi il mondo.
Il mondo si può considerare in sè, come pura e semplice materia,
come natura corporea; o nel suo rapporto col pensiero, come materia di
conoscenza; o, finalmente, nel suo rapporto col volere, come oggetto
indispensabile all’ esercizio dell’ attività, come il luogo d’incontro delle
molteplici sfere di libertà individuale, come IL TEATRO DELLA SOCIETÀ. E per
la morale si tratta appunto di mostrare nella nostra natura corporea,
nella nostra intelligenza, e nella NOSTRA VITA SOCIALE, gli strumenti per
l’attuazione della libertà, la quale non può DIVENIRE REALE se non OPERANDO
sul mondo oggettivo, PER MEZZO del corpo, dell’intelligenza e DELLA
SOCIETÀ. Come, dunque, dobbiamo trattare, in vista del fine ideale da
raggiungere: il corpo, l’intelligenza, LA SOCIETÀ? Il nostro corpo, essendo da
una parte prodotto di natura, dall’ altra strumento della causalità del
concetto, funziona da intermediario tra la necessità e la libertà.
La volizione si esercita immediatamente su di esso, e per esso
modifica mediatamente il mondo esterno secondo i nostri concetti. Di qui
risulta chiaro un triplice dovere rispetto al corpo: un dovere negativo :
non far mai del proprio corpo il fine ultimo delle proprie azioni ; un
dovere positivo : conservare e coltivare il proprio corpo nell’interesse
della libertà ; un dovere limitativo : evitare come illecito ogni piacere
corporeo che non si riferisca al fine ultimo della nostra attività. u
Mangiate e bevete in onore di Dio: se questa morale vi sembra troppo
austera, tanto peggio per voi ; non ce n’ è un’ altra. L’intelligenza è
la forma indispensabile attraverso cui può attuarsi la libertà, poiché
soltanto la riflessione dà alla libertà la sua legge; fuori
dell’intelligenza ci sarà 1’ istinto cieco, non già la coscienza morale ;
l’intelligenza è il veicolo stesso della moralità. Diciamo di più-: per
la legge morale, mentre il corpo è condizione materiale puramente esterna
e soltanto della sua causalità, l’intelligenza è condizione materiale veramente
interna e di tutta quanta la sua essenza. Di qui un triplice dovere
anche verso l’intelligenza : un dovere negativo : non subordinare mai
materialiter ossia nelle sue
ricerche e cognizioni
l’intelligenza a nessuna autorità, foss’anche quella della legge
morale ; la ricerca da parte della ragione teorica dev’ essere
assolutamente libera e disinteressata, non deve preoccuparsi di altro che
non sia l’acquisto della conoscenza ; un dovere positivo : formare
l’intelligenza il più possibile ; il più possibile imparare, pensare,
indagare ; un dovere limitativo: subordinare formaliier l’intelligenza
alla moralità, la quale rimane sempre il fine supremo ; riferire al
dovere tutte le nostre investigazioni ; coltivare la scienza non per
curiosità ma per dovere, essendo essa strumento di moralità. LA SOCIETÀ,
infine, può dirsi addirittura l’espressione vivente della libertà, in quanto
questa non si concepisce come qualcosa d’individuale, ma soltanto come
una recijjrocanza di RAPPORTI TRA PIU INDIVIDUI corporei, intelligenti e VOLENTI.
L’ideale della libertà, quindi, si attua non nel singolo uomo, ma NELLA
COMUNITÀ di tutti gli uomini, in seno alla quale l’individuo DIVIENE
PERSONA e senza la quale per l’ individuo nessun perfezionamento, anzi
nemmeno l’esistenza stessa, sarebbe possibile, essendo individuo e SOCIETÀ
termini correlativi, coudizionantisi a vicenda. Se così è, se l’io
empirico non può porsi altrimenti che come individuo, e se come tale NON PUO
PRESCINDERE DA SUOI RAPPORTI CON LA SOCIETÀ, che vai quanto dire dalla
esistenza di ALTRI INDIVIDUI e dalla loro libertà, è evidente che egli
non può voler sopprimere questa esistenza e questa libertà, da cui sono
determinate l’esistenza e la libertà sua propina. La mia tendenza
all’indipendenza assoluta, fine supremo della mia attività, è dunque SUBOARDINATA
ALLA LIBERTÀ DEGLI ALTRI. Le libere azioni degli altri sono gli originari
punti di confine della mia individualità, e a esse io reagisco f non meno
liberamente, autodeterminandomi a quella serie di azioni che prescelgo e da
cui uscirà costituita la mia personalità, non essendo io se non
quel che mi fo • con le mie azioni, e non consistendo il mio essere in
altro che nel mio operare. Soltanto che mentre il mio operare, rispetto a
quegli originari punti di confine della mia individualità, ossia rispetto
ai liberi influssi degli altri, mi appare l’effetto della mia assoluta
autodeterminazioue, della mia libera causalità, quei punti di confine,
quei LIBERI INFLUSSI DEGLI ALTRI, invece, mi appaiono come predeterminati a
priori. Alla stessa guisa che dal punto di vista altrui s’invertono le
parti, e agli altri appare liberamente autodeterminato il loro agire
su di me e predeterminato a priori il mio reagire su di loro. Il
che dà luogo, è vero, a un’ antinomia tra predeterminazione e
autodeterminazione, ma a un’ antinomia che si risolve facilmente cosi. Tutte
le azioni libere (le mie come le altrui) sono predeterminate ab æterno
(ossia fuori del tempo) dalla ragione universale. Ma il momento in
cui ciascuna deve accadere e gli attori di essa non sono predeterminati.
Ecco, quindi, predestinazione e libertà perfettamente conciliate. Ciò premesso
- è evidente il-dovere fondamentale verso la società. Non impedire, con
l’esercizio della propria libertà, la libertà degli altri, hou trattare gli
altri uomini come cose, come semplici strumenti della propria libertà. Ma
anche nell’ interno di questo dovere sembra annidarsi un’ antinomia. Da una
parte devo tendere all’ indipendenza assoluta, all’ emancipazione
da ogni limitazione, dall’altra DEVO RISPETTARE LA LIBERTA ALTRUI, LA
QUALE E UNA VERA LIMITAZIONE ALLA MIA LIBERTA. Da una parte devo agire
sul moudo sensibile si da farne, come il mio corpo, il mezzo per giungere
al line supremo, all’ assoluta libertà, dall’ altra non mi è lecito modificare
i prodotti della libertà altrui. Come comporre questa nuova contraddizione?
Non difficile la soluzione. Basta supporre tra le molteplici libertà
individuali, anziché contrasto, vera COMUNANZA DI AZIONE. Se dal punto di
vista giuridico occorre una forza coercitiva -- l’autorità dello stato --
la quale, restringendo l’esercizio delle libertà individuali
antagonistiche, renda possibile il loro mutuo sviluppo, dal punto di
vista morale, invece, tutti gli individui sottostanno alla medesima
legge, tutti perseguono il medesimo fine, tutti sono in certo qual modo
identici nella loro condotta conforme al dovere. perchè tutti hanno il
medesimo dovere, e l’emancipazione degli uni, lungi dall’opporlesi, è
necessaria all’emancipazione degli altri, perchè l’indipendenza di ciascuno va
di pari passo con l’indipendenza di tutti, perchè LA LIBERTA, INTESA NEL
SENSO MORALE, NON SI ATTUA SE NON NELLA COLLETTIVITA DEGLI ESSERI LIBERI. Dunque,
non già limitazione o interferenza tra le libertà individuali, sì bene CONFLUENZA,
COLLABORAZIONE, CO-OPERAZIONE A UN’OPERA COMUNE, AL TRIONFO DELLE RAGIONE: il
rispetto della libertà altrui è qui compatibile con l’esercizio assoluto
della libertà propria, perchè questa e quella si accordano e si
completano reciprocamente, la liberazione dell’uno è in pari tempo
la liberazione di tutti. E invero, 1’ originaria tendenza
all’indipendenza assoluta non si riferisce a un determinato individuo; ha
per oggetto la libertà assoluta, l’autonomia della ragione in
generale. L’ultimo fine della moralità è il regno della ragione in quanto
ragione, il che NON SI OTTIENE SE NON NELLA COMUNANZA E CON LA COOPERAZIONE di
tutti gli esseri che partecipano della ragione, di tutta l’umanità ; la
libertà, ripetiamo non hì concepisce sotto la forma dell' individualità,
essa è di natura essenzialmeute sociale e universale, e non si attua nel
singolo uomo se uon in quanto questi da u individuo „ si eleva a “ PERSONA„
per confondersi in ispirito con tutti, gli esseri ragionevoli. Di qui
trae luce e spiegazione la nota formula kantiana. Opera in modo da poter
pensare LA MASSIMA DELLA TUA VOLONTA come PRINCIPIO d’ una legislazione
universale, formula più euristica che costitutiva della moralità, perchè
non è un principio come sembra al
Kant, a cui il metodo da lui adottato interdiceva di penetrare sino al
fondo delle cose ma soltanto una
conseguenza di quel vero principio che consiste nel comando dell’ assoluta
indipendenza della ragione. Di qui deriva la necessità che
tutti-siano veramente liberi, che nessuno sia impedito nell’esercizio
dulia ragione e nell’adempimento del dovere, che ciascuno si adoperi ad
avvicinare sempre più quell’ ideale
per quanto destinato a rimanere sempre un ideale — che è la
moralizzazione dell’umanità. Soltanto l’uso della libertà contrario alla
legge morale ho il dovere di annullare ; ma siccome ciascuno deve operare
secondo le proprie convinzioni, cosi mi è lecito cercar di determinare o
modificare soltanto la convinzione degli altri, mai la loro azione.
E poiché non si può agire sulle convinzioni degli altri uomini se
non vivendo in mezzo a essi, anche per questa via si ribadisce la necessità
morale della società e il dovere per ognuno di vivere in essa. Segregarsi
dalla società significa rinunziare ad attuare il fine della ragione ed
essere indifferente al propagarsi della moralità, al trionfo della
libertà, al bene dell’ umanità. Chi si propone di aver cura
sola- Secondo Fichte la suddetta formula kantiana va intesa non già
nel senso: perchè un quid può essere principio di una legislazione
universale, perciò dev’essere MASSIMA DELLA MIA VOLONTA ma nel senso opposto : perchè un quid DEV’ESSERE MASSIMA DELLA
MIA VOLONTÀ, perciò può essere anche PRINCIPIO di uua legislazione
universale. In altri termini, non la forma determina il contenuto della
moralità, ma il CONTENUTO determina la forma. Se la moralità ha per contenuto
l’attuazione universale della ragione, ne segue che ciascun individuo il quale
operi di siuteressatameute, secondo ragione, può pensare la propria
condotta come un dovere per chiunque altro operi nelle medesime
circostanze. La proposizione kantiana, appunto con questa universalizzazione
della condotta individuale, non fornisce altro che un eccellente mezzo
di controprova per accertarci se, agli effetti della morale, la
condotta di un individuo sopporti o no universalità, possa o no erigersi
a legge per tutti: è perciò una proposizione euristica, non già
costitutiva della moralità.] mente di sè, dal lato morale, in verità non ha
cura neppure di si, perchè suo fine ultimo dev’essero il prendersi cura
di tutto il genere umano, la sua virtù non è virtù, ma soltanto im
servile, venale egoismo. Non già con una vita eremitica, dedita a
pensieri sublimi e speculazioni pure, non già col fantasticare, ma
soltanto con 1’operare nella e per la società si soddisfa al dovere. La
necessità etica della società e il dovere che ne deriva all’ individuo di
vivere in essa e di lavorarvi alla moi'alizzazione degli uomini, operando
sul loro spirito e formando le loro convinzioni, implica l’istituzione di
quella repubblica morale che i?i chiama la Chiesa e che è condizione
indispensabile per la reciproca azione sociale diretta a produrre
credenze pratiche concordi e con esse il progresso della moralità. La Chiesa,
infatti, rappresenta nel suo simbolo, accettato da tutti i suoi membri,
quell’accordo primitivo e, a dir così, minimo, che solo rende possibile
una comunità spirituale. Ma il simbolo non è, nè può essere, che un punto di
partenza o un mezzo, nou già un punto di arrivo o uu fine ; esso è
indefinitamente perfettibile mercè la continua reciproca azione degli spiriti
gli uni sugli altri e il conseguente sviluppo della moralità, e non
può, quindi, rimanere fisso e invariabile. Così, appunto, l’intende il PROTESTANTISMO.
Invece, come fa il papismo, lavorare pur contro la propria convinzione a
mantenere il simbolo in una fissità assoluta, a rendere la ragione stazionaria,
a costringere gli altri in una fede già superata, significa, oltre che
ignoranza, trasgressione del dovere, perchè allora si fa del simbolo non
più 1’ espressione puramente prdVvisoria di un accordo destinato a
permettere la discussione delle diverse opinioni in vista dell’ ulteriore
sviluppo morale della comunità, ma la formula definitiva di una verità assoluta
e immutevole, il che sta in recisa opposizione con lo spirito della
moralità, la cui essenza consiste nello sforzo e nel progresso all’
infinito. Come la Cliiesa è istituzione necessaria al perfezionamento morale
per quanto riguarda le convinzioni interne, COSI LO STATO E ISTITUZIONE
NECESSARIA per quanto riguarda le azioni esterne, l’operare sul mondo
sensibile. Ciò che sta fuori del mio corpo, ossia tutto il mondo
sensibile, è patrimonio comune e il coltivarlo secondo le leggi
della ragione non spetta a me soltanto, ma a tutti gli individui
ragionevoli; di guisa che il mio operare su di esso interferisce con l’ operare
degli altri, e può accadermi, perciò, di arrecar danno alla libertà
altrui, quando il mio operare non sia all’ unisono con 1’ altrui volontà:
il che assolutamente non mi è lecito. Quel che interessa tutti io non
posso fare senza IL CONSENSO di tutti, e
senza seguire, quindi, principi universalmente accettati, previo ACCORDO,
tacito o esplicito, circa una parziale restrizione volontaria e generale
delle diverse libertà individuali. Il consenso a questa restrizione e 1’accordo
che determina i comuni diritti e la reciproca azione sul mondo sensibile è
oggetto del cosidetto contratto sociale e costituisce lo Stato. Lo
Stato, grazie alle leggi conosciute e accettate da tutti i cittadini,
rende possibile a ciascuno di essi di conciliare l’esercizio della
propria libertà col rispetto dovuto alla libertà degli altri; rende
passibile, iu altri termini, prevenendo eventuali conflitti nell’incontro delle
libertà individuali, quella convivenza sociale die è condizione strie iy
ua non della moralità'; di qui il suo alto significato e il suo
valore etico. La necessità del simbolo nella Chiesa, il rispetto delle
leggi nello Stato, impongono, non tanto alle convinzioni dell’individuo le quali sono incoercibili quanto alla loro manifestazione e
comunicazione, certi limiti che non si possono oltrepassare senza
mettersi fuori del simbolo o fuori della legge, fuori, iusomma, della
comunità morale e civile ottenuta iu un dato momento del progresso
umano. E pur tuttavia si è tenuti non solo a formarsi una convinzione
indipendente da ogni autorità, ma anche ad affermarla e parteciparla agli
altri. Come conciliare questa contraddizione tra 1’ assoluta libertà delle
singole coscienze e il rispetto alla fede comune? come risolvere questo
conflitto di doveri ? Non altrimenti che mediante una LIMITAZIONE RECIPROCA dei
due doveri, che vai quanto dire : ammettere la libertà assoluta delle
convinzioni e della loro comunicazione, ma circoscrivere questa libertà e
questa comunicazione a quel particolare gruppo sociale che è
il pubblico dotto. E invero, l’assoluta libertà delle convinzioni e
della loro comunicazione, se è impraticabile nel vasto ambito della
Chiesa e dello Stato, perchè per essere morale dovrebbe raccogliere cosa impossibile 1’ adesione unanime di tutti i membri della
comunità chiesastica e politica, è, invece, praticabile nel ristretto pubblico
dei dotti, il quale sta come anello di congiunzione tra la
convinzione comune e la privata. Il carattere distintivo del
pubblico dotto è uifa assoluti libertà e indipendenza di pensiero ; il
principio della sua costituzione è LA MASSIMA di non sottoporsi a nessuna
autorità, di basarsi in tutto sulla propria riflessione e di rigettare
assolutamente da sè tutto ciò che non sia da questa confermato. Nella
repubblica dei dotti non è possibile nessun simbolo, nessuna direttiva
prestabilita, nessun riserbo ; tra dotti si deve poter dichiaral e
tutto ciò di cui si è persuasi, appunto come si oserebbe dichiararlo alla
propria coscienza ; giudice della verità sarà il tempo, ossia il
progresso della coltura. E come assolutamente libera è l’investigazione
scientifica, così pure libero a tutti deve essere 1’ adito a essa. Per
chi nel suo intimo non può più credere all’ autorità, è contro coscienza
continuare a credervi, è dovere di coscienza associarsi al pubblico dotto. Lo stato
italiano e la chiesa debbono tollerare i dotti, altrimenti violerebbero»
te coscienze, perchè nessuna potenza terrena ha il diritto d’imporsi in materia
di coscienza. Lo tato e la Chiesa debbono anzi riconoscere la repubblica
dei dotti, perchè questa è condizione del loro progresso morale, in
quanto che soltanto in essa possono elaborarsi i concetti che
modificheranno, perfezionandoli, e il simbolo e la costituzione dello
Stato: sin anche come pubblici ufficiali
per es. nelle università i dotti
possono lavorare all’educazione degli uomini e alla formazione
scientifica degli insegnanti e dei funzionari tutti della Chiesa e dello
Stato. È da aggiungere, però, che il dotto, insieme con l’incontestabile
diritto che ha all’ esistenza, all' indipendenza e alla massima libertà di
ricerca e critica nel campo del pensiero, lia anche il preciso dovere di
sottomettersi all’autorità della Chiesa e dello Stato nel campo
deU’azioue ; onde non è lecito a chi ne faccia parte nè diffondere le
propine convinzioni, ancora discutibili e non universalmente accettate,
tra i fedeli e i cittadini che vivono fuori della repubblica dotta, nè,
tanto meno, attuarle senz’ altro nel mondo sensibile, minando cosi,
o addirittura sovvertendo, senza il consenso di tutti, gli ordinamenti e
i poteri costituiti; Stato e Chiesa hanno il diritto di impedire ciò. Sarebbe
un’oppressione della coscienza proibire al predicatore di esporre in
scritti scientifici le sue convinzioni dissenzienti, ma rientra
perfettamente nel1’ordine vietargli di portarle sul pulpito, ed egli
stesso, se'è illuminato, sentirebbe la propria immoralità quando
facesse così. In conclusione: l’ultimo fine di ogni attività
sociale è l’accordo universale tra gli uomini, accordo non
possibile se non sul puro ragionevole, perchè qui soltanto
ritrovasi ciò che agli uomini è comune. Col presupposto d’ un tale
accordo cade la differenza tra un pubblico dotto e un pubblico non dotto ;
scompaiono anche Chiesa e Stato. Condividendo tutti le medesime convinzioni, a
che servirebbe più il potere legislativo e coercitivo dello Stato?
Riunite tutte le coscienze individuali nella visione diretta della
verità assoluta, a ohe servirebbero più i simboli provvisori e mutevoli
della Chiesa ? Il pensiero e l’azione di ciascuno confluirebbe col
pensiero e 1’ azione di tutti, la legge morale troverebbe la sua espressione
nella sublime armonia di tutti gli esseri ragionevoli e buoni, nella
suprema comunione dei santi, l’io empirico e individuale,
completamente liberato da ogni limitazione, svanirebbe completamente
in seno all’Io puro e assoluto, si attuerebbe, insomma, nella
realtà l’Ideale, l’Infinito, Dio. Il contenuto materiale della moralità è
tutto in Questo perenne e progressivo attuarsi del regno della ragione
nel regno della natura, è tutto in questa ascensione, in
quest’approssimarsi del mondo verso lo spirito, vei’so la Libertà. Da
quanto precede risulta evidente che l’io empirico q la persona è soltanto
mezzo all’ attuazione del fine supremo morale. La proposizione del Kant :
L’uomo è /ine in se, è giusta purché completata così : l'uomo è fine in
.sr. ma per gli altri. Siccome la legge si dirige a ciascuno e il suo
fine è la ragione in generale, ossia 1’ umanità tutta quanta, ne segue
che tutti sono fine a ciascuno, ma nessuno è fine a se stesso; 1’ attività di
ciascuno è semplice strumento per attuare la ragione. Con che la dignità
del1’ uomo non è abbassata, è anzi inalzata, poiché a ciascun individuo
vien affidato il raggiungimento del fine universale della ragione e dalla cura
e dall’ attività di lui dipende l’intera comunità degli esseri ragionevoli,
mentre egli, invece, non dipende da nulla. Ciascuno diventa Dio
nella misura che gli è possibile, ossia con riguardo alla libertà degli
altri, e appunto perchè tutta la sua iudividualità scompare, egli diventa pura
rappresentazione della legge morale nel mondo sensibile, vero Io puro.
Errano di molto coloro che pongono la perfezione in pie meditazioni, in
un devoto covare sopra sé stessi, e di qui aspettano l’annientarsi della
propria individualità e il loro confluire culi la divinità; la loro virtù è, o
rimane, e geliamo ; essi vogliono fare perfetti soltanto se stessi. La
vera virtù, invece, consiste nell’operare, e nell’operare per la comunità
: è quindi oblio, abnegazione intera di sè nell’interesse della totalità
degli esseri ragionevoli. Se cosi è, se l’io empirico o individuale
serve solamente di mezzo all’attuazione del fine supremo, ossia all’avvento del
regno della ragione, ne segue che i doveri verso l’io empirico sono
mediati e condizionati di fronte a quelli che, riferendosi direttamente
al fine supremo, diconsi immediati e incondizionati, ossia assoluti. Senonchè
la promozione del fine supremo è possibile soltanto in virtù di una ben
disegnata divisione di lavoro, altrimenti potrebbe molto accadere in più
modi, e molto non accadere affatto. È necessario, dunque, attuare una
tale divisione di lavoro, mediante 1’ istituzione di divei'se professioni,
da cui nascono doveri diversi, che diremo particolari o trasferibili
(perchè s’impongono soltanto a chi abbia scelto quella data professione)
di fronte ai doveri che sono generali o intrasferibili (perchè
s’impongono indistintamente a tutti gli esseri umani). Combinando questa
seconda classificazione dei doveri, fatta dal punto di vista del soggetto
della moralità, con la precedente, fatta dal punto di vista dell’oggetto
della moralità, si hanuo quattro specie di doveri: generali
condizionati; particolari condizionati; generali incondizionati; e particolari
incondizionati. I doveri generali condizionati
abbiamo dette si riferiscono all’io empirico in quanto mezzo e
strumento indispensabile per 1 adempimento della legge morale:
primo tra essi, dunque, V autoconservazione, la conservazione,
cioè, di questo mezzo o strumento. *L’ autoconservazione già
richiesta dal diritto naturale come condizione necessaria al I attuarsi di quel
futuro da cui attendiamo la soddisfazione implicita nell’oggetto del
nostro volere presente, e perciò come qualcosa di relativo diventa per la moralità materia di un
comando assoluto ; per 1’ uomo morale si tratta non più di attendere un
risultato più o meno egoistico e interamente conseguibile nel tempo,
ma di lavorare disinteressatamente all’attuazione di quel fine
supremo di cui egli non potrà mai godere, perchè posto all’
infinito. Dal dovere dell’ autoconservazione nasce : un divieto : evita tutto ciò che,
secondo la tua coscienza, può mettere in pericolo la tua conservazione in
quanto strumento della moralità (il digiuno e 1’intemperanza in riguai do al
corpo, l’inerzia intellettuale, il soverchio sforzo, l’occupazione
irregolare, il disordine della fantasia, la coltura unilaterale, ecc. in
riguardo all’ intelligenza) ; non espone al pericolo la tua salute, il
tuo corpo, la tua vita, quando non vi sia necessità morale. Segue da ciò
la più recisa condanna del suicidio : la moralità può comandare di
esporre la vita, non già di distruggerla ; la vita è la condizione stessa
dell’ adempimento del dovere, e il suicidio, distruggendo la vita, la sottrae
appunto al dominio della legge ; suicidarsi significa dichiarare di non
voler più adempiere il dovere; un comando : opera tutto quello che
ritieni necessario alla tua conservazione (il buon mauteuimeuto del corpo,
il nuo adattamento perfetto ai fini che deve conseguire, la coltura
dell’intelligenza, la ricreazione estetica, eco.). Non va mai
dimenticato, però, che il dovere dell’auto-conservazioue è condizionato,
essendo l’io empirico semplice strumento della moralità : quindi, dove il fine
della moralità non fosse compatibile col dovere «Iella conservazione,
sarebbe moralmente necessario che la vita dell’individuo venisse sacrificata a
quel fine, che il dovere coudizionato fosse subordinato al dovere
incondizionato : quando la moralità lo esige, ho il dovere di arrischiare
la mia vita, e tutti i pretesti con cui cercassi di nascondere la
mia viltà per es., quello di
risparmiarmi la vita per operare ancora dell’ altro bene che altrimenti
rimarrebbe incompiuto andrebbero
contro il dovere, il quale comanda in modo assoluto e non ammette indugi al
suo adempimento. Tra i doveri particolari condizionati attinenti, cioè, ai diversi uffici e
alle diverse professioni individuali sta
anzitutto quello d’avere un ufficio, d’esercitare una professione
nell’interesse della società, di contribuire in qualche misura all’
esistenza e all’ organizzazione sociale ; poi 1’ altro di scegliersi a
ogni modo un ufficio, una professione, e non già secondo l’inclinazione, ma con
la coscienza d’ avere la migliore attitudine all’ uno o all’ altra,
considerate le proprie forze, la propria coltura, le condizioni esterne
dipendenti da noi, poiché non il sodisfaci- mento dei nostri gusti dev’
essere lo scopo della nostra vita, ma 1’ avanzamento del fine della
ragione : onde gli uomini uou dovrebbero scegliersi uno stato prima
d’essere giunti alla necessaria maturità della ragione, e sino a
questa maturità si dovrebbe educarli tutti allo stesso modo; infine il
dovere di attendere con tutta coscienza all’ufficio o alla professione
prescelta, formando sempre meglio all’uno o all’ altra il corpo e lo
spirito, secondo che più occorre (all’agricoltore, per es., occorre più
la forza e la resistenza fisica, all’ artista la destrezza e 1’ agilità
dei movimenti, allo scienziato la coltura spirituale in tutte le
direzioni, ecc. Di una gerarchia delle professioni e degli uffici secondo
il loro grado di dignità, si può parlare dal punto di vista sociale
soltanto nel senso che le molteplici occupazioni umane sono subordinate
le une alle altre come il condizionato e la condizione, come il mezzo e il fine
; ma dal punto di vista morale esse hanno tutte lo stesso valore,
tutte la stessa dignità : quel che importa è adempieide bene. I doveri
generali incondizionati si riferiscono non più allo strumento, ma al fine
stesso della moralità, che è il dominio della ragione nel mondo sensibile
e nella totalità degli individui per opera di ciascun individuo.
Primo tra essi il dovere verso quella libertà formale di tutti gli
esseri ragionevoli, nella quale sta 1’origine, la radice stessa della
moralità. La libertà formale di eia- scun individuo poggia sopra due
condizioni : la permanenza del rapporto tra la volontà individuale e il
corpo che ue è 1’ organo esecutivo; la permanenza del rapporto tra il
corpo individuale e il mondo sensibile che ne è la sfera d’ azione. Di
qui due specie di doveri concerneuti l’inviolabilità: del corpo altrui; della
altrui libertà d’azione: L'inviolabilità del corpo altrui implica; il
divieto di esercitare qualsiasi violenza o coercizione fisica su altri (la
condanna, quindi, della schiavitù, della tortura, dell’ omicidio eoe.); il
comando d’aver cura della vita e della salute degli altri come della
propria, essendo gli altri, al pari di noi, strumenti della
moralità (ama il tuo prossimo come te stesso); L’ altrui libertà
d’azione esige : in primo luogo l’esatta
conoscenza dei rapporti tra le cose, senza la quale manca ogni garanzia
che il risultato dell’ azione sarà conforme al disegno della volontà ; di
qui il dovere della veracità, il quale implica: il divieto d’ingannare il
prossimo, con l’inganno [Grice, SNEAKY INTENTIONS] si danneggia la libertà degl’altri,
trattandoli non come persone ma come cose, e la conseguente condauna DEL
VENIR MENO ALLE PROMESSE E DEL MENTIRE. Nessuna menzogna è lecita,
neppure la menzogna pietosa, o la pretesa menzogna necessaria, neppure col
pretesto dell’interesse altrui, o, peggio ancora, con quello dell’
interesse della moralità, perchè la menzogna stessa, per essenza sua,
nasce da viltà ed è sempre radicalmente immorale; comando
d’illuminare e istruire il prossimo e di COMUNICARGLI LA VERITÀ. In
secondo luogo la proprietà, ossia quella sfera d’azione nel mondo
sensibile senza la quale manca, oltreché la materia prima per attuare i
disegni della propria volontà, altresì la sicura coscienza di non
disturbare, con l’esercizio della propria libertà, la libertà degli
altri, come esige la legge morale ; di qui il dovere dell’ istituzione e
della conservazione della proprietà, il quale implica : a) il divieto di
distruggerla, usurparla o menomarla in qualsiasi maniera; il comando
d’acquistarsi una proprietà e di procurarne una a ciascun individuo (come
ogni oggetto dev’ èssere proprietà di ciascuno affinchè tutto il mondo
sensibile rientri nel dominio della ragione, così ognuno deve avere
una proprietà ; in uno Stato in cui un sol cittadino non abbia una
proprietà, ossia una sfera esclusiva se non di oggetti, almeno di diritti
a certe azioni, non esiste in generale nessuna legittima proprietà ; la
beneficenza consiste non nel fare l’elemosina, ma nel fornire a ciascuno
il modo di vivere del proprio lavoro). In fatto di libertà non può
mai nascere conflitto tra esseri che operino secondo ragione ; ma quando
della libertà si faccia un uso contrario al diritto, nasce collisione tra
determinati atti di più individui e viene posta in pericolo, quindi, la
vita o la proprietà, insomma la libertà del singolo. E poiché è
proprio dello Stato attuare l’idea della legalità, così spetta allo Stato
appianare gli eventuali conflitti tra individui, contenendo, mediante la
forza della legge giuridica, ciascuno entro i propri confini. Non sempre, però,
lo Stato può immediatamente intervenire a comporre contese : sottentra
allora il dovere della persona privata. È dovere universale, in tal caso,
salvare dal pericolo la libertà del1’ essere ragionevole, senza far distinzione
se si tratti di noi o di altri, perchè tutti, indistintamente, siamo
strumenti della logge morale. Se sono io l’aggredito, il dovere dell’
autoconservazione m’impone di difendermi con tutte le forze ; se è in
pericolo il mio simile a me vicino, l’amore del prossimo m’impone di
salvarlo anche a rischio della mia vita ; se più di uno è assalito nello
stesso tempo, si devo portare aiuto anzitutto a quello ohe si può
salvare più presto e del quale oi accorgiamo prima. In questo
adempimento del dovere non può essere mai mio fine uccidere 1’ aggressore, il
nemico, ma soltanto disarmarlo ; posso cercare d’indebolirlo, di ridurlo
all’ impotenza di ferirlo, ma
sempre in modo che la sua morte non sia il mio fine. u Se, peraltro,
rimanesse ucciso, ciò dipende dal caso, contro la mia intenzione, e io
non sono perciò responsabile „. Si deve, insomma, trattare il nemico con
1’ amore dovuto a ogni altro prossimo, perchè è aneli’ egli strumento
della moralità e se dalle sue azioni per il momento non si può concludere che
1’ opposto, non si deve, tuttavia, mai disperare che egli sia capace di
miglioramento. L’ uomo animato da sentimento morale non ha. nè riconosce,
nessun nemico personale; chi sente piu vivamente un’ ingiustizia soltanto
perchè fatta a lui, è ancora un egoista, è ancora lontano dalla vera
moralità. La libertà formale altrui, verso la quale s’impongono i doveri
ora descritti, è condizione necessaria ma non sufficiente per la moralità negli
altri ; questa è resa possibile da quella, ma, alfiuchè sia anche reale,
bisogna che gli altri prendano di fatto coscienza del loro dovere. Di
qui il comando, per chi si sia già elevato alla coscienza del
dovere, di allargare e promuovere la vita morale intorno a sè, di elevare
gli altri alla moralità. In qual modo? Poiché sarebbe assurdo voler
produrre la virtù con mezzi coercitivi, con premi o gastighi : la
moralità non si lascia imporre dal di fuori, nè per forza, ma nasce
soltanto da una determinazione interiore ; come può, dunque, tale
determinazione nascere per opera di un altro in colui che. ne è il
soggetto e che deve possedere già dentro di sé le condizioni atte a
produrla? 14li è che, per chi guardi bene, realmente esiste la
possibilità, di un influsso ^morale da coscienza a coscienza, ed esiste
grazie a un sentimento che serve di leva alla virtù, ma il cui sviluppo
esige appunto un’ azione dal di fuori, l’azione dell’esempio altrui : è
questo il sentimento del rispetto o della stima, il quale, sempre latente
nel cuore dell’uomo, da cui è inestirpabile, si desta, dinanzi alla condotta
virtuosa degli altri, suscita, a sua volta, il bisogno di provare il
medesimo sentimento dinanzi alla condotta propria, il bisogno,
cioè, dell’autostima, e sprona, per tal via, alla moralità. Sorge,
così, per ognuno il dovere del buon esempio, essendo l’esempio il vero
strumento dell’educazione morale. E poiché l’esempio, per avere efficacia, per
agire sulla coscienza altrui, dev’ essere pubblico, ne segue che anche la
pubblicità della condotta morale è per noi un dovere : essa nasce dalla
franchezza dell’ operare virtuoso e non ha nulla di comune con 1’
ostentazione, la quale deriva dal desiderio d’ essere ammirato. I doveri
particolari condizionati si dicono così perchè hanno sempre per oggetto
il fine supremo della moralità, il dominio della ragione, ina, anziché
all’umanità o alla società in genere, si riferiscono a ben
determinate relazioni umane, a ben definiti organismi sociali,
quale che sia la loro origine, vuoi da una stabile legge di natura — nel
qual caso diconsi naturali vuoi dalla
mobile scelta delle singole volontà — nel qual caso diconsi artificiali. Dalle
relazioni naturali nascono i doveri di stato, dalle artificiali i doveri
di vocazione. Due relazioni naturali sono possibili per l’uomo, e insieme
costituiscono l’organismo sociale della famiglia : la relazione tra
coniugi, la relazione tra genitori e figli. Di qui due specie di doveri
di stato : doveri tra coniugi, doveri tra genitori e figli, La relazione
coniugale è già 1’ inizio della moralità nella natura, segna già il
passaggio da questa a quella, perchè è uno stato che da una parte si
fonda sopra un IMPULSO NATURALE l’istinto sessuale — dall’ altra implica, in
entrambi x sessi, sentimenti — reciproca dedizione completa e perpetuo reciproco
amore, reciproca fedeltà che trasformano la sensualità brutale in una
spiritualità umana. Il coniugio, associazione naturale e morale a un tempo, è
condizione precipua per l’esistenza di quella società che vedemmo
essere a sua volta condizione cosi indispensabile per 1’attuarsi della
moralità, e, in quanto t,ale, costituisce un dovere che implica: il comando di
contrarre matrimonio, quando si verifichi la sua base naturale, 1’amore,
(l’individuo umano fisico non è un uomo o una donna, è, a un tempo, 1’uno
e 1’altra; lo stesso dicasi dell’individuo umano morale: vi sono in lui
aspetti dell’ umanità e proprio i
più nobili e disinteressati i quali
solamente nel matrimonio possono formarsi ; perciò u rimaner celibi
senza propria colpa è una grande infelicità, ma rimaner celibi per
propria colpa è una gran colpa „) ; fi) il divieto di relazioni sessuali
fuori del matrimonio (queste relazioni, infatti, sono fondate o sull’
amore della donna, e allora s’impone moralmente il matrimonio, ovvero soltanto
sul' piacere o sull’interesse, ohe vai quanto dire sull’indegnità
della donna, e allora sono immorali non solo per la donna ohe si
avvilisce, ma anche per l’uomo che l’avvilisce, che vede in lei non più
un essere umano e ragionevole, ma un semplice strumento di voluttà. La
relazione tra genitori e figli dà luogo a due serie inverse di
doveri: da parte dei genitori il dovere di vigilare la vita e la
salute dei loro nati e in pari tempo di suscitare e favorire in essi lo
sviluppo della libertà secondo la direzione del fine umano : insomma il
dovere dell’allevamento e del- P educazione alla moralità. L’adempimento
di questo dovere che del resto è una
specificazione del dovere universale che a tutti incombe di plasmare sè e gli
altri in conformità della legge morale
risponde nella famiglia a un bisogno del cuore, perchè la prole,
per i coniugi, non è semplicemente prossimo, ma il prodotto del loro
reciproco amore ; da parte dei figli, se minorenni il dovere di
obbedienza, se maggiorenni il dovere di rispetto, venerazione, assistenza ai
genitori. Due relazioni artificiali,ma non meno indispensabili delle
naturali alla vita comune, possono essere stabilite dalla libera scelta dei
singoli individui e insieme costituiscono l’organismo sociale dello
Stato: agire direttamente sugli uomini, in quanto esseri ragionevoli
; agire sulla natura, in quanto mezzo o strumento per le nostre
azioni verso gli uomini. Su questa base e in forza della suaccennata
necessità di una armonica divisione del lavoro movale e di una
organizzazione gerarchica dell’attività degl’ individui per la promozione del
fine supremo, si distinguono due specie di classi sociali, con due
corrispondenti specie di doveri di vocazione : classi superiori (scienziati,
educatori, artisti, impiegati), che lavo- t vano al
progresso spirituale della società, e sono, perciò, quasi 1’ anima dello
Stato; classi inferiori (minatori, agricoltori, artigiani, commercianti)
che assicurano 1’ esistenza economica della società e sono, perciò, quasi
il corpo dello &tato. Quali i doveri di vocazione delle classi
superiori ? L’ uomo allora soltanto adempirà la sua vera destinazione
quando abbia una visione chiara del dovere ; è necessario, dunque, formare
anzitutto la sua conoscenza teorica. Tale ufficio è la missione del dotto. Chi
consideri tutti gli uomini come una sola famiglia, è tratto a fare
delle loro cognizioni un unico sistema, il quale si accresce e si elabora
attraverso i secoli, come si accresce e si elabora attraverso gli anni l’esperienza
del singolo individuo. Ciascuna generazione, quindi, eredita dal passato
un tesoro di formazione scientifica, che la classe dotta è chiamata
a conservare e aumentare. I dotti sono i depositari e quasi 1’
archivio della coltura della loro età; non però alla maniera dei non dotti, che
si arrestano ai risultati, si bene come chi possiede anche i principi ohe
condussero lo spi- L’essenza e la missione del dotto furono più volte per
il Fichte argomento di conferenze e di lezioni. Vedi in proposito
nel voi. VI dei Sàmmtl. Werke Ueber die Bestimmung des Gelchrten, lezioni
tenute a Erlangen; e nel voi. Ili dei Nachgel. Werhe, Ueber die
Bestimmung des Gelchrten, cinque lezioni tenute a Berlino. A
rito umano a questi risultati. E primo dovere del dotto, quindi,
acquistare una veduta stori co-filosofica del cammino della scienza sino al suo
tempo: altrimenti egli non potrebbe nè intendere il significato della
verità, uè epurarla dagli errori che 1* offuscano. È inoltre dovere del
dotto amare rigorosamente la verità e lavorare al suo progresso mediante una
ricerca sincera e disinteressata. la quale non si proponga altro che
servire al fine ultimo dell’umanità, all’avvento del regno della ragione
nel mondo. Il dotto, come ogni virtuoso, deve obliare se stesso in
questo fine : fare sfoggio di abilità nel difendere errori sfuggiti o
brillanti paradossi è soltanto egoismo e vanità che la morale disapprova
e un’ elementare prudenza sconsiglia ; perchè soltanto il vero e il buono
permane : il falso, per quanto sfolgori a tutta prima, è destinato
a perire. La formazione della conoscenza teorica è solfante mezzo
al fine supremo di promuovere la moralità, ed è un mezzo inefficace
quando non vi si aggiunga l’operare pratico, quando, cioè, alla visione da
parte dell’intelligenza non si aggiunga l’azione da parte della volontà.
Ora, è ufficio d’ur.a speciale classe di dotti, dedicarsi in modo
particolare all’ educazione della volontà del pubblico non dotto, alla
moralizzazione del popolo : sono essi i ministri della Chiesa, i quali,
appunto perchè si sono messi al servizio della comunità etico-religiosa, hanno
il dovere di adempiere il loro ufficio in nome della comunità
stessa, attenendosi scrupolosamente a ciò ohe è oggetto di fede
generale, al simbolo. Debbono, si, essere uomini di scienza e, ilei loro
campo speciale, vedere al di là e meglio di quanto vedano le anime
affidate alla loro cura, ma nel- 1 educare queste anime, nell’ inalzarle
a vedute superiori, devono procedere in modo che tutte a un tempo
possano seguirli, altrimenti si romperebbe quell’accordo spirituale
che fa 1 essenza della Chiesa. Gli educatori del popolo, in quanto tali,
non devono svolgere o dimostrare conoscenze teoretiche e principi, e tanto meno
polemizzarvi sopra, come si fa nella repubblica dotta; non è loro
missione porre articoli di fede o creare la fede — perchè articoli e fède
esistono già come legame vivente della comunità etico-religiosa ma ravvivare e rafforzare la fede che
il credente ha già nel progresso morale, ed elevare con essa lo spirito
di lui all’eterno, al divino. Soprattutto l’esempio che danno è
importante a tal fine ; la fede della comunità riposa in grandissima
parte sulla fede loro, e il più spesso non è che una fede nella loro
fede. Ora, se in essi la vita non risponde alla fede, la fiducia in
questa rimane profondamente scossa. Spetta al dotto formare
1’intelligenza, spetta all’educatore morale formare la volontà dell’ uomo : sta
tra i due l’artista, il quale ha il privilegio di educare il senso
estetico, interposto come tratto d’unione tra la conoscenza teoretica e 1
attività pratica. L’ artista non agisce soltanto sull’ intelletto, come
fa 1’ uomo di scienza, nè soltanto sul cuore, come fa il moralista
popolare, ma sullo spirito umano tutto quanto : l’arte bella investo e
pervade tutta l’anima in quanto siuLesi di tutte le facoltà. La formula
pili espressiva di ciò che 1’ arte fa è la seguente : l' arie rende coninne il
punto di vista trascendentale. Il filosofo si eleva ed eleva con sé gli
altri a questo punto di vista col lavoro del pensiero e seguendo una regola ;
l’artista vi si trova già senza rendersene conto : nou ne conosce
altri. Bai punto di vista trascendentale il mondo è fatto :
dal » punto di vista comune il mondo è dato ; dal punto di
vista estetico il mondo è dato, sì, ma non altrimenti che come tatto. Il
mondo reale, voglio dire la natura, presenta due aspetti : da un lato è
il prodotto delle determinazioni o limitazioni a noi poste, dall’altro è
il prodotto della nostra attività libera, ideale, trascendentale. Sotto
il primo rispetto la natura è essa stessa limitata da ogni parte,
sotto il secondo è da per tutto libera. La prima maniera di vedere è
volgare, la seconda è estetica. Per es., ogni forma nello spazio può
considerarsi come circoscritta dai corpi vicini, ma anche come la
manifestazione della forza espansiva, della pienezza interna del corpo
che ha questa forma. Chi vede i corpi nelle prima maniera uon vede
che forme contorte, compresse, mostruose : vede la bruttezza ; chi li vede
nella seconda maniera, vede in essi la vigoria, la vita, lo sforzo della
uatura: vede la bellezza. Vale altrettanto della legge morale: in quanto
comanda assolutamente essa comprime ogni tendenza della natura, e
veder la nostra uatura a questo modo è come vederla schiava ; ma la legge
morale fa tutt’ uno con l’Io, ne è anzi l’espressione più intima, onde,
obbedendo ad essa, obbediamo a noi stessi : veder la nostra natura a
quest’altra mauiei’a è vederla esteticamente ^ ossia come bellezza. L’artista
vede tutto dal lato bello, vede in tutto energia, vita, libertà ; il suo
mondo è interiore, è nel1 umanità, e perciò 1’ arte riconduce 1’ uomo al fondo
di ne stesso, strappandolo al dominio della natura, liberandolo dai
vincoli della sensibilità e rendendogli l’indipendenza, che e il supremo
fine morale. Idi guisa che il senso estetico non e.la virtù, ma prepara alla
virtù, e la coltura estetica ha, un rapporto positivo con l’avanzamento
del fine morale. La moralità dell’ artista può raccogliersi in
questi due precetti : un itimelo per
tutti gli uomini : non ti fare artista a dispetto della natura, non pretendere
di essere artista quando la natura uon t’ispira ; un comando per il vero
artista: guardati dal favorire, o per egoismo, o per desiderio di fama,
il gusto corrotto del tuo tempo; sforzati soltanto a riprodurre l’ideale
che è in te; ispiiati alla santità della tua missione, e sarai, a un
tempo, uomo migliore e migliore artista. L opera del dotto
dell’educatore e dell’artista, in servigio del fine supremo morale, presuppone
sempre quella libera reciprocità d’azione tra gli uomini, che è condizione
prima di ogni comunità e a garantir la quale — finché il regno della
ragione non sia una realtà è necessario
lo Stato. Quali sono ora i doveri degli impiegati, ossia degli
ufficiali dello Stato ? L’ impiegato subalterno è rigorosamente legato alla
lettera della legge, la quale, perciò, dev’ essere chiara e uon dar luogo
a dubbi d’interpretazione. Quanto all impiegato superiore, al legislatore,
al giudice inappellabile, i quali non sono che i gerenti della
volontà comune affermatasi, espressamente o tacitamente, nel contratto
sociale, debbono aneli’ essi conformarsi alla costituzione politica
attuale, nata dalla volontà comune, con la riserva, però, di
perfezionarla secondo le idee della ragione, tenendo gli occhi tìnsi alla
costituzione ideale. Chi regge lo Stato deve avere una chiara veduta
circa il fine della costituzione
il quale non può essere che il progresso umano — deve, perciò,
elevarsi mediante concetti sopra 1’ esperienza comune, dev’essere un do'tto
nella sua materia, deve, come dice Platone, partecipare alle Idee,
e lavorare all’attuazione dell’ideale, favorendo la coltura delle classi
superiori. Da queste classi il progresso si diffonderà poi nella comunità tutta
quanta e trarrà seco, col suffragio universale, la riforma della
costituzione. Il reggitore di uno Stato, quindi, è sempre responsabile
dinanzi al suo popolo del modo ond’egli lo governa, e se può considerarsi
come legittima ogni costituzione che non renda impossibile il progresso
in generale e quello dei singoli individui, sarebbe assolutamente
illegittimo e immorale un governo che si proponesse di conservare tutto
com’ è attualmente. Quali i doveri di vocazione delle classi inferiori ?
La nostra vita e il nostro operare sono condizionati dalla materia, la
quale va trattata conformemente al fine supremo che è il dominio della
ragione sulla natura. Quanto piu questo dominio si estende, tanto più
l’umanità progredisce ; è necessario, dunque, elaborare la rozza natura e
renderla adatta ai fini spirituali ; è qui, appunto, 1’ ufficio delle
classi sociali inferiori, il cui lavoro, riferendosi come ogni altro alla
moralità di tutti, ha il medesimo valore etico del lavoro delle classi
superiori, alla pve/sibilità del quale è condizione indispensabile. E
poiché dal perfezionamento meccanico e tecnico del lavoro materiale è
facilitata] la conquista della natura, ed è quindi promosso il
progresso dell’ umanità, è nu dovere per le classi inferiori
migliorare e inalzare il loro mestiere. TI che riohiede 1’adempimento
d un altro dovere concernente i rapporti tra la classe inferiore e la
superiore. Il perfezionamento industriale dipende da conoscenze, scoperte,
invenzioni, che rientrano nell ufficio professionale dei dotti ; è
dovere, dunque, della classe inferiore, onorare la classe piò colta
appunto perchè, tale e attenersi ai consigli e alle proposte che da essa
le provengono per quanto riguarda il miglioramento di questo o quel
ramo d’industria, di questo o quel genere di vite, domestica, di questo o
quel sistema di educazione, ecc. Dal canto suo, poi, la classe superiore,
ben lungi dal disprezzai e, deve tenere nella piu alta stima la classe
inferiore, rispettarne la libertà, riconoscere il valore dell’opera
sua in riguardo agli interessi superiori dell’ umanità. Soltanto in
una giusta reciprocanza di rapporti tra le varie classi sociali sta la
base del perfezionamento umano, inteso come fine supremo di ogni dottrina
morale. Riassumendo, la dottrina morale, nelle tre parti in cui si
divide, si propone un triplice oggetto e ottiene un triplice
risultato. Anzitutto nella deduzione del principio della moralità Fichte
mostra come LA RAGIONE E LA LIBERTÀ, le quali a tutta prima per la
coscienza empirica non sono che ideali, divengano poi in essa principi di
azione, esercitino una causalità. L’io empirico individuale non può porsi
nè pensarsi se non in base all’io puro universale, se non in quanto
ha per principio e per fine l’Ideale; e l’io puro universale non può
attuarsi se non ha per strumento l’io empirico individuale. L’ unità
dell’ ideale non acquista causalità, non diviene efficace nel mondo se non
pluralizzandosi, quasi in centri luminosi, in spiriti individuali, i
quali soltauto possono dirsi realmente esistenti e attivi. Ora, appunto
questo reciproco rapporto tra i molteplici io empirici e 1’unico Io puro
fornisce il contenuto del dovere e rende il dovere intelligibile. Il
dovere, infatti, è la necessita imposta all’io puro, ossia alla Libertà, di
attraversare 1’intelligenza, ossia l’io empirico, di divenire quindi
intelligibile, per passare dallo stato ideale di potenza a quello leale
di atto, necessità che non significa eteronomia perchè non impone alla
Libertà se non la propria attuazione. L’intelligibilità del dovere : ecco il primo
risultato che Fichte ottiene, colmando l’abisso che Kant lascia
aperto tra la conoscenza e la volontà – cf. H. P. Grice, KANTOTLE --, e
facendo dell’ intelligenza la condizione interna, il veicolo della
libertà; poiché l’intelligenza esprime quasi lo sforzo della libertà infinita
per assumere, con la coscienza di sè, la forma del reale. In secondo
luogo, a proposito dell’applicabilità del principio morale, Fichte mostra
come il mondo si presti all attuazione della ragione e della libertà ; il
che significa che la natura non è radicalmeute cattiva, non è
assolutamente refrattaria allo spirito; c’ è anzi una stretta parentela tra lo
spirito e la natura, non essendo questa che un prodotto inconscio di
quello. Soltanto che l’attuazione del1’ideale morale non si compie a un tratto
nel mondo con un semplice decreto della volontà, ma è la meta di un
progresso. L’idea di sviluppo, di progresso è una categoria della
moralità; ecco il secondo risultato che Fichte ottiene eliminando l’assoluta
irriducibilità riaffermata dal Kant tra libertà e natura . spirito e
materia, idealità e realtà, e facendo la natura, la materia, la realtà
suscettive di un progressivo liberarsi, spiritualizzarsi, idealizzarsi
all’infinito. Infine, nel fare 1’applicazione del principio morale, Fichte
mostra come il progresso richieda, per compiersi, una duplice condizione; l’uua
formale : occorre che 1’individuo acquisti in sè la coscienza della
libertà e della legge morale; 1’altra materiale : occorre che
1’individuo apprenda come il contenuto del dovere sia nell’ attuare
la moralità non solo in lui, ma anche fuori di lui, negli altri
individui, nel genere umauo tutto quanto, la cui totalità appunto
rappresenta la ragione universale ; occorre, insomma, che 1’individuo sappia di
essere strumento indispensabile per 1’ attuarsi dell’ ideale nel mondo, per
1’emancipazione cioè dell’ umanità intera dai vincoli della natura e per
la sua elevazione al regno dello spirito. La sostituzione d’ un ideale sociale
a un ideale individuale: ecco il terzo risultato che Fichte ottiene
trasformando la formula kantiana. Ogni uomo è esso stesso fine in quest’altra:
ogni uomo è esso stesso fine in quanto mezzo ad attuale la ragione
universale „ e subordinando così il singolo al tutto, 1’individuo all’
umanità. È facile argomentare, in base a questo triplice risultato, le
radicali innovazioni di cui, rispetto alla morale tradizionale, è feconda la
dottrina fichtiana. L’intelligibilità del dovere porta seco la
razionalità dell’azione e sostituisce alla fede, opera della grazia
divina o di uu impulso incosciente, la convinzione della
propria coscienza, l’unione indissolubile dell’energia della volontà
con la luce del pensiero. Per ben operare, all’ intellettualismo socratico
basta il retto giudizio, al volontarismo cristiano basta il cuore puro: Fichte
fonde i due 'punti di vista ed esige per la moralità degli atti così la
dirittura del giudizio come la purezza del cuore, così l’intima
persuasione come la buona volontà. Un dovere IRRAZIONALE, impenetrabile a ogni
sforzo della riflessione è, secondo lui, altrettanto immorale quanto un
dovere adempiuto per secondi fini. Inintelligibilità e insincerità sono per
Fichte ugualmente incompatibili col concetto del dovere. L’ idea di
sviluppo e di progresso, intesa come categoria della moralità, porta seco la
riabilitazione della natura rispetto allo spirito, alla cui attuazione, anziché
ostacolo, è condizione e mezzo. Senza la natura vedemmo mancherebbe allo
spirito l’oggetto su cui esercitare la propria attività, la quale ha bisogno
d’agire sulla natura per liberarsi dalla natura; senza i corpi
individuali, che della natura fanno parte, mancherebbe alla libertà dello
spirito il modo di pluralizzarsi in tante sfere d’ azione, le
quali, sebbene distinte, sono in recipi'oco rapporto fra loro, sì
da applicarsi tutte al medesimo universo e da rappresentare, unite
insieme, e attuare la vivente unità del cosmo e della ragione universale.
Ogni organismo corporeo, infatti, è strumento indispensabile affinchè la libera
attività spirituale abbia causalità nel mondo ; e da ciò deriva a esso e,
per estensione, a tutta quanta la natura, una consacrazione morale, che
non si accorda con la condanna della natura e del corpo pronunziata dall’
ascetismo cristiano, ma nemmeno con l’apoteosi della natura e del corpo
celebrata dall’edonismo pagauo ; una consacrazione morale che vieta a un
tempo così la macerazione, come il blandimento della carne, e che mentre,
restituisce alla vita dei sensi il suo ufficio subordinato e la sua vera
finalità nella vita morale si ricordi la prescrizione fichtiana già
citata: Mangiate e bevete a gloria di Dio ; se questa morale vi sembra
troppo austera, tanto peggio per voi ; non ce n’ è un’ altra „ non ritiene necessario nè una risurrezione
dei corpi, nè un’ immortalità personale. Perché Fichte non si
contenta più di una moralità che miri a una vita futura, o che si appaghi
di un sogno di perfezione interiore, ma vuole attuare sulla terra stessa
il regno dei cieli, riponendo la beatitudine, come già il Lessing aveva detto
della verità, non nel possesso, ma nella conquista della
libertà: essere liberi è nulla, divenire liberi è il cielo! La
sostituzione dell’ ideale sociale all’ ideale individuale porta seco
l’inversione del rapporto di dipendenza tra morale e diritto,
1’accentuazione massima del valore del regime di giustizia e la radicale
trasformazione del concetto tradizionale di carità. È, infatti, un’
originale caratteristica della dottrina fichtiana l’aver posto non più
come si soleva in passato la morale a condizione del diritto, ma il
diritto a condizione della morale. Per Fichte la libertà, materia del
dovere, non si concepisce senza la società, ma la società non si
concepisce senza rapporti di giustizia, dunque la giustizia, ossia il
diritto (juslitiu da jus = diritto) è il fondamento della morale ;
affinchè la moralità possa attuarsi, occorre prima assicurare a
tutti 1’EGUAGLIANZA nel possesso della libertà esteriore, e procurare a
tutti indistintamente, con una legislazione regolatrice dell’attività
economica, quella parte di agiatezza materiale che è necessaria all’opera di
emancipazione morale o di elevazione verso la vita dello spirito. Questa
emancipazione ed elevazione spirituale, poi, non deve uè può finire nel singolo
individuo, che nella dottrina fiohtiana nou ha per sè nessun valore
assoluto, ma dev’ essere promossa da ciascun uomo in tutti gli altri
uomini, perchè l’ideale etico, ben lungi dal ridurci a una salvezza
individuale, a una perfezione interiore, a una santità eremitica
incurante della sorte delle altre anime, o una santità operosa soltanto
per conquistarsi un posto nel cielo, consiste invece nella moralizzazione
e nella salvezza di tutto il genere umano, nell’avvento del regno della
ragione su questa terra e in tutta 1’umanità. Di qui deriva, secondo
Fichte, il vero concetto della carità : sforzarsi d’inalzare i nostri
simili alla moralità. Ciascuno deve proporsi non la propria felicità, e
nemmeno soltanto la propria libertà e indipendenza particolare, ma la libertà
universale, la salute spirituale di tutti; il culmine della virtù per
l’individuo è darsi in olocausto per la salvezza del mondo,
accettando coraggiosamente l’imperativo ingrato, se si vuole, ma
categorico, di lavorare senza riposo e senza ricompensa, a un fine di cui
non vedrà mai l’adempimento completo, al trionfo infinitamente lontano
della ragione, e di lavorarvi in un ambiente spesso indifferente ed
ostile, con penosi sacrifizi, senz’ altro stimolo che il puro amore del dovere,
senz’ altra gioia che quella di avere colla propria abnegazione contribuito
all’ordine universale! Concezione sublime questa, che ricorda l’altra
affine dello Zend Avesta, la quale fa dipendere aneli’ essa la salvezza
di ciascuno dalla salvezza di tutti e comanda a ognuno di combattere,
secondo i propri mezzi e secondo il posto assegnatogli, il regno delle
tenebre e del male e di lavorare al trionfo della luce e del bene. E
nonostante questa abnegazione di sè nell’ interesse della ragione
universale, l’io individuale conserva tutta la propria realtà e personalità,
nè potrebbe avere una dignità ma'ggiore, poiché quale dignità può
ritenersi più grande di quella di un essere dalla cui azione dipende la
salvezza di tutti e alla salvezza del quale concorre 1’ universalità degli
esseri ragionevoli [Tale concezione trovasi eloquentemente illustrata da
Ficlite anche nella terza delle conferenze da lui tenute a Jena
sulla Missione ilei dotto ; ne riportiamo qui, liberamente tradotta, la
bella chiusa che è quasi una lirica: Se l’idea liuora svolta si considera auche
prescindendo da ogni rapporto con noi stessi, siamo portati a vedere fuori di
uoi una collettività in cui nessuno può lavorare per sè senza lavorare per gli
altri, nè lavorare per gli altri senza lavorare in pari tempo per sè,
essendo il progresso dell’ uno progresso di tutti, la perdita dell’ uno
perdita di tutti : spettacolo questo che ci sodisfa intimamente e solleva
alto il nostro spirito con la visione dell’armonia nella varietà.
L’interesse aumenta se, riportando lo sguardo sopra noi stessi, ci riconosciamo
membri di questa grande e stretta comunione. Sentiamo rafforzarsi la
coscienza della nostra dignità e della nostra forza, quando diciamo a noi
stessi ciò che ognuno può dire : la mia esistenza non è inutile e senza
scopo ; io sono un anello necessario dell’ infinita catena che, dal
momento in cui 1’ uomo assurse per la prima volta alla piena
consapevolezza del proprio essere, si svolge verso l’eternità; quanti,
tra gli uomini, furono grandi, buoni e saggi, i benefattori dell' umanità
i cui nomi leggo registrati nella storia del inondo, e i tanti i cui
meriti rimangono, mentre i nomi sono dimenticati, tutti hanno lavorato per
me; io raccolgo i frutti delle loro fatiche; ricalco sulla via che essi
percorsero le loro orme benefiche. Io posso, tosto che lo voglia, riprendere 1’
ufficio altissimo che essi si erano proposto ; rendere, cioè, sempre più
saggi e più felici i nostri fratelli ; posso continuare a costruire là
dove essi dovettero smettere; posso portare più vicino al compimento il
tempio magnifico che essi dovettero lasciare incompiuto. Ma anch’ io dovrò
smettere il [mio lavoro come essi, dirà qualcuno Oh ! questo è il pensiero più elevato di
tutti. Se assumo quell’ ufficio altissimo, non lo potrò mai portare a
termine ; quanto è certo che è mio dovere l’accettarlo, altrettanto è
certo che Amiamo sperare che la precedente esposizione della
Dol/t'ina morale del Fichte non riesca inutile per chi si accinga a
leggere il volume, se non nella lingua, nello stile del suo autore. Certo
non tutti accetteranno integralmente l’ardita metafisica ivi presupposta che volentieri chiameremmo Etilica come
quella dello Spinoza e che è forse, per adoperare una felice espressione
del Barzelletti, la più eroica presa di possesso che mai mente umana
abbia potuto fare, a un tempo, e del mondo delle idee e del mondo della
realtà ma tutti, senza dubbio, saranno colpiti dalla originalità,
profondità e finezza delle vedute psicologiche ivi proiettate e
analizzate con arte insuperabile, e in particolar modo dalla nobiltà dei
senti- non potrò mai cessare d’operare; quindi non potrò mai cessare
d’essere. Ciò che si suoi chiamare morte non può interrompere 1’ opera
mia; perchè l’opera mia dev’essere compiuta, e non può essere compiuta nel
tempo ; perciò la mia esistenza non è limitata nel tempo ed io sono
eterno. Assumendo parte di quell’ufficio sommo, ho fatto mia l’eternità.
Sollevo fieramente il capo verso le rocce minaccioso, verso le cascate
spumeggianti, verso le nuvole velegginoti in un oceano di fuoco, e dico :
io sono eterno e sfido il vostro potere. Irrompete tutti su di me, e tu, cielo,
e tu, terra, precipitate in un selvaggio tumulto, e voi tutti, o elementi,
spumeggiate e rumoreggiato e stritolate nella lotta selvaggia pur 1’
ultimo atomo del corpo che io dico mio ; la mia volontà sola, col suo
fermo proposito, aleggerà ardita e fredda sopra le rovine dell’ universo,
perchè io ho assunto la mia missione, e questa è più duratura di voi : è
eterna, e, al pari di essa, sono eterno io (Einige Vorlesungen ilber
din Bcstimmung dea Gelehrten, Summit. Werke) V. la trad. franc., di Nicolas, De la
destinatimi da savant et de l'liomine de lettres par Fichte, Paris, De
Ladrauge; e la trad. ital. di E. Roncali, con prefaz. di Vitali, G. A.
Fichte, La missione del dotto, Lanciano, Carabba; La Storia della
Eiloso/ia (estratto dalla Nuova Antologia) p. 2. menti ivi espressi con
forza sempre, e spesso con vivezza di colorito. Del resto non c’è una
sola opera del nostro filosofo che non elevi e non fortifichi l’anima del
lettore perchè i suoi seritti, .emanazione diretta delle più intime
e salde convinzioni, e la sua vii* di pensiero, rientrano nel ciclo di
quella vita d’azione che fa del Fichte una personalità tipica, un
represen latice man, direbbe l’Emerson. E invero egli appartiene come già affermammo all’eletta schiera di quegli eroi, la cui
apparizione nella storia diventa un possesso eterno per l’umanità,
e la memoria dei quali durerà quanto il mondo lontana. Il carattere
adamantino della sua figura morale, la quale è un’ unità altrettanto
solida quanto ben fusa, grazie alla più perfetta armonia tra idee pai-ole
e opere, risulta scultoreamente espresso in questa solenne dichiarazione,
da lui fatta all’ inizio della sua carriera universitaria : u Io
sono un sacerdote della verità ; la mia esistenza è votela al suo
servizio; sono impegnato a tutto fare, tutto osare, tutto soffrire per
essa. Se per causa sua fossi perseguitato e odiato, se dovessi anche
morire, che farei di straordinario? nulla più che il mio assoluto dovere. Parole,
queste, che spiegano bene il poderoso influsso, spiritual- mente
rigeneratore, esercitato dal Fichte sui suoi conna- ziouali e
contemporanei, influsso che, propagandosi nello spazio e nel tempo, ha
suscitato e susciterà sempre sublimi emozioni e risoluzioni virili in mille e
mille anime, Cfr. prec. Einiye Vorlesungen iiber die Bestini muny (Ics
Gelehrten (Sdmmtl. Werke). che pur non udirono mai la voce di lui. Costante
missione di questo eminente spirito fu : destare negli uomini il senso
della divinità della propria natura, fissare i loro pensieri sopra una
vita spirituale come l’unica e vera, insegnar loro a guardare a qualcos’
altro che la pura apparenza e irrealtà e guidarli così allo sforzo tenace
verso i più alti ideali di purezza, abnegazione, giustizia, SOLIDARIETÀ e
libertà. Questa infinita risonanza di idee, sentimenti e propositi,
attraverso le generazioni, nel tempo e nello spazio, questa immensa
simpatia e solidarietà umana che eccelle
tra i principi fondamentali della dottrina liclitiana èprofondamente sentita dal Fichte
stesso, come può rilevarsi anche dalla seguente bella pagina con cui si
chiude la seconda conferenza sulla Missione del Dotto. Ognuno può dire :
chiunque tu sia, tu che hai sembianze umane, sei un membro di questa
grande comunità; sia pure infinito il numero di quelli che stauuo tra me e te,
io so, nondimeno, che il mio influsso giungerà sino a te, e il tuo sino a
me ; chiunque porti sul viso, per quanto rozzamente espressa, l’impronta
della ragione, non esiste invano per me. Ma io non ti conosco, nè tu
conosci me. Oh! quanto è corto che ambedue siamo chiamati a esser buoni e
a divenire sempre migliori, tanto è certo che verrà il giorno, e sia pure
tra milioni e bilioni d’ anni (che è mai il tempo ?), verrà il giorno,
dico, in cui trascinerò anche te nella mia sfera d’azione, in cui potrò
beneficarti e ricevere benefizi da te, in cui anche il tuo cuore sarà
avvinto al mio coi viucoli, i più belli, di un libero scambio di reciproche
azioni (Siimmtl. Werke. Cleto Carbonara. Keywords: l’esperienza e la prattica, esperienza,
dull title: “l’empirismo come filosofia dell’esperienza”! – i periti
conversazionale – esperienza dell’altro, persona e persone – solipsism,
anti-solipsismo – esperienza, sperimento, esperire, perito, perizia, per, fare,
fahren, --. altri, altro, l’altro, l’altri, la filosofia pratica, etica e
diritto, la filosofia pratica di Giovanni Amedeo Fichte, il pratico e
l’aletico. Refs.: Luigi Speranza, “Grice e Carbonara” – The Swimming-Pool
Library.
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Carbone: la
ragione conversazionale e l’implicatrua conversazionale – scuola di Mantova –
filosofia lombarda -- filosofia italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco
di H. P. Grice, The Swimming-Pool Library (Mantova). Filosofia lombarda. Filosofo italiano. Mantova, Lombardia. Grice: “I
love Carbone; my favourite of his tracts are on the ‘unexpressible’ – a
contradictio in terminis – and on ‘the flesh and the voice’ – but the favourite-favourite are his tract on ‘il bello’ (‘eidos ed eidolon’)
and even more, his “La dialettica”. Si laurea a
Bologna con “Marxismo: i soggetti nella storia". Studia a Padova. Insegna
a Milano. Opere: Condannàti alla libertà, adattamento teatrale del romanzo di
Sartre L'età della ragione, che è stato messo in scena in quello stesso anno.
Fonda a Pisa con il sostegno del Leverhulme Trust un
Programma di ricerca sulla filosofia, concentrandolo
su alcune delle sue figure più importanti e sulle parole-chiave: l'essere, la
vita, il concetto». Dirige la collana f«L'occhio e lo spirito. Estetica,
fenomenologia, per Mimesis Edizioni. Si
concentra sulla fenomenologia di Merleau-Ponty, indagandone il duplice ma
unitario significato estetico di riflessione filosofica sull'esperienza
percettiva e sull'esperienza artistica attraverso l'esame del parallelo
interesse manifestato da Merleau-Ponty per Cézanne e Proust. Tale indirizzo di
studi si è allargato dapprima a una più vasta considerazione della
fenomenologia e poi a quella del pensiero post-strutturalistico sviluppatosi in
Francia, pur mantenendosi imperniato sul parallelo interesse per la riflessione
filosofica sulla pittura e sulla letteratura moderne. Questo ampliamento ha
inoltre condotto gli studi ad affrontare tematiche di carattere gnoseologico e
ontologico, spingendolo anche a problematizzare il tradizionale rapporto tra la
filosofia e la "non filosofia". Tli orientamenti hanno trovato sbocco
in una riflessione sul peculiare statuto delle immagini nella nostra epoca,
sulle possibili implicazioni etico-politiche del rapporto con esse e sulla
dimensione ontologica dell'"essere in comune" (morire insieme,
dividualita, dividuo). che in tali implicazioni troverebbe espressione. Cura Merleau-Ponty
(Il visibile e l'invisibile; Linguaggio Storia Natura, La Natura, È possibile
oggi la filosofia? Saggi eretici sulla filosofia della storia) e Cassirer -- Eidos
ed eidolon, il bello. Influenzato prevalentemente
da Merleau-Ponty, di cui ha sviluppato in maniera teoreticamente personale
alcune nozioni. Tra queste, spicca il concetto di "idea sensibile",
intesa quale essenza che s'inaugura nel nostro incontro col sensibile e da
questo rimane inseparabile, sedimentandosi in una temporalità retroflessa --"tempo
mitico". Alla prima di queste nozioni è dedicato il dittico “Ai confini
dell'esprimibile” e “Una deformazione senza precedente: la idea sensibile Porta
a sintesi le implicazioni filosofiche delle nozioni sopra citate nel concetto
di "de-formazione senza precedenti", con cui egli intende
caratterizzare il peculiare statuto che a suo avviso la de-formazione assume
nell'arte, al fine di staccarsi dal principio imitativo della rappresentazione
e dunque dalla concezione del modello inteso quale “forma” preliminarmente
data. Alle nozioni sopra menzionate si è andata successivamente collegando
quella di "precessione reciproca" tra l’immaginario e il reale che
Carbone ha proposto di dar conto del prodursi della peculiare temporalità
retroflessa detta "tempo mitico". Cerca di sviluppare le implicazioni
etico-politiche della concezione della memoria legata all'idea di
"deformazione senza precedenti" nella sua riflessione sue venti di
cui ha sottolineato l'irriducibile carattere visivo indagandolo pertanto
mediante un approccio anzitutto estetico. Cerca le radici ontologiche di tali
implicazioni etico-politiche della filosofia, proponendo le nozioni di
"a-individuale" e di "dividuo" per sottolineare
l'intrinseco carattere re-lazionale (e dunque il divenire e la divisibilità) di
ogni identità. Altre saggi: “Ai confini
dell'esprimibile. Merleau-Ponty a partire da Cézanne e da Proust, Milano,
Guerini); Il sensibile e l'eccedente. Mondo estetico, arte, pensiero, Milano,
Guerini e Associati); Di alcuni motivi in Marcel Proust, Milano, Libreria
Cortina); La carne e la voce. In dialogo tra estetica ed etica, Milano, Mimesis);
Essere morti insieme (Torino, Bollati Boringhieri). Sullo schermo
dell'estetica. La pittura, il cinema e la filosofia da fare, Milano, Mimesis). Una
deformazione senza precedenti. la idea sensibile, Macerata, Quodlibet). Mereologia
Lingua Segui Modifica Ulteriori informazioni Questa voce sull'argomento
concetti e principi filosofici è solo un abbozzo. Contribuisci a migliorarla
secondo le convenzioni di Wikipedia. In filosofia la mereologia (composizione
del grecoμέρος, méros, "parte" e -λογία, -logìa,
"discorso", "studio", "teoria"[1]) è uno dei
"cosiddetti" «sistemi di Leśniewski», ossia è la teoria, o scienza,
delle relazioni parti-tutto[3]; presentata da Achille Varzicome teoria «delle
relazioni della parte al tutto e da parte a parte con un tutto»[4] (o «teoria
delle parti e dell'intero»), da Hilary Putnam come «"il calcolo delle
parti e degli interi"» e da Claudio Calosi come la «teoria formale delle
parti e delle relazioni di parte». Per Ferraris tale relazione parte-interopuò
essere tra oggetti concreti, regioni spazio-temporali, processi (parti
temporali), eventi e oggetti astratti.[8] Storia Modifica Lo studio delle
parti affonda le sue radici nelle speculazioni filosofiche dei presocratici,
per poi essere portato avanti da Platone, Aristotele e Boezio. Di grande
importanza nello sviluppo della mereologia furono anche i contributi di
numerosi filosofi medievali, tra i quali AQUINO, Pietro Abelardo ed Occam. Nel
periodo illuminista, anche Kant e Leibniz si interessarono a quest'ambito.
Tuttavia, la diffusione della mereologia in età contemporanea si dovette a
Franz Brentano e ai suoi studenti, in particolare Husserl, assieme al primo
vero tentativo di avviarne un'analisi attraverso strumenti formali. Leśniewski creò il termine mereologia per
denominare la teoria (che gli si presentò tramite un ragionamento di Husserl)
delle relazioni tra le parti e il tutto a partire dalla differenziazione — il
cui principale fine era "evitare" l'antinomia di Russell— tra
interpretazione distributiva (un oggetto come elemento di una classe) e
interpretazione collettiva (un oggetto come parte di un intero) dei simboli di
classe. Leśniewski, parzialmente influenzato da Whitehead, elaborò poi la
teoria in un sistema assiomatico deduttivo entro cui poter esprimere il calcolo
proposizionale e il calcolo delle classi. I sistemi di Leśniewski. Anche
se cronologicamente è il primo dei sistemi di Leśniewski la mereologia contiene
gli altri due: la prototetica (scienza delle tesi più originarie,
fondamentali ..le «prototesi») che è una logica proposizionale con
l'equivalenza come unico termine primitivo, la proposizione come categoriafondamentale
(ammettente la quantificazione per le proposizioni e i funtori di qualunque
categoria), un solo assioma, e delle regole di separazione, sostituzione,
definizione, separazione dei quantificatori e di estensionalità. l'ontologia
così denominata per la presenza del funtore indicato con ε «preso nel suo senso
esistenziale» (non indica l'appartenenza insiemistica), essa è derivante dalla
prototetica ed è anche denominata «calcolo dei nomi» poiché gli è aggiunta la
categoria dei nomi. Con la mereologia si presenta una differente definizione
d'insieme. Esso non è definito distributivamente ma
collettivamente(mereologicamente): l'insieme è una concreta totalità di
elementi, un aggregato e dunque un oggetto fisico composto di parti, che è solo
se, e finché, esse sono (v. dipendenza ontologica]). Da ciò risultano varie
differenze dalla "normale" teoria degli insiemi tra le quali che in
mereologia è "insensato" ammettere l'esistenza di un insieme vuoto;
indi insiemi di un solo elemento sono tale elemento e la proprietà, unico
termine primitivo della mereologia, di «essere un elemento» è transitiva e
antisimmetrica e riflessiva. Assiomi e definizioni Modifica Il fondamento
concettuale alla base della mereologia è la nozione di parte. In generale,
nelle lingue naturali con «parte» si intende una porzione costitutiva di un
oggetto, gruppo o situazione. Si può dire, ad esempio, che «la maniglia è parte
della porta», che «il Gin è parte del Martini», che «il cucchiaio è parte
dell'argenteria» o che «il calciatore è parte della squadra». Tuttavia,
nell'ambito della mereologia si cerca di seguire un impianto nominalista
definendo questa nozione in termini puramente logici, prendendo in esame le
relazioni tra gli oggetti senza entrare nel merito di eventuali considerazioni
ontologicheriguardo questi ultimi. Di conseguenza, la relazione di parte si può
applicare anche a concetti più astratti, come ad esempio nelle frasi «la
razionalità è parte dell'essere umano» o «la lettera 'c' è parte della parola
'cane'». Assiomi fondamentali Modifica La nozione mereologica di parte
può essere formalizzata mediante il linguaggio della logica del primo ordine
come un predicato, solitamente indicato con P. Un'espressione del tipo
{\displaystyle Pxy} dunque si legge «x è parte di y». Per convenzione, questo
predicato è concepito come una relazione binaria che gode di tre proprietà
fondamentali: il principio della riflessivitàdella nozione di parte (Rp), il
principio dell'antisimmetria della nozione di parte (aSp) e il principio di transitività
della nozione di parte (Tp). (Rp) ogni cosa è parte di se stessa
{\displaystyle (\forall x)(Pxx)}, (aSp) per ogni x e y distinti, se x è parte
di y, allora ynon è parte di x {\displaystyle (\forall x)(\forall y)(Pxy\land
x\neq y\rightarrow \neg Pyx)}, (Tp) per ogni x, y e z, se x è parte di y e y è
parte di z, allora x è parte di z {\displaystyle (\forall x)(\forall y)(\forall
z)(Pxy\land Pyz\rightarrow Pxz)}.[9][4] In altri termini, la relazione di parte
è un ordine parzialelargo. Nonostante bastino solo questi assiomi per porre le
fondamenta della mereologia standard (o sistema M), si possono definire
ulteriori concetti a partire dal predicato P. Di seguito sono riportati quelli
più frequenti: Uguaglianza {\displaystyle EQxy:=Pxy\land Pyx} (x e y sono
uguali se sono uno parte dell'altro), Parte propria {\displaystyle
PPxy:=Pxy\land \neg (x=y)} (x è una parte propria di y se è parte di y ma è
distinto da esso), Sovrapposizione {\displaystyle Oxy:=(\exists z)(Pzx\land
Pzy)} (x è sovrapposto a yse c'è una parte di x che è anche parte di y),
Disgiunzione {\displaystyle Dxy:=\neg Oxy} (x è disgiunto da y se non ha
sovrapposizioni con esso). In particolare, la nozione di parte propria descrive
un ordine parziale stretto (irriflessivo, asimmetrico e transitivo) a
differenza del suo corrispondente primitivo, mentre la sovrapposizione è
riflessiva, simmetrica ma non necessariamente transitiva. È anche possibile
ridefinire il concetto di parte in termini di parte propria: {\displaystyle
Pxy:=PPxy\lor x=y}, ovvero x è parte di y quando è parte propria di y oppure
quando è identico a y. Decomposizione e composizione Modifica Per
disporre di una teoria mereologica che sia realmente in grado di rendere conto
dell'uso del termine «parte» in maniera adeguata, occorre imporre ulteriori
restrizioni sull'ordine parziale P. Nello specifico, vi sono due tipologie di
principi aggiuntivi: quelli di decomposizione (che ragionano dall'intero alle
parti) e quelli di composizione (che ragionano dalle parti all'intero).
Tra gli assiomi di decomposizione, il principio di supplementazione debole (o
WSpp) afferma che nessun intero può avere una singola parte propria. Ciò
risponde all'intuizione comune secondo la quale se un intero possiede una parte
propria, allora deve averne almeno anche un'altra, che costituisce il
rimanente. In simboli si ha che: (WSpp) {\displaystyle PPxy\rightarrow
(\exists z)(Pzy\land \neg Ozx)}, ovvero se x è una parte propria di y, allora
esiste (almeno) un zche è parte di y ma non è sovrapposto ad x. Similmente, il
principio di supplementazione forte (o SSp) prevede che un se y non è parte di
x, allora y ha una parte che non è sovrapposta a x. In simboli: (SSpp)
{\displaystyle \neg Pyx\rightarrow (\exists z)(Pzy\land \neg Ozx)}. Una
conseguenza logica del principio di supplementazione forte è l'estensionalità
(Exp). Questa importante proprietà afferma che due oggetti non possono essere
differenti se hanno le stesse parti proprie, o, in maniera equivalente, se due
oggetti hanno le stesse parti proprie, allora sono lo stesso oggetto. In simboli: (Exp) {\displaystyle x=y\rightarrow (\forall
z)(PPzx\leftrightarrow PPzy)}. Un sistema mereologico che accetta, oltre
agli assiomi fondametali di M, anche i principi di supplementazione debole,
supplementazione forte ed estensionalità è detto mereologia estensionale (o
EM). Considerazioni ulteriori, che però non fanno riferimento al
significato della nozione di parte, possono includere l'idea che esista un
oggetto privo di parti proprie, ovvero l'atomismo, oppure l'idea che, al
contrario, ogni cosa ha parti proprie, o simili, come la proprietà della
densità, che nega l'esistenza di parti proprie immediate. Atomismo
{\displaystyle (\forall x)(\exists y)(Pyx\land \neg (\exists z)(PPzy))}
Infinitismo{\displaystyle (\forall x)(\exists y)(PPyx)} Densità {\displaystyle
(\forall x)(\forall y)(PPxy\rightarrow (\exists z)(PPxz\land PPzy))} Tra
gli assiomi di composizione, il principio di somma mereologica o fusione
formalizza l'idea esistano degli interi composti esclusivamente ed esattamente
da un certo numero di parti. Ad esempio, la Spagna e il Portogallo compongono
la Penisola Iberica (o, in maniera equivalente, la Penisola Iberica è la somma
mereologica di Spagna e Portogallo). Di contro, la mano destra e la mano sinistra
non compongono il corpo umano, poiché quest'ultimo possiede anche altre parti
(gli occhi, il naso, i piedi, ecc.). Nei casi che, come in quest'esempio,
prevedono solo due parti la somma mereologica può essere definita come
segue: {\displaystyle Szxy:=Pxz\land Pyz\land (\forall w)(Pwz\rightarrow
(Owx\lor Owy))}(ovvero z è la somma mereologica di x e y se x e ysono parte di
z e ogni parte di z è sovrapposta a x o y) Si tratta di un principio
controverso, soprattutto se le parti che compongono la somma sono
potenzialmente infinite e non soltanto due. È infatti possibile generalizzare
tale definizione per indicare una somma di infinite parti: {\displaystyle
Sz\varphi x:=(\forall x)(\varphi x\rightarrow Pxz)\land (\forall
w)(Pwz\rightarrow (\exists x)(\varphi x\land Owx))}, dove φ indica una generica
proprietà. Vi sono almeno tre possibili posizioni che si possono assumere nei
confronti dell'esistenza somma mereologica: Nichilismo mereologico Non
esistono somme mereologiche, e anche gli oggetti che a prima vista sembrano
composti sono in realtà semplici. In altri termini, utilizzando un'immagine già
evocata da Peter van Inwagen, non esiste il tavolo, ma esistono solo atomi
disposti a forma di tavolo. Per un nichilista mereologico la Spagna e il
Portogallo non compongono la Penisola Iberica allo stesso modo di come la mano
destra e la mano sinistra non compongono il corpo umano, perché né la Penisola
Iberica né il corpo umano esistono (in senso mereologico, perlomeno).
Moderatismo Le somme mereologiche esistono soltanto in determinati casi e solo
qualora vengano soddisfatte determinate circostanze. Un moderatista potrebbe
ammettere che la Spagna e il Portogallo compongano la Penisola Iberica in virtù
di qualche proprietà di queste parti, ma negare che la mano destra e quella
sinistra compongano qualcosa. Universalismo Le somme mereologiche esistono in
tutti i casi, anche qualora non sembri possibile a prima vista. Per un
universalista qualsiai insieme di oggetti, ancorché totalmente differenti,
compone qualcosa. Non soltanto, dunque, la Spagna e il Portogallo compongono la
Penisola Iberica, ma anche la mano destra e quella sinistra compongono una
somma, benché non esista un termine per riferirsi ad essa. La nozione di somma
mereologica, assieme a quella di prodotto mereologico, costituisce la base
della mereologia estensionale classica (o CEM). -Logia, in Treccani.it –
Vocabolario Treccani Istituto dell'Enciclopedia Italiana. Coniglione Leśniewski,
Stanisław, in Treccani.it – Enciclopedie on line, Istituto dell'Enciclopedia
Italiana, Varzi ^ Achille Varzi, Ontologia e metafisica, in Agostini e Nicla
Vassallo (a cura di), Storia della Filosofia Analitica, Torino, Einaudi, Putnam
Calosi; Ferraris Torrengo Inwagen, Material Beings, New York, Cornell
University Press, Ithaca, Varzi (2014) per una definizione di prodotto
mereologico. Cotnoir e Varzi, Mereology, Oxford, Lando, Mereology: A
Philosophical Introduction, Londra, Bloomsbury. Varzi, Mereology, in The
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Stanford, Edward N. Zalta, Calosi,
Mereologia, in APhEx (Analytical and Philosophical Explanation),, Lezione 2 -
In difesa della relatività concettuale., in Etica senza ontologia, tr. it. di
Eddy Carli, prefazione di Luigi Perissinotto, Milano, Paravia Bruno Mondadori
Editori, Coniglione, 2.2.8. I contributi in campo logico, in Nel segno della
scienza: la filosofia polacca del Novecento, Milano, FrancoAngeli, Torrengo,
2.6.5. Parte-intero, in Maurizio Ferraris (a cura di), Storia dell'ontologia,
Milano, Bompiani, Ferraris, Glossario, in Ontologia, Napoli, Guida, Voci
correlate Modifica Logica Ontologia Achille Varzi, Spatial reasoning and
ontology: parts, wholes, and locations ( PDF ), in M. Aiello, I.
Pratt-Hartmann, e J. van Benthem (a cura di), Handbook of Spatial Logics, Berlino,
Springer-Verlag, Varzi, Ontologia, in SWIF Edizioni Digitali di Filosofia,
Volume Supplementare 2, Roma, Università degli Studi di Bari, Bosco, La
Fundierung nella Terza ricerca logica di Husserl, in Dialegesthai, Roma. Portale
Filosofia: accedi alle voci di Wikipedia che trattano di filosofia Ultima
modifica 18 giorni fa di FrescoBot Quantificatore Rappresentabilità Geometria
senza punti Mauro Carbone. Keywords: mereologia, organicismo in Hegel, il tutto
e le parti, dialettica, “individuo e dividuo”, divisio, visio, compositio,
de-compositio, divisum, indivisum -- eidos, forma, shape, il bello, essere en
comune, mit-sein, l’impersonale, l’intrapersonale, l’interpersonale – tutto,
parte, tutto-parte, totum-pars, unita, a-tomon, a-tomism, atomismo logico.
tomismo logico, il tutto e le parti -- #DialetticaDegl’EntrambiDividui -- --
--. Merleau-Ponty ‘linguaggio’, individuus, dividuus, dividuo -- Refs.: Luigi
Speranza, “Grice e Carbone” – The Swimming-Pool Library. Carbone.
Luigi Speranza -- Grice e Carboni: la
ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura conversazionale disegno dal vivo,
disgeno del nudo dal vero, disegno dal vero, disegno del nudo dal vero -- disegno
dall’antico, desegno dalla natura -- drawn from life -- tratto dalla vita – royal
academy –drawn from the antique – scuola di Livorno – filosofia toscana -- filosofia
italiana – Luigi Speranza, pel Gruppo di Gioco di H. P. Grice, The
Swimming-Pool Library (Livorno). Filosofo toscano. Filosofo italiano. Livorno, Toscana. Grice: “I love
Carboni – my favourite of his tracts is ‘between the image and the ‘parable’” –
a semiotics of communication with sections on ‘the tacit response,’ through the
looking-glass’, ‘towards the hypertext,’ and quoting extensively from some
‘conversational-implicature’ passages in Aristotle’s metaphysics, ‘To ask ‘why
is man man?’ is to ask nothing!” “For some expressions, analogy suffices!”
Insegna a Roma, Bari, Viterbo. Altre
opere: L’angelo del fare. Melotti e la ceramica (Skira) e Il colore nell’arte
(Jaca). Cura Dorfles, Brandi, Deleuze,
Guattari, Adorno. Tra le recensioni dei suoi saggi si segnalano: Giacomo
Marramao, Gianni Vattimo (“L’Espresso”), Gillo Dorfles (“Il Corriere della
Sera”), Victor Stoichita (“il manifesto”). Al Festival delle Letterature di
Mantova hanno presentato i suoi saggi Sini
e Didi-Huberman. Scrive su “Nòema” e “Images Re-vues” e sulla “Rivista di
Estetica”. “L’Impossibile Critico. Paradosso della
critica d’arte, Kappa); “Cesare Brandi. Teoria e esperienza dell’arte, Editori
Riuniti); “Il Sublime è Ora. Saggio sulle estetiche contemporanee, Castelvecchi);
“Non vedi niente lì? Sentieri tra arti e filosofie del Novecento,
Castelvecchi); “L’ornamentale. Tra arte e decorazione, Jaca); “L’occhio e la
pagina. Tra immagine e parola, Jaca); “Lo stato dell’arte. L’esperienza
estetica nell’era della tecnica, Laterza); “La mosca di Dreyer. L’opera della
contingenza nelle arti, Jaca); “Di più di tutto. Figure dell’eccesso,
Castelvecchi); “Analfabeatles. Filosofia di una passione elementare,
Castelvecchi); “Il genio è senza opera. Filosofie antiche e arti contemporanee”
Jaca); “Malevič. L'ultima icona. Arte, filosofia, teologia, Jaca). Drawing after the Antique at the British Museum: “Free” Art Education
and the Advent of the Liberal State, Martin Myrone Drawing after the Antique at
the British Museum: “Free” Art Education and the Advent of the Liberal State; Myrone.
The British Museum in London began regularly to open its newly established
Townley Gallery so that art students could draw from the ancient sculptures
housed there. This article documents and comments on this development in art
education, based on an analysis of the 165 individuals recorded in the
surviving register of attendance at the Museum. The register is presented as a
photographic record, with a transcription and biographical directory. The
accompanying essay situates the opening of the Museum’s sculpture rooms to
students within a farreaching set of historical shifts. It argues that this new
museum access contributed to the early nineteenth-century emergence of a
liberal state. But if the rhetoric surrounding this development emphasized
freedom and general public benefit in the spirit of liberalization, the
evidence suggests that this new level of access actually served to further
entrench the “middleclassification” of art education at this historical
juncture. Authors Martin Myrone is an art historian and curator based in
London, and is currently convenor of the British Art Network based at the Paul
Mellon Centre for Studies in British Art. Acknowledgements The register of
students admitted to the Townley Gallery was originally consulted during my
term as Paul Mellon Mid-Career Fellow in 2014–15. Thanks to Hallett and Turner
of the Mellon Centre for their continuing support and guidance, to Baillie Card
and Rose Bell for their careful editorial work, Tom Scutt for crafting the
digital presentation of my research, the two anonymous readers for their
valuable critical input, and to Antony Griffiths, formerly of the British
Museum, and Hugo Chapman, Angela Roche, and Sheila O’Connell of the British
Museum, for providing access to the register and for their advice. I am
especially indebted to Mark Pomeroy, archivist, and his colleagues at the Royal
Academy of Arts for the access provided to materials there and for advice and
suggestions. I would also like to thank Viccy Coltman, Brad Feltham, Martin
Hopkinson, Sarah Monks, Sarah Moulden, Michael Phillips, Jacob Simon, Greg
Sullivan, and Alison Wright. Cite as Martin Myrone, "Drawing after the
Antique at the British Museum: “Free” Art Education and the Advent of the
Liberal State", British Art Studies, Issue 5,
dx.doi.org/10.17658/issn.2058-5462/issue-05/mmyrone From the summer of 1808 the
British Museum in London began regularly to open its newly established
galleries of Graeco-Roman sculpture for art students. The collection, made up
almost entirely of pieces previously owned by Charles Townley, had been
purchased for the nation in 1805 and installed in a new extension to the
Museum’s first home, Montagu House, which was built earlier. After some
protracted discussion with the Royal Academy, detailed below, the collection
was made available for its students in time for the royal opening of the
Townley Gallery on 3 June 1808. A written record was kept of students admitted
to draw from the antique. This volume survives in the library of the Department
of Prints and Drawings at the British Museum and identifies one hundred and
sixtyfive separate individuals admitted through to 1817. 1 The register forms
the focus of this essay and is presented here as a facsimile and transcription,
with an accompanying directory of student biographies (see supplementary
materials below). This may be taken as a straightforward contribution to the
literature on early nineteenth-century art education, and the author hopes it
may be useful as such. However, it also situates the opening of the Museum’s
sculpture rooms to students within a rather more far-reaching set of historical
shifts. Namely, it argues that this new form of museum access was part of the
early nineteenth-century emergence of a liberal state that “actively governs
through freedom (free ‘individuals’, markets, societies, and so on, which are
only ‘free’ because the state makes them so)”. 2 Access to the British Museum
was “free” in that there were no charges or fees. Meanwhile, the arrangement
offered a degree of freedom to the students themselves; they were expected to
be largely self-selecting and self-regulating. When the arrangement was exposed
to public scrutiny, as a result of questions asked in parliament in 1821, the
freedom of access and the service this did to the public good were emphasized.
But, once closely scrutinized, the evidence suggests that this manifestation of
the freedoms encouraged by the liberal state had a social disciplinary role
(even if disciplinary function can hardly be recognized as such), in serving to
further entrench the “middle-classification” of art at this historical
juncture. 3 The conjunction of art education and a grandiose notion such as the
liberal state may be unexpected, and rests on three key assertions. The first
is that art worlds are structured and in their structure have a homological
relationship with the larger social environment. 4 The initial part of this
statement (that art worlds are structured) may not be especially hard to
swallow, given the relatively formalized and hierarchical nature of the London
art world during the early nineteenth century, when cultural authority was
vested in a small number of institutions, and the practices associated with
academic tradition in principle still held sway. However, that the structure of
the art world, in its hierarchical dimension, may also be homologically related
to the larger field of power, so that social relationships are reproduced
within this relatively autonomous sphere, is more clearly contentious, and runs
contrary to commonplace beliefs and expectations about talent and luck in
determining personal fate in the modern age—artists’ fortunes most especially.
In fact, in the period under review here, the artist became an exemplary figure
in the new narratives of social mobility: the art world came to serve as a
model of how talent or sheer good fortune could override social origins and
destinies. 5 The second assertion is that the Royal Academy and British Museum
were developing new forms of state institution, underpinned by the conjoined
principles of freedom of access and public benefit. Such has been argued
importantly by Holger Hoock, and while I depart from his arguments in some key
regards, his insights into the status of these institutions and the role of
forms of public–private partnership in their formation are crucial. 6 The third
assertion (and this marks a departure from Hoock), is that the state is not a
stable, centralized entity, or site of power either “up above” or “below”
historical actors. Instead, it is taken to be the sum of actions and
dispositions ostensibly volunteered by these historical agents in all their
multitude and variety. The crucial point of reference here is the sustained
body of work on the liberal state by the historian Patrick Joyce, deploying the
work of Bruno Latour and Michel Foucault, among others, to yield a more materialistic
and decentralized understanding of the emergence and role of state bodies. 7
The state, in this view, is composed of technologies, disciplinary structures,
habits of mind, and ways of doing things. The mechanics of art education,
insofar as this involves the movement through or exclusion of individuals from
identified places, the arrangement of their bodies in relation to one another
and to their model, the management of their behaviour within those places, the
very motion of their bodies, hands, and eyes under the surveillance of their
peers, teachers or other authorities, may be considered as a form of
biopolitics; the student who entered his or her name into the British Museum’s
register of admission was producing his or her governmentality. 8 The argument
here is emphatically historical and states that this arrangement, while it may
have precedents and may have been seminal, belongs to an historical moment—the
emergence of the liberal state. My case, which can be sketched out only in
outline in this context, is that the emergence of the familiar institutional
arrangements of the modern art world between the 1770s and the 1830s (in the
form of actual institutions and regulatory structures or permissions, including
annual exhibitions, centralized art schools supported by the state directly and
indirectly, emphasis on quantifiable measures of access and engagement as the
test of public value, and so forth) represents in an exemplary way the illusory
freedoms promoted by liberalism, and renewed by present-day “neo- liberalism”,
as addressed by commentators from the prophetic Karl Polanyi through to the
later work of Foucault and Bourdieu on the state, and Luc Boltanski and Eve
Chiapello, among others. 9 The early nineteenth-century art world can be
proposed as a privileged focus of attention because it was still of a scale
which can allow for the kinds of data-based analysis which must underpin any
sort of sociological exploration, and because its individual membership can be
documented in fine detail in a manner which is simply not possible at an
earlier historical date. Paradoxically, despite its announced commitment to
non-intervention and personal freedom, the emerging liberal state generated
huge amounts of documentation about society and its individual members—tax
records, parochial and civil records, the national census from 1801—which
digitilization has made more readily available than ever before, allowing this
generation of artists to be documented as never previously. 10 The production
of artistic identities through these records is not unrelated to changes in
artistic identity itself over the same timeframe. One way of realizing this
might be to consider the period outlined above——not as a period from the
foundation of the Royal Academy to its removal to Trafalgar Square, or even as
the era of Romanticism, as much literary and cultural history-writing would
dictate, but as the era from Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations (1776) to the
Reform Act (1832) and the Speenhamland system, a last experiment in patrician
social care before the Poor Law Amendment Act (1834), taking in Thomas Malthus
and David Ricardo. The challenge is thinking of these two frameworks not in
sequential or spatially differentiated ways, but as simultaneous and identical.
Within this emerging liberal state the figure of the artist is attributed with
a special degree and form of freedom, what has conventionally been alluded to,
in generally sociologically imprecise ways, as a feature of “Romanticism”,
slumping into “bohemianism” and a generic idea of art student lifestyle. If
this was a moment of unprecedented state investment in the arts (from the Royal
Academy through to the Schools of Design) and government scrutiny (notably with
the Select Committees), it simultaneously saw the emergence of artistic
identities expressing the values of personal freedom, freedom from regulation,
and even active opposition to the state. I propose that art education, as it
took shape in the emerging liberal state, might be explored as a “liberogenic”
phenomenon: among those “devices intended to produce freedom which potentially
risk producing exactly the opposite.” 11 As such, it may have renewed
pertinence for our own time, although this does not entail seeing a “causal”
relationship between the past and present, or a linear genetic relationship
between then and now. In fact, the purpose of this commentary, and the larger
project it arises from, 12 is rather to trouble our relationship with that
past. The intention is not, however, to point unequivocally to the era under
consideration as here entailing “the making of a modern art world”, with the
rise of art education and museums access representing a stage towards
democratization, as illuminated in stellar fashion by the great Romantic
artists (J. M. W. Turner—famously the son of a lowly London
barber—pre-eminently). I would want instead to take seriously Jacques
Rancière’s call for “a past that puts a radical requirement at the centre of
the present”, eschewing causality and “nostalgia” in favour of “challenging the
relationship of the present to that past”. 13 If giving attention to the
“freedom” of art education at the advent of the liberal state provides any
insight at all, it should do so by troubling rather than affirming our
narratives of the genesis of a modern art world. Access to the Townley Gallery
The arrival at the Museum of the Townley marbles, together with the development
of the prints and drawings collection and its installation in new, secure rooms
in the same wing, fundamentally changed the character of the institution. As
Neil Chambers has noted, having been primarily a repository of (often
celebrated) curiosities of many different forms, quite suddenly “The Museum was
now a centre for art and the study of sculpture.” 14 The shift was acknowledged
internally at the Museum by the creation in 1807 of a distinct Department of
Antiquities, which also had responsibility for the collection of prints and
drawings. But while the significance of the opening of the Townley Gallery in
the history of the British Museum is clear, the opening of the collection to
students has barely been noticed in the art-historical literature. The register
has been overlooked almost entirely, and the relevance of this development in
student access may not even be immediately obvious. 15 Figure 1. William
Chambers, The Sculpture Collection of Charles Townley in the dining room of his
house in Park Street, Westminster, 1794, watercolour, 39 x 54 cm. Collection of
the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum
Figure 2. Attributed to Joseph Nollekens, The Discobolus, 1791–1805, drawing,
48 x 35 cm. Collection of the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of
Trustees of the British Museum Townley’s collection had already famously been
on display for many years at his private house in Park Street, London. William
Chambers’ (or Chalmers’) drawing of the Park Street display from 1794 includes
a well-dressed young woman drawing under the supervision or advice of a man,
promoting the idea that the collection was available for sufficiently genteel
students of the art more generally (fig. 1). In his recollections of the London
art world, J. T. Smith described “those rooms of Mr Townley’s house, in which
that gentleman’s liberality employed me when a boy, with many other students in
the Royal Academy, to make drawings for his portfolios”. 16 Smith’s former
employer, the sculptor Joseph Nollekens, has been identified among the more
established artists who were also engaged by Townley to draw from marbles in
the collection (fig. 2). As Viccy Coltman has noted, “The townhouse at 7 Park
Street, Westminster became an unofficial counterpoint to the English arts
establishment that was the Royal Academy: as an academy of ancient sculpture,
much as Sir John Soane’s London housemuseum in Lincoln’s Inn Fields would
become an academy of architecture in the early 19th century.” 17 Evidently, a
number of the students and artists admitted to draw from the Townley marbles
once they were at the British Museum knew them formerly at first hand from
visiting 7 Park Street; for instance, William Skelton, admitted to draw at the
Museum in 1809, had apparently already studied and engraved three busts from
the collection for inclusion in the design of Townley’s visiting card (fig. 3).
Townley had hoped for a separate gallery to be erected to house the collection,
but his executors, his brother Edward Townley Standish and uncle John Townley
were unable to agree a plan. 18 The sale of the collection to the Museum was a
compromise. With the erection of a new gallery space for the collection
underway, the Museum considered how special access might be given to artists.
That the question was posed at all should be an indication of how far the realm
of cultural consumption and production was being folded in to the emerging
liberal state at this juncture. At a meeting of the Trustees on 28 February
1807, a committee was set up to consider how the prints and drawings
collections might be used by artists, and to draw up “Regulations... for the
Admission of Strangers to view the Gallery of Antiquities either separately
from, or together with the rest of the Museum: And also for the Admission of
Artists”. 19 Figure 3. William Skelton, Charles Townley's visiting card,
1778–1848, etching, 65 x 96 cm. Collection of the British Museum. Digital image
courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum With the Gallery still under
construction, the Sub-Committee was not obliged to move quickly, and it proved
to be a protracted and unexpectedly fractious affair. 20 It was not until the
Museum’s general meeting of 13 February 1808, that the principal librarian,
Joseph Planta, reported “his opinion of the best time et mode of admission of
Strangers as well as artists, to the Gallery of Antiquities”, with the request
that Benjamin West, President of the Royal Academy, be asked to attend a
further meeting. 21 After delays, he did so on 10 March, after which the
Council drew up a set of regulations. 22 These went back to the Academy with
additions and changes, which were accepted by the Council who wrote to the
British Museum on the 10 May to that effect, noting that a General Meeting of
the Academy was to take place, “to prepare the final arrangement for his
Majesty’s approbation”. 23 Accordingly, at the British Museum, the
Sub-Committee’s reports and proposals were approved by the Standing Committee,
with “Resolutions founded on the above mentioned Reports” read at the General
Meeting of 14 May. 24 The resolutions, numbered so as to be inserted in the
existing regulations regarding admissions, were confirmed in the meeting of 21
May, over three months after what should have been a straightforward matter was
raised (see Appendix, below). 25 Clause number eight, concerning the payment of
Academicians charged with the supervision of students, evidently caused some
consternation within the Academy, as recorded in the diary of Joseph Farington.
26 The relative authority of the Council and General Assembly had been a
contentious matter in previous years, and the lengthy dispute over arrangements
with the Museum reflected lingering tensions. On 12 July 1808 the proposals
were read, and “After a long conversation it was Resolved to adjourn.” 27 The
subject was taken up on re-convening on 21 July, but without resolution. 28 At
yet another meeting, on 26 July 1808, the point about the Academy’s provision
of superintendents to monitor the students while at the British Museum was
referred back to Council. 29 We have to turn to Farington’s diary for a fuller
account. He noted that the Academy’s General Assembly had met on 12 July “for
the purpose of receiving a Law made by the Council ‘That permission having been
granted by the Trustees of the British Museum for Students to study from the
Antiques &c at the Museum, certain days are fixed upon for that purpose, et
that an Academician shall attend each day at the Museum et to be paid 2 guineas
for each day’s attendance’... Much discussion took place.” 30 At a further
meeting: “The Correspondence of the Council with the Sub Committee of the
British Museum was read from the beginning” and “much discussion” was had about
the supervision of the students, Farington making the point that: as the
studies of the British Museum shd. be considered those of completion and not to
learn the Elements of art the Academy shd. not recommend any student whose
abilities et conduct wd. not warrant it, that it should be considered the last
stage of study, when those admitted wd. not require constant inspection;
therefore daily attendance of a Member of the Academy wd. not be necessary. 31
The point of contest may have concerned the right of the Council to organize
things independent of the General Assembly of the Academicians, and a more
general question about economy (“Northcote proposed that the Academician who in
rotation shall attend at the British Museum, shd. have 3 guineas a day. West
thought one guinea sufficient”). 32 But Farington’s point is more revealing in
indicating the expectation that the selected students of the Academy were to be
largely self-regulating, and self-disciplining; they were to be granted freedom
because they had already internalized the discipline required by these
institutions. Figure 4. Front cover, Register of Students Admitted to the
Gallery of Antiquities, 1809–17. Collection of the British Museum. Digital
image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum The matter finally settled,
students were admitted to the Townley Gallery from at least the beginning of
1809: the first entries in the register book are dated 14 January 1809 (figs. 4
and 5 to 11). On that date four students were enrolled, although only one of
them was at the Royal Academy. That was Henry Monro, the son of Dr Thomas
Monro, Physician at Bedlam and an amateur and collector who ran the influential
“academy” at his home in Adelphi Terrace. The other students included two of
the daughters of Thomas Paytherus, a successful London apothecary, and a Ralph
Irvine of Great Howland Street, who seems quite certainly to have been Hugh
Irvine, the Scottish landscape painter and a member of the landowning Irvine
family of Drum, who gave that address in the exhibition catalogue of the
British Institution’s show in 1809. Another five students registered in
February and July. This included another recently registered Royal Academy student,
Henry Sass, whose name was entered into the Academy’s books in 1805,
recommended for study at the British Museum by the architect and RA John Soane,
and the artists William Skelton, Adam Buck, Samuel Drummond, and Maria
Singleton. The mix of amateur and professional artists, young and old, and
indeed the mix of male and female students (discussed below), continued
throughout the register. View this illustration online Figure 5. Page 1,
Register of Students Admitted to the Gallery of Antiques, 1809–17. Collection
of the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of British Museum View this
illustration online Figure 6. Page 2, Register of Students Admitted to the
Gallery of Antiquities, 1809–17. Collection of the British Museum. Digital
image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum View this illustration online
Figure 7. Page 3, Register of Students Admitted to the Gallery of Antiquities,
1809–17. Collection of the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees
of the British Museum View this illustration online Figure 8. Page 4, Register
of Students Admitted to the Gallery of Antiquities, 1809–17. Collection of the
British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum View
this illustration online Figure 9. Page 5, Register of Students Admitted to the
Gallery of Antiquities, 1809–17. Collection of the British Museum. Digital
image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum View this illustration online
Figure 10. Page 6, Register of Students Admitted to the Gallery of Antiques, 1809–17.
Collection of the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the
British Museum View this illustration online Figure 11. Page 7, Register of
Students Admitted to the Gallery of Antiques, 1809–17. Collection of the
British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum Eight
of the twelve students registered on 11 November were current Academy students;
this proportion of Academy students to others continues throughout the record.
But on the same day Planta noted to the standing committee that the Royal
Academicians not having availed themselves of the Regulations in favour of
their Pupils, et many applications having been made to him for leave to draw in
the Gallery of Antiquities, he therefore submitted to the consideration of the
Trustees, whether persons duly recommended might not be admitted in the same
manner as in the Reading Room. 33 The matter was referred on to the general
meeting. 34 On 9 December 1809 the new regulations were confirmed: Students who
apply for Admission to the Gallery are to specify their descriptions et places
of abode; and every one who applies, if not known to any Trustee or Officer,
will produce a recommendation from some person of known et approved Character,
particularly, if possible, from one of the Professors in the Royal Academy. 35
On 10 February 1810 it was instructed “That the Regulation respecting the mode
of Admission of Students to the Gallery of Sculpture, as made at the last
General Meeting be printed et hung up in the Hall, et at the entrance into the
Gallery”. 36 The students admitted through 1810 were predominantly students at
the Royal Academy, but also included the emigré natural history painter the
Chevalier de Barde and Charles Muss, already established as an enamel and glass
painter. The same pattern was apparent in subsequent years. Twenty-five
students were registered in 1811 and again in 1812, before numbers dropped to
twelve in 1813, eight in 1814, picking up with nineteen in 1815, and dropping
to nine in 1816. The Museum’s original stipulation that no more than twenty
Academy students be admitted each year did not, it appears, create any undue
constraints on the flow of admissions. Far from having a monopoly over student
admissions, as the Museum’s original regulations had anticipated, the Royal
Academy had apparently been distinctly laissez-faire, doing little to try to
push students forward to make up the numbers. The galleries the students gained
access to comprised a sequence of rooms within the new wing added to accommodate
the growing collection of sculptural antiquities, notably the Egyptian material
taken from the French at Alexandria in 1801. The Egyptian antiquities dominated
the galleries in terms of sheer size, although the visual centrepiece, whether
viewed from the Egyptian hall or through the extended enfilade of rooms II–V
where the Townley marbles were displayed, was the Discobolus (fig. 12). 37 The
intimate scale of the galleries brought benefits, as German architect Karl
Friedrich Schinkel noted on his visit of 1826: “Gallery of antiquities in very
small rooms, lit from above, very restful and satisfying”. 38 But is also
imposed a practical limit on the numbers of students who could attend. This
changed when, in 1817, the Elgin marbles were put on display at Montagu House
in spacious, if warehouse-like, temporary rooms newly annexed to the Townley
Gallery (fig. 13). The spike of interest recorded in the register, with
thirty-seven students listed under the heading “1817”, must reflect this new
opportunity. The register terminates at this point, although the volume
continued to be used to record students and artists admitted to the prints and
drawings room (upstairs from the Townley Gallery) from 1815 through to the
1840s. 39 Figure 12. Anonymous, View through the Egyptian Room, in the Townley
Gallery at the British Museum, 1820, watercolour, 36.1 x 44.3 cm. Collection of
the British Museum. Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum
Figure 13. William Henry Prior, View in the old Elgin room at the British
Museum, 1817, watercolour, 38.8 x 48.1 cm. Collection of the British Museum.
Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum Some form of register
must have been maintained, but appears not to have survived, and evidence of
student attendance after 1817 is largely a matter of anecdotal record. 40 These
later records also, incidentally, point to the variety of student practice in
the galleries. While the Museum’s original stipulations made the presumption
that admitted artists would be drawing (“each student shall provide himself
with a Portfolio in which his Name is written, and with Paper as well as
Chalk”), students evidently worked in different media as well. James Ward
referred explicitly to “modelling” in the Museum in his diary entries of 1817;
and George Scharf’s watercolour of the interior of the Townley Gallery from
1827 (fig. 14) shows a student sitting on boxes at work at an easel, with what
appears to be a paintbrush in his right hand and a palette in his left. 41
Nonetheless, the Townley marbles had lost much of their allure. Jack Tupper, a
rather unsuccessful artist associated with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,
recalled his growing disillusion when studying at the British Museum in the
late 1830s: “So the glory of the Townley Gallery faded: the grandeur of ‘Rome’
passed.” 42 Figure 14. George Scharf, View of the Townley Gallery, 1827,
watercolour, 30.6 x 22 cm. Collection of the British Museum. Digital image
courtesy of Trustees of the British Museum The material record of student
activity in the Townley Gallery, in the form of images which seem definitely to
derive from this special access to the Museum, is extremely scarce. 43 Whatever
was produced in the Gallery was, after all, generally only for the purposes of
study, and was unlikely to be retained or valued after the artist’s death. John
Wood, a dedicated student at the Royal Academy from 1819, noted: “I am
surprised at the comparatively few drawings I made in the Antique School at the
Royal Academy, including my probationary one, not exceeding five, with an
outline from the group of the Laocoon.—In the British Museum I made a chalk
drawing from the statue of Libēra for Mr Sass”, that is, the Townley Venus,
apparently drawn by Wood as an exercise for the well-known drawing teacher
Henry Sass. 44 Student drawings after the antique must have been numerous, but
that does not mean they were preserved. J. M. W. Turner had apparently attended
the Plaster Academy over one hundred and thirty times up to the point he became
an ARA, in 1799. 45 Yet even with a figure of his stature, whose studio
contents were so completely preserved, and whose dedication to academic study
was so notable, we have only a handful of drawings which appear certainly to
derive from his time at the schools. 46 There are, doubtless, traces of study
in the Museum to be uncovered in finished works of the period. Charles Lock
Eastlake’s youthful figure of Brutus in his ambitious early work is evidently a
direct lift from the marble of Actaeon attacked by his own hounds in the
Townley collection; he had been admitted to draw from the antique in 1810
(figs. 15 and 16). But given the dissemination of classical prototypes (in
graphic form as well as in plaster) it would be hard to insist that it was only
access to the British Museum’s antiquities which made such allusion strictly
possible. Figure 15. Charles Lock Eastlake, Brutus Exhorting the Romans to
Revenge the Death of Lucretia, 1814, oil on canvas, 116.8 x 152.4 cm.
Collection of the Wiliamson Art Gallery et Museum. Digital image courtesy of
Wiliamson Art Gallery et Museum Figure 16. Anonymous, Marble figure of Actaeon
attacked by his hounds, Roman 2nd Century, marble, 0.99 metres high. Collection
of the British Museum (1805,0703.3). Digital image courtesy of Trustees of the
British Museum The Register of Students as Social Record Of arguably greater
interest than the question of the “influence” of access to the marbles on
artistic practice is the evidence the register provides about the social
profile of the students. This takes us to the heart of the question about the
relationship between art education and the state. This was, in fact, a question
raised at the time. The British Museum was in 1821 obliged to draw up a report
on student and public attendance of the Museum, prompted by Thomas Barrett
Lennard MP, who had entered a motion in the House of Commons seeking
reassurance that this publicly funded institution was not “merely an
establishment for the gratification of private favour or individual patronage”.
47 Lennard’s questions arose from a growing body of criticism directed against
the Museum, which turned on the question of whether, as a publicly funded body,
everyone could expect free access, or only a more specialist minority. As one
critic jibed in 1822, “If the British Museum is open only to the friends of the
librarians, et their friends’ friends, it ceases to be a public institution.”
48 The report elicited by Lennard’s question provided a detailed breakdown of
admissions. With regard to providing access to draw from the antique, the
Museum indulged the impression that it not only fulfilled but exceeded its
commitment to admitting Royal Academy students: providing the figures for the
period 1809–17 (based, surely, on the register under consideration here), the
Museum’s report elaborated: The Statute for the admission of Students in the
Gallery of Sculptures being among those required by the Order of the House of
Commons, it may not be irrelevant to add, that the number of students who were
admitted to make drawings in the Townley Gallery, from the year 1809 to the
year 1817, amounted to an average of something more than twenty. 49 Notably,
this summary gives the clear impression that the antiques were being opened to
the students of the Royal Academy; such is, quite reasonably, presumed by Derek
Cash in his recent, careful commentary on admission procedures at the Museum.
50 The report also pointed to recent changes: In 1818, immediately subsequent
to the opening of the Elgin Room, two hundred and twenty-three students were
admitted: in 1819, sixty-nine more were admitted, and in 1820, sixty-three. It
asserted that, now: Every student sent by the keeper of the Royal Academy, upon
the production of his academy ticket, is admitted without further reference to
make his drawings: and other persons are occasionally admitted, on simply
exhibiting the proofs of their qualification. According to the present
practice, each student has leave to exhibit his finished drawing, from any
article in the Gallery, for one week after its completion. 51 Thus stated, the
Museum appeared to be fulfilling its public duty in providing free access to
appropriately qualified students. The bare figures might seem to indicate a
steady rise in student interest, which could be taken as a marker of
quantitative success. In one of the earliest historical accounts of the Museum,
Edward Edwards implied that the statistical record was evidence of how Planta
had progressively extended access to the Museum: “From the outset he
administered the Reading Room itself with much liberality... As respects the
Department of Antiquities, the students admitted to draw were in 1809 less than
twenty; in 1818 two hundred and twenty-three were admitted.” 52 At that level
of abstraction the information appears beyond dispute. What I test in the
remainder of this essay is how these statements stand up to the more
individualized account of student activity represented in the biographical
record. That record does include the most assiduous students of the Royal
Academy of the time, who certainly did not need the kind of “constant
inspection” Farington worried about, the kind of student anticipated by the
Museum’s regulations. Among these we could count Henry Monro, Samuel F. B.
Morse and Charles Robert Leslie, William Brockedon, Henry Perronet Briggs,
William Etty and Henry Sass, the last two famously dedicated as students of the
Academy. 53 However, the full biographical survey of the register points to a
more complicated situation. Of the one hundred and sixty-five individuals named
in the register, it has proved possible to establish biographical profiles for
the majority: details are most lacking for about twenty-four of the attending
students, although in most of those cases we can conjecture at least some
biographical context. 54 Slightly less than half the total number of
individuals listed were recorded as students at the Academy at a date which
makes it reasonably likely that they were actively attending the schools when
they were admitted to the British Museum (eighty in all). 55 Around twenty more
established male artists attended, and several of these were formerly students
at the Royal Academy, including John Samuel Agar, John Flaxman, and James Ward.
Whether they were pursuing their private studies or undertaking more specific
professional tasks is not always clear. There are, certainly, a few cases where
the latter appears to be the case. When William Henry Hunt was admitted it was
explicitly for the purpose of preparing drawings for a publication; both William
Skelton and John Samuel Agar were probably admitted in connection with his
ongoing work engraving from sculptures at the Museum. It seems likely that the
“Students to Mr Meyer”, that is, the engraver and print publisher Henry Meyer,
were engaged on professional business, as was Thomas Welsh, recommended by the
publisher Thomas Woodfall. More striking, though, is the determined presence in
the register of artists who did not pursue the art professionally or full-time,
including the relatively well-documented Chevalier de Barde, Arthur
Champernowne, John Disney, Hugh Irvine (assuming he is the “Ralph Irvine” who
appears in the register), Robert Batty, Edward John Burrow, Edward Vernon
Utterson, and a number of others designated as “Esq”, so clearly from the polite
classes, even if their exact identities remain unclear. There are at least
fifteen male individuals who appear to come from backgrounds sufficiently
socially elevated or affluent enough to suggest they were taking an amateur
interest rather than pursuing serious studies. 56 Enough of these men are known
to have practised art to make it quite certain that they were not, at least
generally, being admitted to consult the collection without intending to draw,
and John Disney was admitted explicitly “to make a sketch of a Mausoleum”.
Notable, in this regard, are the large number of women admitted to study, most
of whom are or appear to be from polite backgrounds, including the Paytherus
sisters, Elizabeth Appleton, Louisa Champernowne, Miss Carmichael, Elizabeth
Batty, Miss Home, Lucy Adams, Jane Gurney, Maria Singleton, and Anne Seymour
Damer. 57 Some were established artists, or became so; others were pursuing art
as a polite accomplishment, or at least we can assume so given their family
circumstances; in other cases the situation is by no means clear-cut. All were
admitted without special comment or notice despite the issues of propriety
around the drawing of even the sculptured nude figure by female artists which
crops up in contemporary commentaries. 58 This may be all the more striking
given the relative paucity of women admitted as readers at the British Museum
library over the same period: only three out of the three hundred and
thirty-three admitted between 1770 and 1810, as surveyed by Derek Cash. 59 On
this evidence, the field of artistic study was, in the most literal terms,
relatively female compared even to the study of literature or history. This
points to an under-explored context for the inculcation of the students into
life as an artist: the “feminine” sphere of the home, and of siblings (whether
brothers or sisters) alongside parents. We have, surely, barely begun to
consider the family as the context in which artists are made as much as, if not
more than, the studio and academy. Nor is it straightforward to assume that
those individuals who had enrolled as Academy students also had expectations
about the professional pursuit of the art. Among the Academy students who
attended, a large proportion, including a majority of the most assiduous, were
from polite social backgrounds, with fathers in the professions, or who were
office-holders or from the landowning classes, including Henry Monro, John
Penwarne, Richard Cook, William Drury Shaw, Charles Lock Eastlake, Henry
Perronet Briggs, Alexander Huey, Thomas Cooley, Samuel F. B. Morse, Andrew
Geddes, John Zephaniah Bell, Thomas Christmas, John Owen Tudor, and Samuel
Hancock. Others were the sons of elite tradesmen, highly specialized craftsmen
or merchants, including William Brockedon, Seymour Kirkup, Charles Robert
Leslie, Gideon Manton, and John Zephaniah Bell. These were not, either,
predestined to be artists, by simply following in their father’s footsteps, but
were opting in to an artistic career, having had, usually, a decent education,
and access to material and social support. In many cases their brothers, who
shared the same upbringing, became doctors or lawyers, property-owners or
merchants. A number of individual students gave up the practice of the
art—Thomas Christmas became a landowner in Willisden; Richard Cook was able to
retire, wealthy; Seymour Kirkup languished in Rome dabbling in the arts;
William Brockedon became more engaged as an inventor and traveller; while
others were never really obliged to draw an income from their practice but
pursued art as a pastime. It remains the case that there was a high level of
occupational inheritance; perhaps thirty-eight of the students (23 percent) had
fathers who were architects, engravers or artists in painting or sculpture.
Many were the sons of established artists (including Rossi, Bone, Stothard,
Ward, Dawe, Wyatt, Bonomi, and the brothers Stephanoff); a few were part of
“dynasties” encompassing generations engaged in the arts (Wyatt, Wyon,
Hakewill, Landseer). Even then, there is the case of John Morton (noted
confusingly as “John Martin” in the register, although the address given
provides for a firm identification), who, although the son of an artist and a
student at the Royal Academy, exhibited personally as an “Honorary”, suggesting
he was not professionally engaged. That his brother became quite prominent as a
physician suggests that this was a quite emphatically middle-class family
setting. There are several points to derive from this information, even as
lightly sketched as it necessarily is here. Firstly, it is noteworthy that
while female students were a minority they were a definite presence; in this
regard, the British Museum was like other spaces of artistic study, notably the
painting school at the British Institution. 60 The observation is upheld by the
contemporary records of student attendance at the British Institution or of
copyists at Dulwich Picture Gallery, and should serve as a reminder that the
Royal Academy was exceptional among the spaces of art education in being so entirely
male. 61 Secondly, it is striking how few came from humble backgrounds
unconnected with the art world; really, only a handful, which would include
John Tannock (son of a shoemaker in Scotland), William Etty (son of a baker in
York), John Jackson (son of a village tailor in Yorkshire), and William Henry
Hunt (whose father was a London tin-plate worker). The circumstances which led
to their gaining access to the London art world are, therefore, noteworthy, as
a third and most important point would be to emphasize how emphatically
metropolitan, polite, and middle-class was the British Museum as a site of
artistic education. The Townley Gallery on student days was a place where
working artists, students, amateurs, and patrons mingled. 62 While the Royal
Academy is conventionally seen as an engine of professionalization, it is
striking that the social affiliations of artists point to strong, arguably
increasingly strong, affiliations between amateurs and professionals—to the
extent that our terminology around this point needs to be reconsidered. Looking
over the biographical survey, the kind of social suffering or precariousness
typically associated with artists’ lives, perhaps especially during the era of
industrialization, is markedly absent. When it does appear—most strikingly with
the grim life-stories of the siblings Jabez and Sarah Newell—they are among the
minority of students from backgrounds neither closely connected with the art
world, nor comfortably middle-class or genteel. The examples of stellar social
ascent and achievement on the basis of talent alone are real; but they are the
exceptions rather than representative. The relative weight of personal and
Academic connection is exposed in the record of the provision of references for
students. Of the forty-three referees recorded between 1809 and 1816, less than
half (nineteen) were Academicians. One of those was Henry Fuseli, who as Keeper
of the Academy Schools through this period must have provided references as
part of his duties, and accordingly provided the second largest number of
recommendations (nineteen; all but one students at the RA). The lead in
providing references was taken by William Alexander, artist and keeper of
prints and drawings (twenty-two; mainly but not exclusively students). Overall,
officers and Trustees were most active in admitting students. Most only ever
provided a reference for one, or at most a handful, and the jibe about “friends
of the librarians, et their friends’ friends” contains some truth. But the same
point applies to the artists, most of whom only ever recommended one student,
often known personally to them already: David Wilkie recommended his assistant,
John Zephaniah Bell; George Dawe provided a reference for his own son; Thomas
Lawrence for his pupil William Etty; Thomas Phillips and John Flaxman, the
relatives of fellow Academicians; Thomas Stothard, the son of a neighbour
(Kempe). Geography, too, seems to have played a role, with referees often
coming from the same area as their favoured student: Francis Horner recommended
John Henning, whom he had known in their native Scotland; the Scottish George
Chalmers recommended James Tannock; Arthur Champernowne put forward William
Brockedon, his protégé, whom he had supported in moving from Devon to the
metropolis to pursue art; James Northcote recommended two fellow West
Countrymen; Benjamin West, notorious for giving special assistance to visiting
American students, two such (Leslie and Morse). If the admission procedure
could be interpreted as an opportunity for the Academy to assert a corporate,
professionalized identity, based purely on merit, we can nonetheless detect
underlying patterns of kinship, personal, social, and geographical affiliation.
Simply stated, even if study at the Museum was free and freely available, any
given student would still need to access a letter of reference and the time to
go to the Museum (as well as the material means to acquire the portfolio,
paper, and chalks anticipated by the Trustees). The opening hours for students
militated against anyone attending who had to use these daylight hours for
work, a point which was made quite often with reference to the Reading Room
through this period. 63 The most assiduous students needed the time free to
study at the British Museum, something that well-off students like Eastlake,
Brockedon, Briggs, and Monro had readily available to them. Their peers at the
Academy who were obliged to work during the day to make a living, or who were
serving apprenticeships, would simply not be able to make the hours available
at the Museum. 64 The ambitious painter Thomas Christmas was free to attend the
Museum, having dedicated himself to study after working as a clerk, but his
brother, Charles George Christmas, who held down a job in the Audit Office,
would have struggled; accounting for his studies at the Academy, he had told
Farington, “He shd. continue to do the business at the Auditors' Office,
Whitehall, which occupies Him from 10 oClock till 3 each day, as it will keep
His mind free from anxiety abt. His means of living and leave Him with a
feeling of independence.” 65 Given that the students were admitted to the
Townley Gallery from noon to 4 o’clock in the afternoon, and that the Trustees
continued to prohibit the use of artificial lights in the Museum, there was
scarcely any real possibility of Charles George Christmas attending, although
he also enjoyed the comforts of a middle-class home background (their father
was a Bank of England official). With the ascent of utilitarian criticism,
visitor levels were turned to anew as a measure of the institution’s fulfilment
or failure to fulfil its “national” purpose. On strictly statistical terms, the
Museum seemed to be successful at providing opportunities for art students.
Only under the closest scrutiny, with attention to the “micro-history” of
individual lives, does that illusion start to be tested. It is, though, at this
“micro” level that we can apprehend the characteristic paradox of an emerging
cultural modernity, one that is still with us. Yet the point, to follow
Rancière, is not to see the past ascent of a present situation, but to force
ourselves to feel uneasy with that sense of recognition and its tacit model of
history. The evidence is that free access to culture and the (circumscribed)
promotion of equality were combined with socially restrictive patterns of
preferment. 66 Study at the British Museum may have been free, and freely
available to properly qualified students of the Academy, but you needed to be
in the right place at the right time, to have the time available, and, indeed,
to know or at least be able to access the right people, to get in. This point
may seem unduly sociological or even tendentious, but overlooking it involves a
denial of the socially invested nature of time, specifically, of the scholastic
time (given over to study or contemplation or to creation) mythically removed
from the influence of social forces. 67 The acts of nomination which saw
certain men and women given special access to the Townley Gallery, acts so
seemingly trivial in themselves involving perhaps only an exchange of words and
a scribbled note, were microcosmic manifestations of social authority of the
most far-reaching kind. 68 When Robert Butt, the principal manager of the
bronze and porcelain department at Messrs Howell et James, Regent-street, was
examined by the Select Committee on Arts and Manufactures in 1835, he noted:
The process by which a knowledge of the arts of painting and sculpture is now
acquired is this: a young man receives tuition from a private master; he draws
from the antique at the British Museum for a certain time, and when he shows
that he has sufficient talent to qualify him for a student of the Royal Academy
he is admitted; but the expense of acquiring that preliminary knowledge is considerable,
and the young artist must also be maintained by his relatives during the time
that he is acquiring it. 69 The following year, in a further parliamentary
committee, this time dedicated to testing out the British Museum’s claims to
public status, James Crabb, “House Decorator” of Shoe Lane, Fleet Street, was
asked, “Did you ever obtain any assistance, by means of casts, from the better
specimens of sculpture in the Museum or elsewhere?”, to which he replied, “I
should derive assistance from them if I had the opportunity, but I have not
time.” 70 Considered sociologically, as the personal experience of these men
seems to have obliged them to do, time was certainly of the essence. The
prevalence of students with secure middle-class backgrounds at the British
Museum might, then, be taken as evidence of an early phase in the
“middle-classification” of art practice, the awkward but evocative phrase used
recently by Angela McRobbie in her eye-opening observations of careers in the
present-day creative industries. 71 Whatever emphasis may be put on equality of
access to educational opportunity, however rigorously fairminded and anonymized
the tests and measures involved in admission procedures, without forms of
positive support to counterbalance or actively adjust social inequalities,
those same inequalities will tend to be reproduced, homologically, in the
educational field. This is patently not a simple matter of social and material
advantage underpinning artistic enterprise in a wholly predictable way; such
would be a nonsense, in light of the many students who did not enjoy such
advantages. Instead, it is the very flexibility built into the exclusionary
processes of the emerging cultural field which is significant—the possibility
that talented students could get access, gain reputation, achieve success,
without being limited by their social origins. “Freeing” art education allowed
for the expression of personal preferences or dispositions at an individual
level, which at an aggregate level reproduced larger power relations. Exposing
that ultimately exclusionary process, which may be marked only in small
differences, in personal dispositions and behaviours, in the personal choices
and decisions which are neither truly personal nor really pure as choices, is no
small task. This essay, and the biographical survey accompanying it, with its
details of a multitude of student lives otherwise scarcely recorded or
recognized, is intended as a small contribution to that larger project, with
the excess of data presented here perhaps imposing, in itself, new requirements
on our understanding of the history of art education. Appendix Regulations for
the admission of students of the Royal Academy to the Townley Gallery at the
British Museum (May 1808): [7] That the students of the Royal Academy be
admitted into the Gallery of Antiquities upon every Friday in the months of
April, May, June, et July, et every day in the months of August and September,
from the hours of twelve to four, except on Wednesdays and Saturdays the
Students, not exceeding twenty at a time, to be admitted by a Ticket from the
President and Council of the Royal Academy, signed by their Secretary. [8] The
better to maintain decorum among the Students, a person properly qualified
shall be nominated by the Royal Academy from their own body, who shall attend
during the hours of study; the name of such person to be signified in writing,
from time to time, by the Secretary of the Royal Academy to the Principal
Librarian of the British Museum. [9] That the members of the Royal Academy have
access to the Gallery of Antiquities at all admissible times, upon application
to the Principal Librarian or the Senior under Librarian in Residence [10] That
on the Fridays in April, May June et July one of the officers of the Department
of Antiquities do attend in the Gallery of Antiquities according to Rotation in
discharge of his ordinary Duty. [11] That in the months of August et September
some one of the several Officers of the Museum, then in Residence, do
(according to a Rotation to be agreed upon by themselves et confirmed by the
Principal Librarian) attend on the Gallery upon the Days for the admission of
Students. [12] That the attendants in the Department of Antiquities be always
present in the Gallery during the times when the Students are admitted. 72
Footnotes The original register is held in the Keeper’s Office, Department of
Prints and Drawings, British Museum. Patrick Joyce, “Speaking up for the State”
(2014), https://www.opendemocracy.net/ourkingdom/ patrick-joyce/ speaking-up-for-state. These points are
made in light of a larger research project, which has given rise to the present
study: a biographical survey of all the students of paintings, sculpture, and
engraving who were active at the Royal Academy schools between its foundation
in 1769 and 1830 together with a monograph, provisionally titled The Talent of
Success: The Royal Academy Schools in the Age of Turner, Blake and Constable,
c. 1770–1840 (forthcoming). This fuller survey indicates several important
shifts over these decades, including a fundamantal shift in the proportion of
students coming from family backgrounds in the arts and design-oriented
trades, in comparison with those coming from professional and genteel
backgrounds. It exposes, specifically, a new group whose fathers were engaged
as “officers”, in the civil service or bureaucratic roles, who in turn had a
disproportionate representation within the developing art establishment (as
Academicians, or as officials in other cultural bodies). The term “art world”,
as designating a space of co-production, stems from Howard S. Becker, Art
Worlds (1984), rev. edn (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2008).
As deployed here, it is closer in conception to the sociological “field” as
detailed by Pierre Bourdieu across a succession of influential works. Notable
among these, for present purposes because of its methodological statement about
the homological analysis of the world (field) of art in relation to the field
of power, is The Rules of Art, trans. Susan Emanuel (Cambridge: Polity Press,
1996), esp. 214–15. See, notably, the chapter on “Workers in Art” in Samuel
Smiles’s Self-Help, first published 1859 with numerous further editions. On the
self-motivated artist as the model for all forms of work, see Angela McRobbie,
Be Creative: Making a Living in the New Culture Industries (Cambridge: Polity
Press, 2016), esp. 70–76. Holger Hoock, The King’s Artists: The Royal Academy
of Arts and the Politics of British Culture, 1760–1840 (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2003) and Hoock, “The British State and the Anglo-French Wars
Over Antiquities, 1798–1858”, Historical Journal 50, no. 1 (2007): 49–72.
Patrick Joyce, The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern City (London:
Verso, 2003) and Joyce, The State of Freedom: A Social History of the British
State Since 1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013); also his “What
is the Social in Social History?”, Past and Present 206, no. 1 (2010): 213–48.
On this Foucauldian framing of art education and creative production within
liberalism, see McRobbie, Be Creative, 71–76 and passim. Karl Polanyi, The
Great Transformation: The Political and Economic Origins of Our Time (1944;
Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 2002); Michel Foucault, The Birth of Biopolitics:
Lectures at the Collège de France, 1978–1979, ed. Michel Sennelert, trans.
Graham Burchell (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); Luc Boltanski and Eve
Chiapello, The New Spirit of Capitalism, trans. Gregory Elliott (London and New
York: Verso, 2007); Pierre Bourdieu, On the State: Lectures at the Collège de
France, 1989–1992, ed. Patrick Champagne and others, trans. David Fernbach
(Cambridge: Polity Press, 2014). See Edward Higgs, Identifying the English: A
History of Personal Identification 1500 to the Present (London: Bloomsbury,
2011), 97–119. Higgs’s account is, essentially, positive about the liberties
and rights secured by this rising documentation. The position taken here is
more determinedly Foucauldian. For the foundational role of statistics in
“liberalisation”, and the hidden affinities between the liberal and the
totalitarian, see Michael Foucault, “Society Must Be Defended”: Lectures at the
Collège de France, 1975–76, ed. Mauro Bertani and Alessandro Fontana,
trans. David Macey (London: Penguin, 2004). Foucault, Birth of
Biopolitics, 69. A biographical dictionary of Royal Academy students from
1769–1830. See note 3, above. Jacques Rancière, The Method of Equality:
Interviews with Laurent Jeanpierre and Dork Zabunyan, trans. Julie Rose
(Cambridge: Polity Press, 2016), 108. Neil Chambers, Joseph Banks and the
British Museum: The World of Collecting, 1770–1830 (London: Routledge, 2007),
107. The register is mentioned in the notice of Seymour Kirkup in G. E.
Bentley, Blake Records, 2nd edn (New Haven, CT, and London: Yale University
Press, 2004), 289n. Kirkup was an unusually assiduous student at the Museum,
admitted in 1809 and renewing his ticket through to 1812. The reference in
Bentley appears to be the only published reference to the register. The
admission of the Paytherus sisters to draw at the Museum is noted by James
Hamilton in his London Lights: The Minds that Moved the City that Shook the
World, 1805–51 (London: John Murray, 2007), 72, although with reference to the
early Reading Room register (marked “1795”) in the British Museum Central
Archive, rather than the volume in Prints and Drawings. See J. T. Smith,
Nollekens and his Times, 2 vols., 2nd edn (London: Henry Colburn, 1829), 1:
242. Viccy Coltman, Classical Sculpture and the Culture of Collecting in
Britain since 1760 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 242–44. See B. F.
Cook, The Townley Marbles (London: British Museum Press, 1985) and Ian Jenkins,
Archaeologists and Aesthetes in the Sculpture Galleries of the British Museum,
1800–1939 (London: British Museum Press, 1992). Chambers, Joseph Banks, Derek
Cash, “Access to Museum Culture: The British Museum from 1753 to 1836”, British
Museum Occasional Papers 133 (2002), 68.
http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/publications/research_publications_series/2002/
access_to_museum_culture.aspx. The British Museum, Central Archive,
C/1/5/1029–30. Library of the Royal Academy of Arts, London, CM/4/50–52.
Library of the Royal Academy of Arts, London, CM/4/59. The British Museum, Central
Archive, C/1/5/1034. The British Museum, Central Archive, C/1/5/1043–144. Cf.
“Chapter III: Concerning the Admission into the British Museum”, in Acts and
Votes of Parliament, Statutes and Rules, and Synopsis of the Contents of the
British Museum (London, 1808), 15–16. Joseph Farington, The Diary of Joseph
Farington, ed. Kenneth Garlick, Angus Macintyre, and others, 17 vols. (New
Haven, CT, and London: Yale University Press, 1978–98), 9: 3284. Library of the
Royal Academy of Arts, London, GM/2/366, 370. Library of the Royal Academy of
Arts, London, GM/2/371. Library of the Royal Academy of Arts, London,
GM/2/372–73. Diary of Joseph Farington, 9: 3313. Diary of Joseph Farington, 9:
3317. Diary of Joseph Farington, 9: 3284. The British Museum, Central Archive,
C/3/9/2426. The British Museum, Central Archive, C/3/9/2428. The British
Museum, Central Archive, C/1/5/1069. The British Museum, Central Archive,
C/1/5/1070. The arrangement of the galleries was first detailed in a written
description provided by Westmacott for Prince Hoare’s Academic Annals (London,
1809) and in Taylor Combe’s A Description of the Ancient Marbles in the British
Museum, 3 vols. (London, 1812–17). See Cook, Townley Marbles, 59–61. Karl
Friedrich Schinkel, “The English Journey”: Journal of a Visit to France and
Britain in 1826, ed. David Bindman and Gottfried Riemann (New Haven, CT, and
London, 1993), 74. The record of admissions to view prints and drawings must
have arisen from the new regulations issued by the Trustees in November 1814;
see, Antony Griffiths, “The Department of Prints and Drawings during the First
Century of the British Museum”, The Burlington Magazine 136, 1097 (1994): 536.
In March 1817 the student artist William Bewick wrote to his brother: “I last
Monday set my name down as a student in the British Museum.” See Thomas
Landseer, ed., Life and Letters of William Bewick (Artist), 2 vols. (London:
Hurst and Blackett, 1871), 1: 37. Edward Nygren, “James Ward, RA (1769–1859):
Papers and Patrons”, Walpole Society 75 (2013): 16. Jack Tupper, “Extracts from
the Diary of an Artist. No.V”, The Crayon, 12 December 1855, 368. An album of
drawings of the Townley Marbles in the British Museum (2010,5006.1877.1–40)
appears to have been collected by Townley himself, so dates to before the
installation of the marbles at the Museum. The drawings serve as records of the
objects rather than student exercises. The drawings by John Samuel Agar in the
Getty Research Institute are evidently preparatory for the prints published in
Specimens of Antient Sculpture. BL Add MS 37,163 f.106. This and other figures
in the Townley collection could also be found as casts in the Royal Academy’s
plaster schools, so even if Wood’s drawing, for example, could be traced, it
could not definitively be said to be made in the Townley Gallery. See Ann
Chumbley and Ian Warrell, Turner and the Human Figure: Studies of Contemporary
Life, exh. cat. (London: Tate Gallery, 1989), 12–13. Eric Shanes, Young Mr
Turner: The First Forty Years, 1775–1815 (New Haven, CT, and London: Yale
University Press, 2016), 33–34. Hansard (House of Commons), 16 February 1821,
c.724 (online at http://hansard.millbanksystems.com/commons/
1821/feb/16/british-museum). See Cash, “Access to Museum Culture”, 197–225 for
a full account of public discussions around this date. Quoted in Cash, “Access
to Museum Culture”, 208. British Museum: Returns to two Orders of the
Honourable House of Commons, dated 16 th February 1821, House of Commons, 23
February 1821, 2. Cash “Access to Museum Culture”, 71. Quoted in The Literary
Chronicle, 17 March 1821, 168. Edward Edwards, Lives of the Founders of the
British Museum (London: Trübner and Co., 1870), Acts and Votes of Parliament,
Statutes and Rules, and Synopsis of the Contents of the British Museum. London,
1808. Becker, Howard S. Art Worlds (1984). Rev. edn. Berkeley, CA: University
of California Press, 2008. Bentley, G. E. Blake Records. 2nd edn. New Haven and
London: Yale University Press, 2004. Boltanski, Luc, and Eve Chiapello. The New
Spirit of Capitalism. Trans. Gregory Elliott. London and New York: Verso, 2007.
See Martin Myrone, “Something too Academical: The Problem with Etty”, in
William Etty: Art and Controversy, ed. Sarah Burnage, Mark Hallett, and Laura
Turner (London: Philip Wilson, 2011), 47–59. The barest and most conjectural
biographies include those for William Carr of New Broad Street; W. W.
Torrington; Edward Thomson; Richard Moses; and Mr Lewer. Information is most
notably lacking for the trio of Miss Cowper, Miss Moula, and Mr Turner of Gower
Street; William Hamilton of Stafford Place; William Irving of Montague Street;
Thomas Williams of Hatton Garden; Daniel Jones; M. Hatley of Albermarle Street;
Miss Edgar; Miss Carmichael of Granville Street; Mr Atwood; Mr Higgins of
Norfolk Street; George Pisey of Castle Street; Charles White of George Street;
Robert Walter Page of Wigmore Street; Henry A. Matthew; Thomas Welsh; and John
Hall. Students were entered as “probationers” for a period of three months
(which might be extended), and once registered could attend the Schools for a
period of ten years. Ralph Irvine; Arthur Champernowne; the Chevalier de Barde;
John Disney; John Campbell; Edward Utterson; John Lambert; Robert Batty;
Alexander Huey; Richard Thomson; Charles Toplis; John Frederick Williams;
Edward Burrows; William Carr; W. W. Torrington. Jane Landseer; Janet Ross;
Georgiana Ross; the two Misses Paytherus; H. Edgar; Maria Singleton; Elizabeth
Appleton; Louisa Champernowne; Miss Carmichael; Elizabeth Batty; Frances
Edwards; Eliza Kempe; Ann Damer; Miss Cowper; Miss Moula; Miss Trotter; Miss
Adams; Sarah Newell; Emma Kendrick; Jane Gurney. Gentleman’s Magazine (1820)
and A Trip to Paris in August and September (1815), quoted by William T.
Whitley in his Art in England, 1800–1820 (London: Medici Society, 1928), 263,
as evidence that “It was still thought improper for women to study from such
figures” as the Apollo Belvedere. Cash, “Access to Museum Culture”, 113. As the
American Samuel F. B. Morse (a student at the Royal Academy and the British
Museum) noted in 1811: “I was surprised on entering the gallery of paintings at
the British Institution, at seeing eight or ten ladies as well as gentlemen,
with their easels and palettes and oil colours, employed in copying some of the
pictures. You can see from this circumstance in what estimation the art is held
here, since ladies of distinction, without hesitation or reserve, are willing
to draw in public.” See Edward Lind Morse, ed., Samuel F. B. Morse: His Letters
and Journals, 2 vols. (Boston, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1914), 1: 45. Lists of
students admitted to copy at the British Institution appear in the Directors’
minutes, NAL RC V 12–14, and in contemporary press reports. Individuals
admitted to copy at Dulwich Picture Gallery were routinely listed in the
“Bourgeois Book of Regulations” from 1820; photocopies and notes at Dulwich
Picture Gallery, C1 and H3. This is expecially clearly expressed in James
Ward’s diary notes on his visits in 1817, meeting there the artists William
Skelton, Joseph Clover, Henry Fuseli, and William Long, but also the gentlemen
collectors and scholars William Lock, Edward Utterson, and Francis Douce
(Nygren, “James Ward”). See Cash, “Access to Museum Culture”, 217 and passim.
Although the timing of the Academy’s evening classes might seem to be more
accommodating, even this may have been challenging. The master of Richard
Westall, later a watercolour painter, “permitted him to draw at the Royal
Academy, in the evenings; but for that indulgence he worked a corresponding
number of hours in the morning”. Gentleman's Magazine, February 1837, 213.
Diary of Joseph Farington, 4: 4783. On educational tests as linking “macro” and
“micro”, “both sectoral mechanisms or unique situations and societal
arrangements”, see Boltanski and Chiapello, New Spirit of Capitalism, 32. See
Pierre Bourdieu, Pascalian Meditations, trans. Richard Nice (Stanford, CA:
Stanford University Press, 2000). “Acts of nomination, from the most trivial
acts of bureaucracy, like the issuing of an identity card, or a sickness or
disablement certification, to the most solemn, which consecrate nobilities,
lead, in a kind of infinite regress, to the realization of God on earth, the
State, which guarantees, in the last resort, the infinite series of acts of
authority certifying by delegation the validity of the certificates of
legitimate existence”, Bourdieu, Pascalian Meditations, 245. The potentially
trivial nature of the acts of nomination involved in gaining access to the
British Museum is highlighted in Joseph Planta’s own account of providing
recommendations (for the Reading Room) often only on the basis of casual
conversations. See Cash, “Access to Museum Culture”, 207. Report of the Select
Committee on Arts and Manufactures, House of Commons, 4 September 1835, 40.
Report of the Select Committee on the British Museum, quoted in Edward Edwards,
Remarks on the “Minutes of Evidence” Taken before the Select Committee on the
British Museum, 2nd edn (London [1839]), 14. McRobbie, Be Creative. The British
Museum, Central Archive, Bourdieu, Pierre. On the State: Lectures at the
Collège de France, 1989–1992. Ed. Patrick Champagne and others. Trans. David
Fernbach. Cambridge: Polity Press Pascalian Meditations. Trans. Richard Nice.
Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press,The Rules of Art. Trans. Susan Emanuel.
Cambridge: Polity Press, 1996. Cash, Derek. “Access to Museum Culture: The
British Museum from 1753 to 1836.” British Museum Occasional Papers 133 (2002)
http://www.britishmuseum.org/research/publications/research_publications_series/2002/
access_to_museum_culture.aspx Chambers, Neil. Joseph Banks and the British
Museum: The World of Collecting, 1770–1830. London: Routledge, 2007. Chumbley,
Ann, and Ian Warrell. Turner and the Human Figure: Studies of Contemporary Life.
London: Tate Gallery, 1989. Coltman, Viccy. Classical Sculpture and the Culture
of Collecting in Britain since 1760. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009.
Combe, Taylor. A Description of the Ancient Marbles in the British Museum, 3
vols. London, 1812–17. Cook, B. F. The Townley Marbles. London: British Museum
Press, 1985. Edwards, Edward. Lives of the Founders of the British Museum.
London: Trübner Remarks on the “Minutes of Evidence” Taken before the Select
Committee on the British Museum. 2nd edn. London [1839]. Farington, Joseph. The
Diary of Joseph Farington. Ed. Kenneth Garlick, Angus Macintyre and others. 17
vols. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1978–98. Foucault, Michel.
The Birth of Biopolitics: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1978–1979. Ed.
Michel Sennelert. Trans. Graham Burchell. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan Society
Must Be Defended”: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1975–76. Ed. Mauro
Bertani and Alessandro Fontana. Trans. David Macey. London: Penguin, 2004. Griffiths, Antony. “The Department of Prints and Drawings during the
First Century of the British Museum.” The Burlington Magazine 136 (1994):
531–44. Hamilton, James. London Lights: The Minds that Moved the City that
Shook the World, 1805–51. London: John Murray, 2007. Higgs, Edward. Identifying
the English: A History of Personal Identification 1500 to the Present. London:
Bloomsbury, 2011. Hoock, Holger. “The British State and the Anglo-French Wars
Over Antiquities, 1798–1858.” Historical Journal The King’s Artists: The Royal
Academy of Arts and the Politics of British Culture, 1760–1840. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2003. Jenkins, Ian. Archaeologists and Aesthetes in the
Sculpture Galleries of the British Museum, 1800–1939. London: British Museum
Press, 1992. Joyce, Patrick. The Rule of Freedom: Liberalism and the Modern
City. London: Verso Speaking up for the State” (2014).
https://www.opendemocracy.net/ourkingdom/patrick-joyce/speaking-up-for-state –
The State of Freedom: A Social History of the British State Since 1800.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, What is the Social in Social History?”
Past and Present 206, no. 1 (2010): 213–48. Landseer, Thomas, ed. Life and
Letters of William Bewick (Artist). 2 vols. London: Hurst and Blackett, 1871.
McRobbie, Angela. Be Creative: Making a Living in the New Culture Industries.
Cambridge: Polity Press, 2016. Morse, Edward Lind, ed. Samuel F. B. Morse: His
Letters and Journals. 2 vols. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1914 Myrone, Martin.
“Something too Academical: The Problem with Etty.” In William Etty: Art and
Controversy, ed. Sarah Burnage, Mark Hallett, and Laura Turner. London: Philip
Wilson, 2011, 47–59. Nygren, Edward. “James Ward, RA (1769–1859): Papers and
Patrons.” Walpole Society 75 (2013). Polanyi, Karl. The Great Transformation:
The Political and Economic Origins of Our Time (1944). Boston, MA: Beacon
Press, 2002. Rancière, Jacques. The Method of Equality: Interviews with Laurent
Jeanpierre and Dork Zabunyan. Trans. Julie Rose. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2016.
Schinkel, Karl Friedrich. “English Journey”: Journal of a Visit to France and
Britain in 1826. Ed. David Bindman and Gottfried Riemann. New Haven, CT, and
London: Yale University Press, 1993. Shanes, Eric. Young Mr Turner: The First
Forty Years, 1775–1815. New Haven, CT, and London: Yale University Press, 2016.
Smiles, Samuel. Self-Help: With Illustrations of Character and Conduct. London:
John Murray, 1859. Smith, J. T. Nollekens and his Times, 2 vols. 2nd edn,
London: Henry Colburn, 1829. Tupper, Jack. “Extracts from the Diary of an
Artist. No.V.” The Crayon, 12 December 1855. Whitley, William T. Art in
England, 1800–1820. London: Medici Society, 1928. drawn from the antique
Artists et the Classical Ideal Adriano Aymonino and Anne Varick Lauder with
contributions from Eloisa Dodero, Rachel Hapoienu, Ian Jenkins, Jerzy Kierkuc
́-Bielin ́ski, Michiel C. Plomp and Jonathan Yarker sir john soane’s museum
2015 Drawn from the Antique: Artists et the Classical Ideal An exhibition
at Teylers Museum, Haarlem 11 March – 31 May 2015 Sir John Soane’s Museum,
London 25 June –26 September 2015 This catalogue has been generously supported
by the Tavolozza Foundation and the Wolfgang Ratjen Stiftung, Vaduz This
exhibition has been made possible through the support of the Government
Indemnity Scheme Sir John Soane’s Museum is a non-departmental body and is
funded by the Department for Culture, Media and Sport Published in Great
Britain 2015 Sir John Soane’s Museum, 13 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London, wc2a 3bp
Tel: 020 7405 2107 www.soane.org Reg. Charity No. 313609 Text the listed
authors All photographs as listed on pages 254–56 ISBN (paperback):
978-0-9573398-9-7 ISBN (hardback): 978-0-9932041-0-4 Designed and typeset in
Albertina and Requiem by Libanus Press Ltd, Marlborough Printed by Hampton
Printing (Bristol) Ltd Frontispiece: Michael Sweerts, A Painter’s Studio
(detail), c. 1648–50, cat. 12 (p. 134) Page 10: Hendrick Goltzius, The Apollo
Belvedere (detail), 1591, cat. 6 (p. 107) Page 78: William Pether, An Academy
(detail), 1772, cat. 24 (p. 189) Contents Preface 6 Abraham Thomas Introduction
7 Adriano Aymonino and Anne Varick Lauder Acknowledgements 9 Ideal Beauty and
the Canon in Classical Antiquity 11 Ian Jenkins and Adriano Aymonino ‘Nature
Perfected’: The Theory et Practice of 15 Drawing after the Antique Adriano
Aymonino Catalogue Bibliography Photo credits 79 232 254 - authors
of catalogue entries AA: Adriano Aymonino: AVL: Anne Varick Lauder: Eloisa
Dodero: cats 9, 22 JK-B: Jerzy Kierkuc ́-Bielin ́ski: cat. 29 JY: Jonathan Yarker:
cats 24, 25, 26, 27, 28 MP: Michiel C. Plomp: cats 6, 7, 8, 11, 31, 32 RH:
Rachel Hapoienu: cats 1, 2, 4, 33. The exhibition ‘Drawn from the antique:
artists and the classical ideal” examines the crucial role played by antique
sculpture in artistic education and practice, a theme which lies at the heart
of the conception of Sir John Soane’s Museum. As a student at the Royal
Academy, Soane wins a travelling scholarship to embark on the grand tour. This
forms the basis of a classical education which would prove to be an enduring
influence on his subsequent career as one of the most important architects of
the Regency period. The drawings, paintings and prints selected for the exhibition
‘Drawn from the antique – artists and the classical ideal’ offer a glimpse into
an intriguing world of academies, artists’ workshops and private studios, each
populated with carefully chosen examples of statuary which provide compelling
snapshots of classical antiquity. Similarly, within his house and museum at
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Soane creates his own bespoke arrangements of ancient
statuary and architectural fragments, providing educational tools which defined
an informal curriculum for both his Royal-Academy students and the apprenticed
pupils working within his on-site architectural office. In fact, one could
consider much of Soane’s museum as an extended series of studio spaces,
intended for academic improvement and personal inspiration. The concept of the
exhibition ‘Drawn from the antique – artists and the classical ideal’ evolves from
a series of conversations between Timothy Knox, and the collector K. Bellinger,
to see if there may be some way to showcase the Bellinger extraordinary and
unique collection of art-works *depicting* artists’ studios. We extend a
special thanks to K. Bellinger, not only for her generosity in allowing us to exhibit
these wonderful pieces but also for all the hard work in securing some stunning
loans from other collections. We are grateful for the loans from the Getty
Collection, the Rijksmuseum, the Kunsthaus Zürich, the Kunstbibliothek in
Berlin. For the UK loans we would like to thank The British Museum, the Victoria
and Albert Museum, the Royal Academy of Arts and the Courtauld Gallery. “Drawn
From The Antique: Artists and The Classical Ideal” is a collaboration between The
Soane Collection and the Teylers Collection, and I am grateful to M. Scharloo for
agreeing to host the first leg of this exhibition, and also to Michiel Plomp,
for facilitating the exhibition in Haarlem. It feels rather appropriate that
the founders of our two institutions, Teyler and Soane, were both collectors
with singular visions of how their collections should provide a resource for
academic study and creative practice. This exhibition would not have been
possible without the fantastic curatorial team that K. Bellinger assembled: A.
Aymonino, A. Varick Lauder, and R. Hapoienu. I would like to express my
gratitude to them for bringing the project to fruition. I would also like to
thank Paul Joannides for his editing work on the catalogue and all of my
colleagues at the Soane who worked to make this exhibition a reality, especially
S. Palmer, D. Jenkins and J. Kierkuc-Bielinski, as well as S. Wightman at
Libanus for designing such a beautiful catalogue. Finally, I would like to
extend a special thanks to the Tavolozza Foundation and the Wolfgang Ratjen
Stiftung, Vaduz, for their generous support of the exhibition and the
catalogue. The exhibition explores one of the central practices of artists for
years: drawing after the antique – l’antico. Ancient Graeco-Roman statuary provides
artists with a “model” from which he learns how to represent the volume, the pose
and the expression of the male nude and which simultaneously offers a perfected
example of anatomy and proportion. For an established artist, a piece of antique
statuary or a elief offers a repertory of form that serves as inspiration. Because
the imitation (mimesis) and representation of nature is the principal aim of the
classical artist, education in a workshop or an academy revolves around the
study of geometry and perspective – to represent space – and anatomy, the antique
but also THE LIVE MODEL – to learn how to deploy and mould the male body
convincingly in a piece of statuary. This practical approach to the antique –
as a convenient model for depicting or moulding the naked male form – is accompanied by a more
theoretical, aesthetic, and philosophical one. A piece of ancient Graeco-Roman
statuary statue is perceived as a bench-mark of perfection and of the Platonic
concept of ideal beauty, the physical result of a careful selection of the best
parts of nature. Classical Graeco-Roman authors, such as the Italians Vitruvio,
Cicerone or Plinio, reveal to the artist and the philosopher that antique statuary
is based on a system. There is a Pythagoreian harmonic proportions. This rests
on the mathematical relationships between a part of the body and the whole
body. A piece of ancient statuary therefore embodies the same rational
principle on which the harmony of the cosmos and nature are based. It is the
powerful combination of this rational and universal principle that the antique
expresses, together with its extreme versatility as a model of forms, that
guarantees its ubiquitous success. Students in the early stages of their
training are encouraged to ‘assimilate’ fully the idealised beauty of a classical
statue through the copying of plaster casts. Only then can he be exposed to an
‘imperfections of nature’ as embodied by the live naked male model (“Drawn From
Life”). This is intended to provide the craftsman with a standard of perfection
that is then infused into his own statuary. For an artist, it was considered
essential to travel to Rome. At Rome, the artists confront the venerated
antique ‘original’ – not the copy -- and assembles his own ‘drawn’ collections
of models – ‘drawn from the antique’ only, not ‘drawn from life’, for which you
don’t need to go to Rome. Drawing (desegno) is considered the only intellectual
part of an art – the first sensorial (specifically visual) manifestation of an idea.
Drawing from and ‘after’ the Antique (desegno dall’antico) is the union of
intellectual medium and intellectual subject. It becomes an integral part of
the learning process and the activity of the artist who aims at pleasing the
Society gentleman. It proves crucial for legitimising the ambitions of the artist
who fashions himself as a practitioner of a liberal and intellectual activity.
So widespread is it, that representing the practice itself developed into an
artistic genre. Through a selection of pieces exemplifying this fascinating
category of images, by artists as diverse as the Italian Zuccaro, Dutch Goltzius
and Rubens, French Natoire, Swiss Fuseli and English Turner, we may attempt to
analyse this phenomenon. We begin with an image relating to an early Italian
academy and with a portrait, in which a piece of ancient statuary is included.We
may proceed to an image of an artist as he ‘draws’ after a celebrated statue –
the Apollo del Belvedere and the Laoconte, il torso del Belvedere, l’Antino del
Belvedere – in the cortile ottogono del casino della villa Belvedere in Monte
Vaticano, the Belvedere collection that serves as a model. We next may explore
the varied approaches of artists to a piece of ccanonical statuary in Rome and
the ways in which the Italian academic curriculum – with the antique (l’antico)
as one of the two cornerstones (the other being: ‘natura’) – spreads all over
Rome, where each palazzo claims its collection – Farnese, Ludovisi, Albani – and
even up to La Tribuna di Firenze.An Italian drawing manual is a powerful
vehicle for the uncostested establishment and entrenchment of the classical
ideal. Significantly, a manual illustrates the practice of copying after the antique
in their frontispieces. Next follow two of the most relevant images embodying
the classicist credo of the accademia dell’arte at Rome and academie des beaux
arts a Paris. The accademia a Roma codifies a structured syllabus. First-hand
experience of the Antique ‘original’ in Rome becomes a must. Fuseli magnificently
draws the fragments of the head, right hand, and left foot of the colossal
statue of Constantine at the
Campidoglio. Fuseli’s image expresses a ‘romantic’ attitude towards
classical statuary, based on the direct emotion and empathy – the eros of
Plato, and the catharsis of Aristotle -- rather than a ‘study’ (studio) of an idealised
beauty and proportion. Classicism is embraced and an academic syllabus is
developed to graduate from the academy – as opposed to the nobility who can
still practice amateur and present their statues at the annual exhibitions. The
elite, educated in the classics, has a crucial role in disseminating the
classical ideal. For less privileged students at Oxford (‘only the poor learn
at Oxford’) the Ashmolean starts collecting a plaster cast of this or that
original in Rome. Statues serve a decorative purpose in the villa garden
fountain --- and the palazzo interior -- a clear sign of the commercialisation
and further diffusion of the Antique. But while classical statuary becomes a n
attract when doing the calls. Its role within academic curricula remains well-established.
The Antique as a canonical model begins to be challenged by the more dynamic
and innovative forces of art, a challenge that led to its rapid decline. The
last exhibit shows a plaster copy of the celebrated ancient bust of Homer at
the Farnese collection in Napoli is placed on equal footing with a bust of a
non-classical author, neo-classical statuary, and even with a multicoloured
porcelain parrot, reveals how the Antique becomes just one of the many
historical references favoured by society, if not by Society. Although focused
on images representing the relationship of an artist WITH the Antique, that is,
the act or performance of copying or drawing from or after it, this catalogue
includes also examples of the product of the practice: sketches actually ‘drawn
from the antique’ not by students wanting to pass, but by professionals such as
Goltzius, destined to be disseminated through the engraving. We have also
included drawings by Rubens and Turner showing the compromising practice of
setting a live model in the pose of the antique model – lo spinario, i
lottatori in the case of a syntagma or statuary group -- and an early academic
study by Turner the student of the torso del Belvedere (Aiace contempla
suicidio). An image may portray how the artist HIMSELF in the presence of the
Antique. The point of view should always be that of the intended addressee: the
noble Epicurean connoisseur. The form and ideas that he enjoys and seeks in the
classical model, the diversity of his taste according to his mood, and the
kinds of image that are created to show their own relationship with the
Antique. The attitudes towards classical statuary of a manic collector or an antiquarian,
although touched upon in the essays and in some of the entries, are not
discussed at length. We also decided to focus primarily on free-standing in the
round male nude statue or syntagma (i lottatori), as opposed to a relief. The
free-standing in the round reproduction of the male naked body is what the
gentleman enjoys in terms of the proportion, the anatomy and his beauty. A
relief rather serves as a compositional model and inspiration for a narrative mythological
or historical scene. Drawings after reliefs would be the subject of a different
exhibition. The choice of the two venues is entirely appropriate. Haarlem is one
of the earliest Northern cities where the Antique is a subject of debate –
within the private academy established by Mander, Cornelisz, and Goltzius –
whose magnificent series of drawings after canonical classical statues is
preserved in the Teylers Collection. The Soane Collection at Lincoln Fields, on
the other hand, represents an incarnations of the classicist curriculum. It is
an eccentric, kaleidoscopic academy where, in the name of the union of the
arts, the study of Vitruvian and Palladian architecture gets integrated with
the copying of paintings, classical statuary and plaster casts, to attain that
mastery of drawing of the human forms (uomo
vitruviano) advocated by Vitruvius as a crucial element of architecture (to be
replaced by Le Corbusier’s functionalist metron!). The idea for this exhibition
has evolved. The Bellinger Collection is based on a just one theme: the sculptor
at work. Fascinated by the creative process and the mystique surrounding it.
The Bellinger Collection includes items in a range of media – drawings,
paintings, prints, photographs and sculpture. Rather than stage an obvious
‘greatest hits’ exhibition focusing on celebrity, my idea is to show
little-known, rarely exhibited, works and to present aspects of the collection,
which had been rather neglected by scholarship in an attempt to open new
ground. A preliminary step is made by Knox, who approached K. Bellingerto
enquire whether she might showcase works from the collection in the piano
nobile of the Palazz Soane. It soon became apparent that the theme of the
relationship between the sculptor and antique statuary, which seemed so
suitable to the venue of an architect’s palazzo-cum-academy-cum-museum with its
rooms filled with antiquities and plaster reproductions, would have resonance
with the Few. Accompanying a selection of works from the Bellinger Collection
we have attempted to borrow on loan some of the most ‘iconic’ images, and
others less well-known, that demonstrate the evolution of this practice of this
class of ‘Drawn from the Antique’ over an extended period. Almost half of the
works on display have never previously been exhibited and most have not been
shown. The resulting display provides the first overview of a phenomenon
crucial for the understanding and appreciation of ancient Roman art of the
classical Augustean period, which lays stress on the creative processes of the
Italophile artist and on the norms and conventions that guides and inspires his
art. Presenting a relatively small yet coherent display on a topic that
encompasses one of the major themes in the history of Art has been a serious
challenge but a most pleasurable one. Our exhibition could not have been
accomplished without the unwavering support of K. Bellinger, who generously
agreed to part with fourteen choice examples from her little-seen private
collection of images of artists at work and who has remained committed to the
project since its inception: to Ballinger we owe our deepest gratitude. For the
other works on display, we have benefited from the great generosity of
colleagues at lending institutions for agreeing to send works in their care –
some of them among their most popular and requested – to one or both venues of
the exhibition. We owe sincere thanks to H. Chapman at the British Museum, S. Buck
at the Courtauld, R. Hibbard and H. Dawson at the Victoria and Albert, C.
Saumarez-Smith, H. Valentine and R. Comber at the Royal Academy. Abroad we wish
to acknowledge the generosity of L. Hendrix and J. Brooks at Villa Getty, Bernhard
von Waldkirch at the Kunsthaus Zürich, T. Dibbits at the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
and K. Käding at the Kunstbibliothek, Berlin. We are enormously grateful both
to the Soane Collection and the Teylers Collection for hosting this two-venue
exhibition. Thanks are due to T. Knox and A/ Thomas, for their support for the
project, and to S. Palmer, and D. Jenkins, for assisting with the loans. M. Scharloo,
of the Teylers and Michiel Plomp, kindly agreed to house the first showing of
the exhibition and to lend works from their collection. The catalogue was
thoughtfully designed and produced by S. Wightman at Libanus, to whom we owe
our warmest thanks, and printed by Hampton Printing in Bristol. R. Hapoienu,
oversaw the photography and contributed immeasurably to the catalogue. Other
curatorial colleagues have given their time and effort in preparing scholarly
entries or essays: E. Dodero, I. Jenkins, J. Kierkuc -Bielinski, M. Plomp and J.
Yarker. Special thanks are due to Dodero for sharing an infinite knowledge of
antique sources. Finally, we are greatly indebted to Joannides for his input. Any
and all errors are entirely our own. We wish to acknowledge warmly Taylor and
Rembrandt Duits for granting us unfettered access to the Photographic
Collection of the Warburg and other colleagues and friends who assisted in
various ways in bringing this project to fruition: Mattia Biffis, R Blok,
Yvonne Tan Bunzl, Wolf Burchard, Elisa Camboni, Martin Clayton, Zeno Colantoni,
Paul Crane, Daniela Dölling, Alexander Faber, Cameron Ford, Ketty Gottardo,
Martin Grässle, Axel Griesinger, Florian Härb, Eileen Harris, John Harris,
Niall Hobhouse, Matthew Hollow, Peter Iaquinandi, Catherine Jenkins, Theda
Jürjens, Jill Kraye, David Lachenmann, Alastair Laing, Barbara Lasic, Huigen
Leeflang, Cornelia Linde, Anne-Marie Logan, Olivia MacKay, Austeja MacKelaite,
Bernard Malhamé, Patrick Matthiesen, Mirco Modolo, Jane Munro, Lorenzo
Pericolo, Benjamin Peronnet, Camilla Pietrabissa, Eugene Pooley, Pier Paolo
Racioppi, Cristiana Romalli, Gregory Rubinstein, Susan Russell, Nick Savage,
Nicolas Schwed, Ilaria Sgarbozza, Kim Sloane, Perrin Stein, MaryAnne Stevens,
Marja Stijkel, Michael Sullivan, C. Treves, Michiel Ilja M. Veldman, Anna
Villari, Rebecca Wade and Alison Wright. Support for the exhibition and
catalogue was provided by the Tavolozza Foundation and the Wolfgang Ratjen
Stiftung, Vaduz, to whom we owe our sincere gratitude. Ideal Beauty is the
Canon in Classical Antiquity. The practice of drawing from the antique is a
time-honoured one – if not antique! But even the Augustean copy makers knew who
to imitate --. Since Antino became such an icon, we can say that Adrian
finished the practice of ‘drawing from the antique’: He started to ask his
slaves to ‘draw from nature’ – the nature of his lover! The philosopher should
be reminded of the substantial role that the Antique has played in the
education and inspiration of artists for years. Soane famously mixed marble
sculpture with plaster reproductions in the learned and decorative interiors of
his Lincolnfields villa. A constant theme in ancient philosophy (with which any
Oxonian with a Lit. Hum. is more than acquainted with) is that behind the
surface chaos of the tangible sensible world, there is a hidden order (kósmos).
Harmony occurs when the opposite forces in nature (natura, physis), such as wet
and dry, hot and cold, strong and weak, are properly balanced. Well-being
depends upon a set of complementary humours. Reason (logos) – but cf. Dodds on
the irrational -- is the weapon wielded in a constant struggle against the dark
forces of the natural and non-natural artificial conventional realms alike. The
concept of ‘number’ plays an especially important role in the Graeco-Roman, or
Italic world view. Mathematics was most probably acquired from Babylon and
first took root in the cities of Ionia. Pythagora, who had settled in Crotona
and Melosponto in southern Italy, discovers the measurable intervals of the
musical scale This demonstrates that number holds the key to the mysteries of
the harmony of the Universe. Pythagoras was born on the Aegean island of Samos,
which was just one of the many city states that participated in the Ionian
Enlightenment with its concentration of natural philosophers. Applied
mathematics finds a new purpose in the creation of colossal temples in an
architectural culture that takes its inspiration from that of East. The
technical aspects of this new tectonic art are explained in philosophical
treatises. None of them survive but they were known to the Roman philosopher Vitruvio,
who uses them extensively for “De Architectura”. His is the only complete
treatise on ancient Roman architecture to survive. It is the main channel
through which knowledge of ancient Roman architectural principles are handed
down. The impact it has on architecture is paramount. Colossal temples are erected
and foremost among them is the archaic temple of Diana at Efeso. Its forest of
columns, some of them carved pictorially and its painted and gilded mouldings
are breath-taking. The Ionian Enlightenment terminates by the catastrophic
destruction of Mileto y the Persians. The Persians next set out to punish
Athens for her instigation of the revolt. The failure of the Persian invasion
in a series of battles on land and sea serve as a catalyst for a great surge of
art and thought in the city that was the world’s first democracy. It was in
Athens – the ‘Athenian dialectic’ -- that humanity’s sense of self is forged.
It is there that mankind acquires a unique and individual soul with personal
responsibility for its welfare. In classical antiquity mankind places itself at
the centre of the universe and is as Protagoras famously says, ‘the measure of
all things’. Protagoras’s contemporary, the philosopher Socrates, leads the way
in a moral philosophy aimed at penetrating the dark hinterland of human
existence. Humanism prompts a “realism” (de rerum matura) in product of an ‘ars’ that re-presents the naked
male body in a ‘naturalistic’ way. There were those, however, who ha less
positive view of human capacity for self-determination. A recurring theme in
the philosophy of Socrates’ famous pupil, Plato, is the theory of ‘mimesis’ (‘imitatio’),
whereby the product of an ‘ars’ is twice
removed from reality by virtue of its being a ‘copy’ of Nature, which is itself
a copy of the hidden, intangible reality of the abstract world of the Idea. In
Plato’s kósmos, reality is not to be found in Nature. Reality (and ideal
beauty) cannot be detected by *sensing*. Rather, reality and beauty is ‘noetic’
and exists beyond nature (trans-naturalia) and can be grasped only through an effort
of the ‘intellectual’ (logistikon) part of the tri-partite soul (the other two
parts being the thymoeides and the epithymtikon). A man never gets to ‘know’ or
grasp this ideal beauty. Man must be governed by the philosopher king, who has the
intellectual capacity to achieve true knowledge and understanding of the universal
law. The nature that man knows is itself a ‘copy’ (mimesis, imitation –
imitative) of this suprasensible realm, so Plato argued and. As an imitation of
nature, a product of an ‘ars’ is twice removed from the meta-physical intelligible
world. There is no place for the pretensions of artists in the world of true
reality. Only the pure and virtuous abstract beauty and goodness
(kalloskagathia, bonus et pulchrus) of a ‘form’ (‘forma’) is to be found in the
realm of the idea. The clearest and most developed account of Plato’s
condemnation of the idols or products of ‘ars’ and his reasons for banning it
from his ideal state (polizia, politeia) are to be found in the Socratic
dialogue known to modern readers as The Polizia (Politeia). The ‘Polizia’
(Politeia) is beautifully crafted in a series of carefully honed set-piece
speeches in which, and the irony is obvious, Plato demonstrates his skills as a
philosophical artist – the dialogue aimed at beauty, rather than truth. It is
difficult to say to what extent Plato puts words into or takes them out of the
mouth of Socrates. The historical Socrates never wrote anything himself. We can
at least be sure of Socrates’ insistence upon the imperative to pursue
justified true belief (knowledge) as distinct from mere belief or opinion
(doxa) and to seek understanding, as distinct from mere creed. These are after
all the goals by which Socrates measures the moral integrity of man’s
intelligence. When it comes to the standing of the product of an ‘ars’ in
Socrates’s moral landscape, we may wonder whether this marble worker who had
followed in his father’s ‘ars’ himself shares aristocratic Plato’s anti-thetical
view of the ‘artista’. In a dialogue recorded by Xenophon between Socrates and
Parrhasio, it is concluded that the product of an ‘ars’ cannot achieve beauty
by simply ‘reproducing’ (or imitating, or copying) an individual, particular, single,
naked male live model. He who pursues to give a product of an ‘ars’ must
instead select the best part of more than one particular, singular male naked
live model – this is not Adriano’s portraiture of Antino -- melding (or moulding) those parts (individua) together
in such a way as to transcend, by way of a universalium, nature itself (the
natural naked male live model) and turn the ‘re-presentation’ of a ‘beautiful’
(kalos) naked male live model into an ‘ideally’ beautiful naked male body. Aristotle.
ever practical, ever helpful, opposes Plato in arguing that, instead of being a
slave to Nature, man may create (poien) as nature itself created. In his
Poetics and Politics he recognises the civic role of the product of an ‘ars’,
as he praises the value of the products of the ‘ars’ of Polygnotos. “For
Polygnotos re-presents but tweaks a natural male body better than the natural
male body is. It’s an improving (perfection) on, rather than an imitation, of
‘imperfect’ nature of this or that particular naked male body – again this is
not Antino’s portraiture – To this product of the ‘ars’ Aristotle grants the
label of an ideal model – not the live model of imperfect nature. It is futile
to try to guess who said what when. Suffice it to say that the statuary-maker
is under pressure from various sides to justify the product of his ‘ars’ as a
proper exemplar that perfects the imperfection of the natural male live model,
reflecting the universal law of the kósmos. The artist has to look at
philosophical mathematics. There is a historic change in the re-presentation
(improved re-presentation, improvement) in the product of ‘ars’ of the body of
a naked live model. Ironically, the abstract concept behind a ‘youth’ or ‘kouros’
[e. g. marble 194.6 cm (h) Met Museum 32.11] with its ‘formulaic’ tendency to
convey the naked male form of a live model through a descriptive line and a block-like
(rather than waving) form gives way to contrapositum
(contrapposto), and a greater fluidity – if not ‘naturalism’ -- conjuring a three-dimensional
volume of live flesh. This ‘naturalistic’ figure type becomes the standard or
canon. The ‘canon’ itself (first canon, as we shall see – cf. Lisippo) referred
to the Doriforo of Policleto. Policleto obviously moulded and cast in bronze as
he was in front of the real ‘doriforo’ (name unknown), the canon (qua model
what exemplum) with copyists, notably in the copy of 212 com (h) at Naples –
Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Napoli, 1st century bc copy of
original of c. 440 bc, -- inv. 6011 The
canon was famous in antiquity for its elaborate system of measurements about
which Policleto wites a philosophical treatise known as ‘The Canon.’ To judge
from what philosophers say about the spear-bearer, it is an explanation of the
principle of proportion that Policleto declares to be the key to perfection in
the product of the ‘ars’ qua re-presentation of the body of the male live
model. The concept of ‘symmetria’ (commensuratio) is used to describe this
system of a measured proportion. To the ancient authors, however, it signified
a commensurability of parts measured in relation to one another and to the
whole. Thus, the length of a finger was calculated in relation to the hand and
the hand in relation to the whole arm and so on. Ideal beauty, based on
mathematical perfection was, therefore, quantifiable. The preoccupation with
numbers in idealised sculpture has strong links to the number-based aesthetics
of the Pythagorean school of mathematics, first anticipated in architecture.
Another link to the natural philosophy of the Ionian Enlightenment is the
deliberate balancing of opposite motifs. There was found a bio-mechanical
system of parts that were at once weight-bearing and weight-free, engaged and
disengaged, stretched and contracted, tense and relaxed, raised and lowered –
an overall balancing principle of contrapposto found in the statue Doryphoros
and in many classical statues extremely influential. Polykleitos trains at a
workshop (not an academy like Plato’s!) of Ageladas of Argos, along with Mirone.
Mirone’s statue [v. Museo Nazionale Romano, Roma, inv. 126371 – 155 cm (h) copy
of original of c. 460-450, marble] is said
to have more by way of ‘commensuratio’ about them than any other statues of his
generation. As with the Doryphoros so with Myron’s Discobolo, known only
through Roman copies, it is pretty difficult to hypothesise the exact system of
proportion that he uses. We detect the deployment of balanced opposites in the
composition. The creators of the doriforo and the discobolo share a common
regard for the live model that transcends the nature of the live model. Although
Polykleitos’ Canon and its physical embodiment, the original doriforo, are lost
– the most famous Roman copy was excavated ONLY AT THE END OF THE OTTOCENTO –
various literary sources handed over to the Renaissance the knowledge of them
and the classical principle that the beautiful model is based on proportion,
commensurability and mathematical perfection. This is the quest for the
beautiful model that is measured and defined within the premises of natural
philosophical mathematics. In the minds of commentators, the attribution of the
power of creation (poiesis) to the statue-maker likens him to a seer and affords
him a unique insight into his subject. It was said of Policleto that while his
skill is suitable for representing what Vico (and Carlyle) calls a ‘hero’
(Italian ‘eroe’ – cf. il culto dell’eroe), the imaginative power of Fidia –
author of the Parthenon’s sculptures, notably the Elgin marble of MARTE qua
simbolo della mascolinita – conjures a ‘deus’ (dio). His positive view of the
intuitive process of artistic creation (poiesis) becomes especially important
in Rome where copies of the great works of Greek classical sculpture are
reproduced in large numbers. ‘Re-produced’, that is, but not ‘re-plicated’ (cf.
replicatura). For no two copies are, by definition, ever exactly *the same*
(for one, the piece of marble is ‘another’). A Roman copyist, so-called, is,
mostly an ethnic [it. ennico] Greek. He probably saw his product as a variation
on a theme, or an improvisation (if not improvement) on the ‘original’, not a slavish
copy – plus, his Roman Mecenas couldn’t care less – connoisseurship was looked
own. A Roman vir has other things in mind, such as battle! It is through this
army of Roman copies that Italian artists acquire a fragmentary knowledge of
the proto-type (cf. Weber’s ideal type], the vast majority of which, in bronze,
as they should – for sculpting marble is different than moulding wax -- are
deliberately melted by Christians as blasphemous pagan, heathen, gods and
heroes. The spectre of the greatest mind of all antiquity, Plato, and his
condemnation of art always hover over the heads of artists and art lovers
alike. In the high empire of ancient Rome a neo-Platonist movement challenges Plato’s
extreme opinion and argues for the product of an ‘ars’ of being possessed of the
intellectually beautiful (even if first perceived through the senses – nihil est
in intellectu quod prior non fuerit in sensu. Plotino notes: ‘now it must be noted
that the wax brought under a hand to a
‘beautiful’ ‘form’ or ‘shape’ (eidos, idea, morphe) is ‘beautiful’ not ‘he’ or
qua wax – for so the crude block would be as ‘pleasant’ or pleasurable or
pleasing – but *qua* form, eidos, shape, morphe, or idea. This practical and
workable Aristotelian and neo-Platonic rather than the Platonic philosophy of
art was that adopted by most Italians (even if they let Ficino dreamed about!).
The paradoxical (feigned, ironic, taunting) superiority of the product of an
‘ars’ art to nature – as a selected, ideal, improved, correctio version of it (no
‘warts and all’) – has been a central premise of the “beau ideal” where ‘beau’
can be in the Romance languages both masculine and neuter (‘il bello’ – il
bello ideale) in the humanistic theory of art and especially in its
neo-classical incarnation. A statue is admired and enjoyed as the embodiment of
a moral aesthetic that can be applied also to a plaster cast. It serves both as
the paradigm of art training and as source of inspiration for artists for
centuries. For an introduction to ancient aesthetics and views on art, see
Tatarkiewicz 1970; Pollitt 1974. Selections of primary sources are included in
Pollitt 1983; Pollitt 1990. The main source for this famous sentence is Platone,
Theaetetus 151e. See also Diogenes Laertius, De Vitis ... philosophorum, 9.51.
3 Platone, Republic, 10, esp. 10.596E–597E. 4 Xenophon, Memorabilia, 3.10.1–5.
5 Aristotele, Poetica, 1448a1; Politica, 1340a33. See also Metafisica, 1.1,
981a. 6 Plinio, Naturalis Historia, 34.57–58. 7 Cicerone, Bruto, esp. 69–70,
296; Plinio, Naturalis Historia, 34.55; Galeno’s treatises, esp. De Placitis
Hippocratis et Platonis, 5, and De Temperamentis, 1.9; Quintiliano, Institutio
Oratoria, esp. 5.12.21 and 12.10.3–9; Vitruvio’s De Architectura, 3.1. 8
Quintiliano, Institutio Oratoria, 12.10.3–9. 9 Plotino, Enneads, 5.8.1.
14 ‘Nature Plus-Quam-Perfected’: -- the ‘Drawn from the Antique’ at the
Royal Academy. ‘Desegno dall’antico’, ‘desegno dalla natura’. In his inaugural lecture
as Professor of Painting at The Royal Academy of Arts in London, Opie arranged a
few headings, which included a general definition of painting, the imitation of
Nature, the idea of general beauty, the idea of general perfect beauty, the
idea of perfect beauty the true object of the highest style, as the aim of the
highest style, design, drawing, the most important part of painting, the uses
of knowledge of anatomy, symmetry and proportion the next in importance. great
excellence of the *ancients*, the ancient sculptor in those points; studying
antique statuary to advantage, perfection of the Art of painting under Vinci, Buonarroti,
and Sanzio. Opie’s outline, with its standardised categories, is a clear
example of ‘inglese italianato e un diavolo incarnato’ and a summary of a
time-honoured aesthetic tradition which indeed he is drawing from the antique!
Opie’s proposal of what constitutes ‘the high style’ is a direct continuation
of the humanistic theory of art, formulated in early Renaissance Florence and
expanded and modified in the succeeding centuries, mainly in Italy. At the core
of this tradition is the thesis that art imitates nature and, in art’s highest
manifestation, perfects nature by selecting her best parts, to create (poien,
design) a model of ideal beauty – drawn from the antique -- a universal
standard to which man aspires. Classical statuary plays a crucial role in this
theoretical framework. An antique statues is perceived, and often revered, as
works in which the process of this selection of the best parts of nature is accomplished.
An antique – and thus a sketch ‘drawn from the antique’ -- offers the ‘antique’
(not natural live) model from which the form, the pose, the gesture and the expression
of a naked male is appreciated, in its idealised anatomy and proportion. As the
theory evolves from the 16th century onwards, the three leading protagonists of
the High Renaissance, Vinci, Buonarroti and Sanzio – not mannerist Bernini,
such as Tasso is not in the canon as Ariosto is -- are placed on the same level
as the antique, as the first trio of non-antique or non-ancient (i. e. modern) artists
– cf. Hymns Ancient et Modern) whose statues equal, if not surpass, the antique
(but there was not ‘Drawn from Buonarroti!’). The humanistic theory of art
remains for centuries the philosophical aesthetics. It undergoes many
developments and was at times challenged. It is primarily through the medium of
‘desegno’, drawing, that one is educated in geometry and perspective – to learn
how to re-present space – and in anatomy and the male naked live model – to
learn how to deploy the naked male. ‘Drawn from the antique’ represents the
essential component of this educational method, initially as a convenient model
for the copying the male form, and then progressively as a bench-mark of
perfection whose appreciation one is supposed to assimilate before being
exposed to ‘fallible Nature’, embodied by the naked male LIVE model with all
its imperfections – the profession being underpayed and carried out by
Italians! – and this or that unnecessary feature – however necessary this
unnecessary feature is for the photographer of Antino, before he photoshops! In
its codified and pedantic rigidity, this Vitruvian categorization reveals that,
at the same time as they held theoretical sway, by the beginning of the 19th
century the tradition that he espoused had become increasingly stifling. At the
dawn of the Modern era, a system based on the principle that art is a rational
practice that can be taught by precepts resting on a fixed aesthetic is progressively
being dismantled by those who advocate subjectivity, individual expression and
the conceptual freedom required by inventive genius. Although the normative
principle of the humanistic theory of art remains solidly established within the
academic programme, the creative forces of art are increasingly to be found ‘outside
Plato’s Academy’. With this epochal shift of aesthetic values, classical
statuary, unsurprisingly, suffered most. Precisely because of its status as a
model and standard of perfection in academic curricula, it inevitably
encountered the indifference, if not open hostility, of Marinetti (if not
Mussolini) and those avant-garde Italian artists who did not believe in the
idealising role of art and, increasingly, not even in its imitative one. The
Antique, which sustains and inspires creativity and diversity in art, offering
an immense repertory of forms, expressions and aesthetic principles, loses its
propulsive drive. To understand the pervasive role the classical statue or statuary group plays
in the education and inspiration of artists in the Early Modern period, that is
from the 15th to the early 19th century, we return to the theoretical
foundations and the practical concerns that create and sustain the conditions
for its immense success and eventual decline. After the Middle Ages, in which
the visual arts had been essentially symbolic, aiming to represent the
metaphysical and the divine, in the early Renaissance focus shifts to an art
that, as in antiquity, aims at a convincing ‘imitation’ of the external world,
the world of Nature, with man at its centre. The primary concern of early
Renaissance artists and art theorists is to set a rational rule for the
faithful (or improved) representation of space and the human figure on a
two-dimensional surface, free-standing, in the round. In his “De Pictura”, Alberti
establishes the principle of art as an intellectual discipline, focusing on
geometry, mathematical perspective and the representation of the naked male. The
philosophical conviction that ‘man is the scale and measure of all things’ is applied
to space: Alberti’s choice of viewpoint and scale in the perspective diagrams is
based on the *height* of a well-formed male and the units into which he is divided.
This philosophical position also accepts that the main aim of the art of
statue-making is the depiction of a man’s action, emotion and deed, what
Alberti called “la storia”. Naturally, the study and drawing of the LIVE model
in a work-shop, and later of anatomy and classical statuary in a studio and an academy
or club, are essential for this purpose. Although Alberti’s approach, and even
the literary structure of De Pictura, is based on classical models and
examples, his conception of art is ‘naturalistic’. For Alberti, to become
skilled in the visual arts ‘the fundamental principle will be that all steps of
learning should be sought from nature’ (“dalla natura”, not “dall’antico”). Earlier,
more practical treatises, like Cennino Cennini’s Libro dell’Arte advocates the
study of a painting produced by a master, a practice that encourages repetition
and which could eventually lead to artistic sterility. Alberti accepts the
copying of two-dimensional works by other artists only because ‘they have
GREATER STABILITY OF APPEARANCE than the living, live, lively, model’, but he
privileges the drawing of a statue because, being life-*like* (cf. ‘natura
morta’), it does not impose just ONE viewpoint on its copyist, but infinite –
which makes ‘drawn from the antique’ a fascinating reflection on the
draughtsman, who seeks, say, for rear views!
Hence, while the practice of the early workshop often involved the
copying of three-dimensional models or drawings of such models, it is as a
preparation for life-study (“DRAWN FROM LIFE”) rather than an end in itself. This
is is not to ignore the impact of antique proto-types on artists, which was
enormous. One need only think of Donatello’s Ganimede who was responding to
antique models from very early in the Quattrocento. But from a theoretical
point of view, for Alberti, the emphasis is on the full mastery of the natural
forms (‘DRAWN FROM LIFE’) rather than on the imitation of other works of art,
even those from antiquity. The artist’s goal is to achieve an illusionistic
translation of the external world onto the flat surface of a drawing (‘DRAWN
FROM LIFE’) or into the volumes and masses of sculpture – as in Italian
statuary not based on the Antique: Michelangelo’s Bacco, Bernini’s Enea, etc.
-- Nevertheless, in Alberti we find the roots of two intertwined concepts, both
originating in classical sources, which progressively support and justify the
practice of copying as in ‘drawn from the antique’. The ultimate point is to
create a ‘beautiful’ naked male by selecting the most ‘excellent parts . . .
from the most beautiful naked males. Every effort should be made to perceive,
understand and express beauty. To substantiate this principle, Alberti recalls
the episode of the celebrated painter of antiquity -- depicted by Vasari in his
fresco at his own palazzo in Arezzo, ‘Zeusi compone Elena dalle fanciulle di
Crotona’-- the Italian Zeuxis, who, in order to create Elena, the image of
female perfection, selects the most beautiful maidens from the city of Crotona and
unfairly goes to choose the best part from each. This silly anecdote – sexist,
since the male equivalent would be unthinkable --, derives from ancient
literary sources, and becomes one of the most recurrent adaggi of the art
treatise in the following centuries. Zeuxis embodies and clearly explains the
idea of art as a form of ‘perfected nature’. The beautiful (‘il bello’, for
Italians hardly use ‘bellezza’, unless you are Sorrentino) is based on a system
of a harmonic proportion. For Alberti, in the perfect male the single part – the
two hands, the head, the two legs, he torso, the back, etc. – is related
numerically to the other parts and to the whole (il totto) in the principle of commensurability or
syn-metron, literally the measurability by a common standard. The overall
result is harmonic perfection (‘ Just look in my direction! Ain’t that
perfection!’) which Alberti defines as ‘concinnitas’, a theory that Alberti
bases on Vitruvio’s De Architectura. Pro-portion, which Alberti covers in depth
in his “De Statua” becomes a major subject of philosophical aesthetic
speculation. Vinci and Dürer produce in-depth studies, and Vinci’s ‘uomo
vitruviano’ is the perfect expression of the theory of the mathematical
conception of the naked male [Vinci, Gallerie dell’Academia, Venezia, inv. 228
– Le proporzione dei corpo umano secondo Vitruvio, metal point, pen and brown
ink with touches of wash, 344 x 245 mm c 1490] For Alberti, one selects the best
from nature and reassembles the selection according to a system of harmonic
proportion ultimately resting on the mathematical relation THAT IS rationally inferred
from Nature itself. This principle is the cornerstone of aesthetics. Although
the central textual foundation for the concept that ‘il bello’ is based on
proportion, Policleto’s Canon, had been lost, Renaissance artists and scholars are
well aware through Vitruvio and other classical writers that ancient artist base
his work on this principle. Therefore, from the 16th century onwards, and
especially in the following two centuries, the crucial appeal that an antique
statue had for artists rested not only in its aesthetic quality and form, but
also on the very fact that it embodied the intellectual principle of
proportional perfection. The rationalistic (indeed illuministic) approach of
the Canova’s French academy (when moulding the wax of Napoleon in nudita
eroica) even provides students with manuals in which the numerical proportion
of a statue is carefully laid out. This idea-guided naturalistic attitude of
art theory, which had in any case been greatly modified in High Renaissance
practice, shifts towards an even more idealistic (hyper-idealistic, not
romantic) approach and, simultaneously, a more systematic one, laying the
ground plan for the classicist theory. Because most art theoreticians consider
their era to be a period of artistic decadence and excess after the great
achievements of the High Renaissance, and also because many of them focus on
the codifying of a rule that may be imposed in the academy, the model of
perfection is increasingly deemed mandatory (Dolce, Lomazzo, Armenini), the antique
that they feel inspired and guided the ‘buona maniera’ of Buonarroti and Sanzio
(whom the pre-raphaelites hated), became the standard by which a fault (errore)
of Nature or this or that affectation (say, the length of necks in Modigliani)
is corrected. The ‘drawn from the antique’ takes a decisive lead over the ‘drawn
from life’ (DESEGNO DALLA VITA), and the construction of taste – the lure of
the antique that had lured the antiques themselves, such as Adriano! Correspondingly,
in the classicist tradition that develops in Rome – the headquarters of the
French Academy at Villa Medici -- the Antique (l’antico) becomes the essential
model for the composition. This, definable as the depiction of episodes based
on Roman mythology or Roman history, with a moral value attached, is considered
from Alberti the highest form and final aim and receives the place of honour in
the academic hierarchy of the genres. Although a naturalistic and
anti-classicist tendency remains alive even within the academic system,
classicism establishes itself as the predominant aesthetic principle, as Opie’s
inaugural lecture as Chair of Painting (but not Chair of Sculpture – since
that’s a whole different animal!) at the Royal Academy attests. Its success
rests primarily on the fact that it represents an aesthetic approach that is
considered to express a universal and a ‘true’ principle. And this, because of its
rational nature, can be taught by rule, which suits the systematic attitude of
Enlightenment culture. The proliferation of the academy encourages the penetration
of this set of values even within contexts and cultures that until then had
been only superficially exposed to it. The humanistic theory of art, clothed in
a new and codified form, eventually reaches the most remote corners of the
world, with the antique army as the herald. At the centre of the education of
any artist in the Renaissance was the practice of ‘disegno,’ drawing or design,
considered to be one of the essential foundations of art from Cennini onwards.
‘Disegno,’ (dall’antico, dalla vita), endowed with an intellectual role by
Vasari and other theorists, as the
manifestation of the idea and invention of the artist, becomes the essential
quality of the Roman and Florentine academies. Successively, it assumed a
central role in the theory of European academies as the expression of the
rational common denominator of the three sister arts: painting, sculpture and
architecture. Opie, himself a poor draughtsman – hence his teaching of
‘disegno’ --, still considered ‘Design, or Drawing, the most important part of
Painting’. Drawing after the Antique, or Drawing from the Antique, as a union
of intellectual medium and intellectual end, becomes integral to the learning
process and the activity of artists, along with ‘Drawn from Life’. The academy
is depicted, the studio, an artists copying from some original or drawing from a
cast, in situ in, usually, Rome or back at home. Whether he is drawing from the
antique on paper to learn how to represent outlines and chiaroscuro – the
effects of light on three-dimensional forms – or to assemble a repertory of the
body’s form, pose and expression, or to assimilate a system of ‘correct’
proportions and anatomy, no would-be member of the academy can avoid
confronting the lessons of the Antique, and of adjusting his creative process
in relation to it. Apart from the didactic and inspirational functions of drawing
from the antique (as opposed as from life), many other reasons justified the
practice. As a result of their pervasiveness, a studio ‘drawin from the
antique’ (disegnato dall’antico’) – which are innumerable – are difficult to
categorise because they are produced for different reasons, serve different
purposes and display different conceptions and relations to the antique.
Nevertheless, one might attempt a division. There is the didactic ‘drawn from
the antique’: a copy produced his education as an a course assignment at the
Academy: a drawing produced by a master in a workshop to provide the apprentice
with an accessible repertory of classical forms to copy. There is RECORD drawing:
a sketch created to serve as inspiration for a form, a pose, am expressios, a composition,
a movement, a proportion, etc., for its own artistic purpose. There is translation,
a precisely finished drawings intended to be engraved, usually conveying as
much information as possible about the statue’s form and pose. There is documentary
drawings, produced with the purpose of recording accurately the physical
appearance of an antiquities obviously including any damage the statue may have
undergone. To this category belong many drawings produced specifically for the antiquarian
collector, from the “Codex Coburgensis” to those of the famous ‘Paper Museum’
assembled by Pozzo. There is the marketable
drawing: a finished copy specifically produced to be sold on the market or
commissioned by a collector to fill his ‘paper museum’ of classical
antiquities. Examples are those by Batoni for Richard Topham, Esq. – The Topham
Collection --. There is the promotional drawing, a drawing made with the
specific purpose of promoting the acquisition of an item (statue or statuary
group), such as those by Jenkins to Townley – The Townley Collection. Naturally,
as with any categorisation, these divisions are a simplification and a drawing
may overlap two or more classes, such as this or that drawing by Goltzius, intended
to be engraved, but which also function as a repertory of an antique forms to
be used in the artist’s practice. Whatever their categories, all these drawings
followed the technical evolution of the medium, from the predominant metalpoint
and pen-and-ink to the black and red chalk. Athough pen-and-ink remains a
favoured medium, chalk becomes the choice for FULL-SIZE statuary, as a softer,
more pliable medium it allows a more sophisticated rendering of a tonal passage
and, therefore, of relief and anatomu. Red chalk especially offers the impossibility
of bringing the ANTIQUE (antico) to LIFE (vita), transforming or
transubstantiating inorganic matter into ‘warm flesh’. In artists’ workshops
one of the most important aspects of an apprentice’s training, aside from
mastering the manual procedures of painting, is copying works by the master and
other artists. This is intended as a means to shorten the process of learning
how to represent the THREE-DIMENSIONS onto two thanks to examples already
produced by others. This practice is described by Cennini, although still
intended only to train the apprentice to reproduce the master’s style and not
yet Nature or Life. An aapprentices could resort to copying model books and
sketchbooks already assembled by the master or by others. These were
repertories of a drawing of an animal, a plant, decorative details, a male nude
at rest, a male nude in action, usually produced as teaching tools, and it is
in these collections on paper that we find the earliest surviving drawings
derived from classical antiquities. The Antique is included mainly as a source
of information on the anatomy, its form, modelling, pose, expression,
movementsand the interaction of all t hese elements. Most of the early
drawings that represent antique forms are produced by artists active in Rome
where the largest number of accessible physical remains from antiquity is
concentrated. AN ANCIENT FULL-SIZE STATUE IN THE ROUND may have survived above
ground. Among the most famous publicly displayed examples are the ANTONINO, or
pseudo-Constantine the Great. outside the Lateran Palace, the Spinario, and the
Camillo, both of which are moved from the Lateran to the Campidoglio by Sesto IV;
the Quirinal Horse Tamers, I DIOSCURI, and the two Quirinal Recubantes or
Rivers. Virtually no ancient painting is known, and its appearance was
conjectured from a description (ecphrasis) in a literary sources, notably
Pliny’s Naturalis Historia (esp. book XXXV). It was only with the exploration
at the end of the 15th century of the buried interiors of the Domus Aurea of
Nerone in Rome, known as grotte, that artists access ancient examples, and from
this time a wave of grotesque motifs and decorations spread widely. More
readily available is a sarcophagus relief or a large imperial relief. A drawing
may depict mainly this category of ancient artefacts. They are popular because,
with their complex, frieze-like narratives, it inspires the compostion of a
“storia” as Alberti notes. Among the most frequently represented are the
reliefs of sarcophagi and the imperial reliefs of Trajan’s Column and the
Arches of Titus and Constantine. The subjects preferred by late Gothic or early
Renaissance artists – Bacchic themes, Amazons, the story of Adone, marine
deities or ancient battles – demonstrate an interest in the nude and in the
depiction of movement, dynamism and strong expressions. Although it is recorded
that Donatello and Brunelleschi copy antiquities during their stay at Rome, no
drawings survive by either of them to reveal their approach to the Antique. The
earliest surviving drawings of an antique is by artists in the workshops of
Fabriano and Pisanello, when they were in Rome working for Martino V in St John
in Lateran. The drawings correspond in many ways to the paintings. They show
little awareness of the formal principle of classical art, transforming a figure
from a Roman sarcophagus relief into a Gothic type. They often re-interpret the
pose and, sin! -- proportion of the original, even, as in the case of a sheet of
a fantasia in the Louvre, assembling figures from different s arcophagi. This
process of extra-polation, isolation and modification is common to many
drawings from the Antique. The draughtsman creates a visual repertories of
single figures, or isolated groups of figures which are easy to re-use in their
own compositions. From a teaching point of view, an isolated figure is probably
considered, at least in the model books and sketchbooks, to be more readily
assimilable by the apprentice in the workshop than a whole composition. A good
example of such an approach is seen in a drawing attributed to the so-called
‘Anonymous of the Ambrosiana’, from a sketchbook made in Rome in The original
model is a celebrated sarcophagus relief of the Muses, Minerva and Apollo then
in the church of Santa Maria Maggiore. It was copied in drawings by several
later growing archaeological awareness, in parallel with the spread of
antiquarian studies and rising interest in the classical world and its physical
remains. On the other hand, artists display a free handling and more personal
approach to the original, as they move away from the restraints of the model
book. With the exception of Donatello, from whom he learned much, MANTEGNA is
the quattrocento artist who had the most complex and sophisticated relationship
to the antique. Mantegna’s approach is evident in the introduction of direct
quotations from ancient architecture, reliefs and sculptures in his paintings
and frescoes and in his adoption of a precise, highly sculptural painting
style. A drawing by MANTEGNA – or a copy after a drawing – executed during his stay
in Rome accurately renders a classical proto-type but with a vivacious freedom
in style. It represents one of the Trajanic reliefs inserted in the central
passage of the Arch of Constantine. MANTEGNA sketches it at an angle from the
right side and from below. He precisely records the relief’s damaged condition
by showing both the emperor and the helmeted soldier on the right without their
right hands. He interprets the composition freely, concentrating on the most
prominent actors and on the relief’s formal principle, specifically its
treatment of movement and emotion, qualities praised by Alberti as essential
for the construction of a “storia”. The flow from left to right is accentuated,
Trajan has windswept hair.The horse is shown galloping, less upright and frontal.
The mouths are wide open, as are those of the soldiers on the right, expressing
the intensity of emotion in the victory over the Dacians. A drawing like this
serves a two- fold purpose, as a study of a formal principle and a record of
antique costumes, armours, shields and helmets. Its organisational lessons and
visual references could then be re-used to demonstrate the artist’s power of
inventio and his erudite knowledge of the classical past, as Mantegna indeed does
at Mantova in his sequence of canvases of the Triumph of Caesars [Sarcophagus
of the Muses, with Apollo and Minerva, front, 2nd c. ad, marble,
Kunsthistorisches Museum, Antikensammlung, Vienna, inv. I 171. Andrea Mantegna,
or circle of, Drawing after the Relief on the Arch of Constantine, end of the
15th century – beginning of the 16th, black chalk with brown ink, 273 × 189 mm,
Albertina, Vienna, inv. 2583r. Workshop of Pisanello, Three Nude Figures from
Ancient Roman Sarcophagi, c. 1431–32, silver point, pen and brown ink on
vellum, 194 × 273 mm, Louvre, Paris, inv. 2397]. artists, including Lippi and Franco
and it was engraved by Raimondi. The Ambrosiana draughtsman reproduces only a
few figures, changing their position and disregarding their interrelations and
the background, no doubt with the intention of assembling a range of drapery
studies that could be re-used in the future. The artist selects primarily
figures that offered the greatest variety and movement of cascading robes,
leaving the nude Apollo in the bottom right corner unfinished. Two tendencies,
apparently opposed but both symptomatic of a more profound understanding of the
antique, gains ground in sketchbooks and loose drawings. On one hand there was
a [Anonymous of the Ambrosiana, Figures from an ancient Roman Muses
Sarcophagus, c. 1460, metal point, pen and brown ink, heightened in white, on
pink prepared paper, 310 × 200 mm, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan, inv. F. 214
inf.] A similar evolution is seen in drawings that reproduce FREE-STANDING
classical statuary. Not surprisingly, all are after the most famous statues
then visible in Rome which, given their size and anatomical detailing, were an
invaluable source for the study of the male body. The earliest examples are
again a group of drawings by Pisanello. They represent, among other figures,
the ANTONINO and one of the two Horse Tamers or Dioscuri on the Quirinal Hill. The
latter is especially relevant for our purpose, as the Dioscuri constitute the two
most complete free-standing nude in Rome. Both Dioscuri are copied repeatedly,
praised by contemporary written sources, and [Trajan overpowering Barbarians,
Roman, c. 117 ad, marble, Arch of Constantine, central arch, north façade, Rome
remained constant sources of inspiration for artists into the 19th century. In
a drawing of one of the Dioscuri, the draughtsman isolates the sculpture from
its context, and focuses exclusively on rendering the anatomy. The cloak on the
forearm is just outlined. Although it is an impressive achievement and while
the male nude is realised much more plausibly than those figures taken from
sarcophagus reliefs, the ELONGATION and SLIMMING
of the figure and the inaccurate rendering of the idealised anatomy betrays a Gothic
mindset. The same DIOSCURO is copied in a drawing by Gozzoli [ Equestrian
Statue of Marcus Aurelius, Roman, 161–180 ad, bronze, 424 cm (h), Capitoline
Museums, Rome, inv. MC3247. Workshop of Pisanello, Marcus Aurelius, c. 1431–32,
pen, brown ink and wash heightened in white on brown-orange prepared paper, 196
× 156 mm, CASTELLO SFORZESCO, Civico Gabinetto dei Disegni, Milan, inv. B 878
SC. One of the Two Dioscuri or Horse Tamers, Roman copy of the 2nd century ad,
after a Greek original of the 5th century bc, marble, 528 cm, Quirinal Square,
Rome] Pollaiuolo. Many are modelled on an ancient proto-type, like those being
handled and studied by the artists at Bandinelli’s academy. But ‘DISEGNO DALLA VITA’
from a posed apprentice is also widely practised and becomes increasingly
common in the final decades, especially in Florence. Another drawing by Gozzoli’s
circle shows the practice of setting a male naked LIVE MODEL in the pose of
(apres, after) “l’antico” – a contradiction: DISEGNO DALLA VITA E DALL’ANTICO. In
this case the obvious reference is the Spinario, the celebrated bronze antique
figure whose complex pose remains one of the most popular for a live model. The
use of the model book as a teaching tool disappeared but sketchbooks and the travel
book reproducing antiquities became more widespread. Their progressive
diffusion is one of the clearest indications of the spread of interest in the antique
and goes hand-in-hand with the formation of collections of antiquities and the
pursuit of antiquarian studies, such as Biondo’s influential “Roma Instaurata”,
a methodical guide to the monuments of Rome. Enthusiasm for classical art and a
more attentive study of its forms and principles is reflected in the increased
dynamism, pathos and complexity of the compositions that we can see in Italian
painting and sculpture in the work of Florentine artists like Pollaiolo,
Ghirlandaio and Lippi [Workshop of Benozzo Gozzoli, A Nude Young Man Seated on
a Block, His Right Foot Crossed over His Left Leg, c. 1460, metalpoint, over
stylus indications, grey-brown wash, heightened with white, on pink-purple
prepared paper, 226 × 150 mm, The British Museum, Department of Prints and
Drawings, London, inv. Pp, 1.7] probably executed when he was in Rome to assist
Fra Angelico in the St Nicholas Chapel in the Vatican Palace]. In this case the
drawing is again far from accurate, and the draughtsman combines the Dioscuro
with the horse held by his twin. Again the forms are isolated. As in the
earlier drawing the supporting cuirass and the strut between the right arm and
thigh are omitted as is the cloak on the forearm. The group is set against a
neutral backdrop and on the ground rather than on its pedestal. Although the
Dioscuro stands firmly, and although his anatomical structure, his surface
musculature and their modelling are rendered much more convincingly than in the
Pisanello drawing, the idealisation of the male is still not emphasised and we seem
to be looking at a real MALE taming his horse rather than at a heroic marble
statue. Although it is difficult to draw general conclusions based on such
exiguous surviving material, it seems safe to say that formost 15th-century
artists, classical free-standing statuary was seen as a model for the nude male,
its poses and movements. With notable exceptions, such as Donatello, artists
did not try to grasp the anatomical and formal principle of the original nor does
he aspire to recreate the process of idealisation innate in so many classical
nudes. For this reason, the drawings are often not immediately recognisable as
copies after the Antique (‘drawn from the antique’). The Antique could also be
copied inside the workshop using SMALL-SCALE three-dimensional models. We have
plenty of evidence about collections of antique statues, often fragments, and
the ownership of plaster casts by artists. Their presence in the work-shop is also
acknowledged in “De Sculptura” by Gaurico, who speaks of artists having
cabinets ‘filled with any sort of sculptures’ and ‘chests filled with casts’. Although
a cast may OBVIOUSLY BE TAKEN from a male naked live model, as described by
Cennini, others are ‘cast from the antique’, such as those mentioned by
Ghiberti and Squarcione, the teacher of Mantegna, whose workshop at Padova
contained a collection of antiquities. Casts and antiquities are part of the
working material of the bottega. They also serve to elevate the status of the
workshop to that of a STUDIO or STUDIUM, a place of cultivation of liberal
arts, the beginning of that process of the intellectual emancipation of the
artist that would be fully developed with the foundation of the academies. A
beautiful drawing of feet, part of a sketchbook by Gozzoli eloquently shows the
use of casts, in this case most likely taken from antique fragments, as
teaching tools in the bottega. We see here one of the earliest visual records
of a [Spinario, Roman, 1st century bc, bronze, 73 cm (h), Capitoline Museums,
Rome, inv. MC1186. Pisanello, or circle of, One of the Two Dioscuri or Horse
Tamers, c. 1431–32, silverpoint, pen and brown ink on vellum, 230 × 360 mm,
Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan, inv. F. 214 inf.10v. Benozzo Gozzoli (attr.), One
of the Two Dioscuri or Horse Tamers, c. 1447–49, metalpoint, grey-black wash,
heightened with lead white, on blue prepared paper, 359 × 246 mm, The British
Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London, inv. Pp, 1.18. Workshop of
Benozzo Gozzoli, Studies of Plaster Casts of Feet, c. 1460, silverpoint
heightened with white, on green prepared paper, 225 × 155 mm, Museum Boijmans
Van Beuningen, Rotterdam, Benozzo Gozzoli Sketchbook, fol. 53] practice,
copying from a cast, that would expand exponentially. For the study of the naked
male and the three-dimensional form, a pupil could rely also on small models in
wax, CLAY, or bronze, provided by such sculptors as Ghiberti or Sanzio, Buonarroti,
and Rome as the Centre of the Study of the Antique. The following generation,
that of Buonarroti and Sanzio, sees a seismic shift in the approach to the antique.
They now attempted to equal or even surpass the antique by penetrating its
principles.The two titans of the High Renaissance had a radically different
approach towards the classical naked male form, but they both aime at
assimilating the ancient ‘mimetic’ or imitative standard of an idealised
naturalism, full mastery of the naked male, its anatomy and proportions, and
the convincing rendering of the EMOTION or EX-pression (or affect) of the soul.
Vinci expresses a deep interest in the Antique and is directly exposed to it
in Florence and in Rome. The classical naked male form is referenced in
many of his works, particularly in the unrealised project for an equestrian
statue of Francesco Sforza in Milan. But Vinci’s naturalism, based on empirical
observation, means that he always checks his ancient sources against the
scientific observation of the natural world. He remains a naturalist at heart,
famously stating that ‘he who copies a copy is Nature’s grandchild when he may been
her son’. On the other hand, from a practical point of view, Vinci also
acknowledges the usefulness of copying from a ‘good master’ and sculpture. While
for Vinci the Antique remains an interest secondary to Nature, Sanzio’s and
Buonarroti’s engagement with the antique is on an unprecedented level. The
immense impact that Sanzio and Buonarroti have on their own generation and on
Western art in the centuries that followed lies in the very fact that they are perceived
and celebrated as the first modern masters who had equalled, if not surpassed,
the ancients. Opie, lecturing on painting at the Royal Academy, proclaims the
‘perfection of the Arts under Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, and
Raffaelle’, but their status as modern classics was already acknowledged during
their lifetime. Bembo elevates Buonarroti and Sanzio to the same pedestal of
the ‘ancient good masters’ and Vasari sustains his uncompromising panegyric of Buonarroti
by affirming that his Davide (Galleria dell’Accademia, Florence) surpasses in
beauty and measure even the best ancient monumental sculptures of Rome, in
particular the various Rivers and the Horse Tamers on the Quirinal. The Mondern,
now capable of providing an idealised nude more convincing than the most famous
surviving classical ones, outshines the Ancient. Artists of Sanzio’s and
Buonarroti’s generation have the advantage of benefiting from more, and more
readily available, ancient statuary, including those discovered in excavations
and those displayed in relatively accessible settings. However, both Vinci and
Buonarroti must already have been exposed to drawings, casts and models after
the Antique respectively in the workshops of Verrocchio and Ghirlandaio. Both
studied (although Vinci briefly) in the Giardino di San Marco, an informal
academy set up by Lorenzo il Magnifico to train artists specifically in drawing
and copying after the antique under the supervision of the sculptor Giovanni. Vasari
informs us that Buonarroti devoted himself obsessively to the task, and Condivi,
Buonarroti’ss biographer, emphatically states that the genius ‘having savoured
their beauty never again goes to Ghirlandaio’s workshop or
anywhere else, but there he would stay all day, always doing something, as in
the best school for such studies’ As a pupil Sanzio probably did not receive a
similar training in the workshop of Perugino, who had less interest in the
Antique. But some drawings with reference to classical models survive and he
certainly participates in the sophisticated antiquarian environment in Florence,
where he moves. It is the impact of what Buonarroti and Sanzio see in Rome,
where they both moved that has the most far-reaching and radical impact on the
evolution of their art and their relationship with the anqique. Under the
pontificates of Rovere (Giulio II and Leone X, Rome establishes herself as the
centre for the study of the Antique. Many of the most celebrated collections of
antiquities – Medici, Farnese, Borghese, Ludovisi, Albani -- are formed or
consolidated, such as those of Riario, Maffei, and Della Valle and later on the Cesi and the Sassi. The collection
of antiquities at the Campidoglio is enlarged with the transfer of the statues
of the Rivers, the Nile and the Tiber from the Quirinal and the Antonino from
the Lateran, the latter a statue so important for the symbolic imagery of Rome
that Buonarroti designs a square around it. However, the real centre of
attention in the early years of Buonarroti and Sanzio in Rome are the new
discoveries emerging from the soil of the city. Within a few years some of the
statues that would attract the attention of artists and connoisseurs for
centuries to come are discovered, [Anonymous engraver after Maarten van
Heemskerck, The Antique Courtyard of the Palazzo Della Valle, 1553, engraving,
289 × 416 mm, Rijksmuseum, inv. RP-P-1996-38] provoking enormous enthusiasm
among contemporaries: the Apollo del Belvedere, the Laoconte, the Cleopatra, the
Ercole Commodo, and the large rivers Tevere and Nilo. By 1512 all could be
admired, with the addition of the Venere Felice in the Cortile Ottogono del
casino della Villa del Belvedere nel Monte Vaticano, a purpose-built space
commissioned by Giulio II from Bramante, the great interpreter of ancient Roman
architecture. The Cortile, displaying some of the most complete and prestigious
sculptures from antiquity, soon became the canonical Roman site for making a copy
‘drawn from the antique’. It retains its unparalleled prestige, as the many
drawings after its statues eloquently attest. It is invaluable, as the Cortile
del Belvedere offers them the opportunity to study different male forms and
positions and different sub-types of ideal beauty at the same time: moving from
the Apollo, to the strong and pronounced muscular anatomy of Ercole Commodo. Two
more statues are added to the Courtyard: the Antino del Belvedere and the Torso
del Belvedere. The Antino del Belvedere is to become the canonical model for
artists for the perfect proportions of the naked male body. The Torso del
Belvedere becomes one of the most copied of all antiquities, a compulsory
reference for the body of the muscular male at rest, especially because of Buonarroti’s
admiration for it and the popular belief that he gives instructions to leave it
unrestored. The master’s praise of the evocative fragment became a leitmotif in
artistic treatises and literary sources to the point that it [Fig. 17.
Hieronymous Cock after Anonymous Draughtsman, The Capitoline Hill, 1562,
etching and engraving, 155 × 212 mm, Metropolitan Museum, New York, inv.
2012.136.358] became known in 18th-century Britain as the ‘School of
Michelangelo’. The Cortile del Belvedere, the Campidoglio, and the collections
in the various palazzi: Palazzo della Valle and others, remain the privileged
centres for copying the Antique in Rome. The increasing number of accessible
classical statues makes Rome a pole of attraction, to congregate and to complete
one’s education and gather on paper a repertory of classical forms and motifs. This
was a phenomenon central to the development of art. It is evocatively described by Bembo. Under Giulio
II and Leone X both Buonarroti and Sanzio are at the centre of the antiquarian
debate and, as Bembo puts it, play an essential role in their efforts to
emulate and surpass the antique (they fail). Indeed Vasari attributes the rise
of the ‘bella maniera’, and the great achievements of Sanzio and Buonarroti, to
their familiarity and exposure to the Belvedere statues. Even if Vasari’s words
are a retrospective celebration aimed at establishing the primacy of the
Florentine and Roman schools, the spirit of classical art permeates much of
Buonarroti’s and Sanzio’s Roman production and specific antique proto-types are
evoked in many of their works. One need only think of the inspiration Buonarroti
derives from the Torso del Belvedere for his Ignudi in the Sistine Chapel. Given
their familiarity with classical antiquity, it may seem strange therefore that
very few drawings after classical statuary by either Buonarroti or Sanzio
survive. Many might have been intentionally destroyed. Vasari recounts
Buonarroti’s burning large numbers of drawings, sketches [Fig. 18.
Apollo del Belvedere, Roman copy of the Hadrianic period (117–138 ad) after a
Greek original of the 4th century bc, marble, 224 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome
inv. 1015 Laocoön, possibly a Roman copy of the 1st century ad after a Greek
original of the 2nd century bc, marble, 242 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv.
1064. Cleopatra, Roman copy of the Hadrianic period after a Greek original of
the 2nd century bc, marble, 162 (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv. 548] and
cartoons so that none could see the efforts of his creative process. Nonetheless,
in the few surviving drawings which bear direct references to classical models,
one sees their tendency towards ‘assimilating’ the spirit of antique forms
rather than *slavishly* copying them (as an amanuensis would). This attitude
can be shown by comparing a drawing by Aspertini after the Belvedere Cleopatra
with one by Sanzio derived from the same statue. Aspertini’s copy, paired on
the facing page with one from a relief from the Arch of Constantine, embodies
the attitude typically seen in a sketch- book: a more or less faithful
rendering of the antique form, in this case rather finished and accurate, that
serves as a record. Sanzio’s drawing represents a more evolved phase, when the
ancient form takes a new shape: the elegant and difficult pose of the body of
the Cleopatra and the play of the drapery over her intertwined [Aspertini, The
Sleeping Cleopatra and a Relief from Trajan’s Column, (verso) post 1496, pen
and brown ink, over black chalk, on two sheets conjoined, 254 × 423 mm, The
British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London, Sanzio, Figure in
the Pose of the Sleeping Cleopatra, c. 1509, pen and brown ink, 244 × 217 mm,
Albertina, Vienna, inv. 219. Sanzio, The Muse Calliope, detail from the
Parnassus, c. 1509–10, fresco, Stanza della Segnatura, Vatican Palace, Rome] legs
are used as an inspiration for the muse Calliope in his Vatican Parnassus.
Sanzio nevertheless also produces some ‘record’ drawings. Nominated by Leo X as
inspector of all the antiquities in and around Rome and embarked on a project
to reconstruct the aspect of ancient Roman buildings based on precise
architectural surveys of their remains. His method, based on a precise analysis
paired with ancient literary sources, remains unmatched. His scholarly attitude
towards classical art and his thorough understanding of it are clearly
expressed in a famous letter that he wrote to Leo X with the help of the
courtier Castiglione in which he appeals against the destruction of classical
monuments. At the same time, he provides an outstandingly accurate description
of the different styles of ancient sculpture found on the Arch of Constantine. One
of the very few surviving exact copies of classical statues in Sanzio’s hand is
indicative of his precise, almost [Hendrik III Van Cleve, Detail from
View of Rome from the Belvedere of Innocent VIII, 1550, oil on panel, 55.5 ×
101.5 cm, Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique, Brussels, inv. 6904.
Pseudo-Antino del Belvedere, Roman copy of the Hadrianic period after a Greek
original of the 4th century bc, marble, 195 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv.
907. Belvedere Torso, Greek or Roman, 1st century bc, marble, 159 cm (h),
Vatican Museums, Rome, inv. 1192] archaeological approach to the Antique, and
we can assume that he produced similar ones during his period as inspector of
Roman antiquities. It is a clear rendering of one of the two horses from the
Horse Tamers on the Quirinal, that we encountered in Gozzoli’s study. There
could not be a better comparison to demonstrate the progress made in the
understanding of classical statuary. Sanzio’s drawing is ‘scientific’. We
clearly recognise that the horse is a piece of marble sculpture, with a
faithful record of its missing left leg and the joint between the neck and the
body. The horse is COPIED, i. e. DRAWN AT EYE LEVEL (Sanzio presumably stood on
a platform) and not seen from below, as in most other contemporary views. This
allows the proper study of the proportion of the sculpture, in a way similar to
an architectural elevation. Outstandingly, even the measurements of the statue
are recorded on the drawing, probably by one of his pupils, making this the
first surviving measured drawing of a classical statue. Incidentally Sanzio’s
drawing also shows the introduction of a new medium – red chalk – which would
become one of the preferred tools for drawing after the Antique. It is likely,
nevertheless, that Sanzio generally left making such specific records of
classical sculptures to the pupils of his large workshop, as several surviving
drawings in the hand of Romano and Polidoro da Caravaggio, among others,
attest. Some of these were probably intended to be engraved, as it is in Sanzio's
circle that we find the first printed images of celebrated statues and reliefs,
such as those of Raimondi, Marco [Sanzio The Right Horse of the Horse Tamers on
the Quirinal Hill, c. 1513, red chalk and pen and brown ink over indentations
with the stylus, 219 × 275 mm, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C., inv.
1993.51.3.a, Woodner Collection. Buonarroti, Study of an Antique Torso of
Venus, c. 1524, black chalk, 256 × 180 mm, The British Museum, Departments of
Prints and Drawings, London, inv. 1859,0625.570. Buonarroti, A Youth beckoning;
A Right Leg, c. 1504–05, pen and brown ink, black chalk, 375 × 230 mm, The
British Museum, Departments of Prints and Drawings, London, inv. 1887,0502.117.
Romano
(attr.), Apollo del Belvedere, c. 1513–15, pen and brown ink, pencil, 316 × 155
mm, Albertina, Vienna, inv. 22449. Veneziano, Apollo
Belvedere, engraving, c. 1518–20, 269 × 169 mm, private collection. Dente and Agostino
Veneziano (c. 1490–after 1536; 29). The print medium, which plays a crucial
role in disseminating the knowledge of the Antique is to be increasingly used
in work-shops and academies for training. One first copies the Antique from a
flat image, before turning to the third dimension of a cast or an original. Sanzio’s
approach towards the Antique, based on study, measurement, reconstruction and
dissemination, cannot be more distant from that of Buonarroti, who constantly
confronts the classical models with a challenging spirit. Several anecdotes
reported by contemporaries reveal his approach towards antiquity. Boissard
informs us that shortly after having seen the Laooconte emerging from the
ground of the Esquiline, Buonarroti enthusiastically comments that it is ‘a
singular miracle of art in which we should grasp the divine genius of the
sculptor rather than trying to make an imitation of it’.This quotation is
poignant for understanding the Platonic concept of divine inspiration for
Buonarroti. At the same time it shows clearly that his relationship with the
antique model was not based on a process of imitation but rather on that of ‘aemulatio,’
a creative rivalry possible only after the assimilation and internalisation of
its principle. This approach is reinforced in a celebrated passage from Vasari
which became a recurrent leitmotif in subsequent art literature – in which he
reports that Buonarroti creates figures of nine, ten or even twelve heads high,
searching only for the overall grace in the artistic creation, because in
matter of the proportion, ‘it is necessary to have the compass in the eyes and
not in the hand, because the hands *work* and the eyes *judge*’. Advocating the
principle of grace, consistency of artistic creation, and the artist’s own
judgement, Buonarroti therefore disregards the canon of *eight* heads
comprising the male figure established by Vitruvio, implicitly expressing a
relation with the classical proto-type based on empathy and intimate
understanding of its form, rather than on a rational adherence to a rule based
on a number– an approach he replicates in his architecture. Buonarroti’s
surviving copies after classical statues can be counted on one hand, such as a
series of reproducing the torso of an antique Venus, probably made in
preparation for one of the female figures in the Medici Chapel. His free
relationship with the Antique emerges from many of his drawings, for instance
the Beckoning Youth, loosely inspired by the Apollo del Belvedere. Buonarroti evokes
the pose and aspect of the celebrated statue, but turns it into something new,
where the hint of movement of the original is dramatically accentuated and
balance is replaced by unstable dynamism. Sanzio and Buonarroti have been
discussed at length because their different attitudes towards classical forms
resurface constantly in Art. This polarity may be defined as assimilating the
principles of the Antique by sticking to its rules and system of proportions OR
assimilating the creative spirit of the Antique by breaking its rules. At the
risk of oversimplification we could argue that Reni and Poussin fall within the
first sphere and Rubens and Bernini in the second. It is not by chance that the
classicist credo that permeates the Italian and French academies for most of
their history elects *Sanzio* as their champion, while the eccentric and unruly
Buonarroti remains a figure more difficult to celebrate from a didactic point
of view. The Antique in Theory plays a Role in the Academic ‘Alphabet of
Drawing’. More statues emerge from the soil of Rome and those already
discovered are given new life and integrity by partial or full ‘restoration’. A
statue is usually unearthed in fragmentary states, as can be seen from the
evocative drawings of Roman collections by Heemskerck. Whether philologically
correct or not, the practice of restoration allows one to copy the naked male in
its entirety rather than in mutilated fragments. Celebrated restorations
included those of the Apollo del Belvedere and the Laooconte by MONTORSI on the
recommendation of Buonarroti. Among the excavated statues three must be
mentioned as they immediately became constant references for artists. The place
of honour goes to the Ercole Farnese. It provides an ideal model for the
muscular male at rest and copies after it become ubiquitous in artists’
work-shops and academies. The other two statues are discovered together in and
immediately entered the collection of the Villa Medici in Rome: I LOTTATORI,
representing two males in a complexly interlocked ‘syntagma’ or group.
I LOTTATORI are used often in later academies as a source for posing TWO LIVE
MODELS – SYNTAGMA DISEGNATO DALLA VITA (see cats 16 and 27b); and the Niobe Group
whose suffering expressions would be widely referenced as a source for drama
and pathos, for instance by Reni, among others. In time, a standard set of
ideal types (to use Weber’s term) begins to take shape, thanks to the diffusion
of bronze and plaster casts and, especially, of prints. After the loose sheets
of Raimondi, Dente and Veneziano, more systematic enterprises are launched.
Collections such as SPECVLVM ROMANÆ MAGNIFICENTIÆ by Lafréry or ANTIQVARVM STATVARVM URBIS ROMAE by
Cavalieri, play a crucial role in the wide dissemination of a canonical
selection of classical statues, thus attracting more and more artists to Rome
to study the originals. This tendency towards codification also affects the
relationship of artists and art writers with the Antique, as the imitation of
classical statuary is given theoretical underpinning. At the same time the
Antique acquires a clear role within the curricula of the emerging academies as
a teaching tool, systemising a practice that, as we have seen, is already
widely diffused within Renaissance workshops. Art theory in general goes
through a process of radical systematization. Many artists and writers feel that
rules are required to give ‘ars’ an intellectual frame-work that would lift its
status from ‘mechanical’ to ‘liberal’ arts – (as in M. A. Magister in Arts, MA
before DPhil Lit Hum) an ambition dating back to the writings of Alberti. Most
theoreticians and artists believe that a codified precept is also vital to
inculcating the ‘correct’ principle in an age that they considered to be one of
artistic corruption. Armenini speaks explicitly of the ‘pain’ that masters like
Sanzio and Buonarroti would have felt in seeing the art of his own time. And
Armenini, Lomazzo, Zuccaro and others, notwithstanding differences among them,
consider that the rule can be inferred from study of the best examples of the
great Renaissance masters and those of antiquity. The latter especially, it was
thought, would provide with correct proportions and anatomy and inculcate the ideal
standard. A foundation of this theoretical effort is provided by the
assimilation of Artistotle’s Poetica, the first reliable Latin translation of
which circulated widely. Since no comprehensive treatise on painting had [Cavalieri,
The Laocoön, engraving plate 4, from Antiquarum statuarum urbis Romae, Rome,
1585] readily found in his work. For him the best ancient sculptures embodied
the supreme quality of ‘grazia’, which cannot be attained by study but only by
judgement – a concept that remains one of the central tenets of Italian art
theory. Vasari’s Lives also proclaims the superiority of the Central Italian
School of painting, based on ‘disegno’ to the Venetian one, based on ‘colore’,
initiating a debate over the respective merits of the two traditions. Although
traditionally the Venetians aim at imitating nature directly on the canvas
through colour and therefore are less attached to the laborious practice of
drawing after the antique, classical statuary plays a role in the formation of
many Venetian painters, and casts are used in their workshops. Tintoretto, for
instance, owns a large collection of casts and reductions of ancient and modern
sculptures. The importance attached to the study of the Antique by all the
Italian schools of painting is shown by the fact that one of the very first
consistent formulations of the principle of the ‘imitation’ of classical
statuary is to be found in Dolce’s “Dialogo della pittura.” Dolce’s “Dialogo
della pittura” contains the strongest defence of the Venetian tradition against
the Vasarian point of view. It also contains, if not fully developed, most of
the fundamental elements of the artistic theory. Dolce clearly specifies that
in the search for the perfect proportion of the naked male, the artist should ‘*partly*
imitate nature’ and partly ‘the best marbles and bronzes of the antient [sic]
masters’, because through them he can ‘correct’ this or that defects of this or
that living form – the live model -- as they are ‘examples of perfect beauty’, an
ideal version of Nature. But in Dolce we find also a warning against regarding
the copying of ancient sculpture as an end in itself rather than the means by
which an artist creates his own ideal artistic forms – something already
stressed by Vasari in his Lives. An ancient statue is to be ‘imitated’ with
‘judgement’, to avoid turning a pleasing trait into a formula or, worse, an eccentricity.
This warning would be repeated frequently, notably, y Rubens and Bernini and it
could lead to open opposition to copying the Antique. Similar advice appears in
Armenini’s Veri Precetti della Pittura. Armenini’s “VERI PRECETTI DELLA
PITTURA” is quite systematic and offers one of the most articulated approaches
towards the role of the Antique in the artist’s education. Many of Armenini’s ideas
and much of his advice would becomes standard practice. In the chapter on
‘disegno’, Armenini states that to acquire the ‘bella’ or ‘buona
[The Farnese Hercules, Roman copy of the 3rd century ad of a Greek
original of the 4th century bc, marble, 317 cm (h), MUSEO ARCHEOLOGICO
NAZIONALE, Napoli, inv. 6001. I
LOTTATORI. Roman copy of a Greek original of the 3rd century bc, marble, 89 cm
(h), Uffizi, Firenze, inv. 216. The Niobe, possibly Roman copy of a Greek
original of the 4th century bc, marble, 228 cm (h), Uffizi, Firenze, inv. 294] survived
from antiquity, the Poetics, together with Orazio’s Ars Poetica, offer a
theoretical structure that could be transferred from the literary disciplines
to visual art – justified by Orazio’s celebrated motto ‘ut pictura poesis’, ‘as
is painting so is poetry’. More relevant from our perspective, Aristotle’s
Poetica provides, in several passages, an authoritative ancient source for the
principle that art may ‘perfect’ nature to create an ideal model – a concept
implied but never clearly defined by Alberti – and which constituted one of the
most solid bases for the classicist doctrine of art. This Aristotelian trend
had a counter-balance in a neo-Platonic tendency in which ideal beauty does not
derive from Nature but is infused in the mind of the artist by God, two approaches
that at times were combined by the same author, such as Lomazzo or Zuccaro. But
whether of Aristotelian or Platonic origins, or indeed a combination of both,
the principle of imitation of those works of art that had already accomplished
idealisation – particularly the antique statue – becomes one of the leitmotifs
of Italian art theory (v. Dorfles, “Natura e Artificio”). The most important
writer on art of the Renaissance, Vasari, firmly establishes the primacy of
disegno, design or drawing, as the intellectual part of art, the ‘parent’ of
the three sister arts of architecture, sculpture and painting. In his Lives of
the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors and Architects drawing is described as the
physical, sensible manifestation EX-pression of an idea, encompassing ‘all the
objects in nature’. Although he does not provide a theoretical case for drawing
after the Antique, nonetheless passages referring to the impact that classical
statues have on artists are maniera’ of the great Renaissance masters,
the student needs fully to assimilate through drawing those principles of the
ancient statues that those Renaissance masters themselves copy, as they embody
the best of Nature. Armenini’s importance lies also in the fact that he is the
first to list the specific statues and reliefs to copy and to praise the
didactic use of plaster casts, of which he saw many collections throughout
Italy – testifying to a practice that must already have been quite widespread. The
imitation of the Antique also becomes a central tenet of the earliest art
academies. Deriving their name from the ancient philosophical Academy (Hekademos)
of Plato, an ‘accademia’ is intended as a venue for the cultivation of the
practical, but even more, the intellectual aspects of art. Its role is conceived
in parallel and not in opposition to the artist’s workshop, where the
apprentices is still supposed to learn art’s technical rudiments. One of the
first mentions of the word ‘accademia’ in conjunction with art is found in the
first object shown in this catalogue, the Accademia del Belvedere run by
BANDINELLI eengraved by Veneziano. This depicts an ‘accademia’ centred on
disegno set up in the Belvedere, where Leo X gives him quarters. It shows
artists learning how to draw the naked male and it is significant that the
focus of their attention is a series of statuettes modelled after a classical
proto-type. This, and the later view of Bandinelli’s Florentine Academy, are
the very first examples of an iconographical genre: the image of an accademia,
workshop, studio, often created with a programmatic or didactic purpose,
showing pupils learning the different branches of art or going through
different stages in their education. Just glancing at the works illustrated in the
catalogue shows how the presence of the Antique becomes progressively relevant.
The centrality of disegno and the naked male is firmly stressed by the
institutional, more organised, ‘accademia’.. The first, and a model for all
future academies, was the aptly named ‘Accademia del Disegno,’ – or ‘dei
disegnanti’ -- founded in Florence by Cosimo de’ Medici on the initiative of
Vasari. Its aim is to emancipate the artist from guild control, and to affirm
the intellectual status of the art.The two most significant academies that
followed before the are ‘Gl’Incamminati’, or ‘Accademia degl’incamminati,
founded in Bologna by the three Carraccis, and the Accademia di San Luca in
Rome, relaunched and given a didactic curriculum under Zuccaro. These academies
– although there were significant differences among them, and often huge
discrepancies between the theory they supported and the everyday teaching they
practised – proposes a system that could give a broad education to aspiring
artists. This usually included the study of mathematics, geometry and
perspective, to teach the student how to represent space rationally; and of
anatomy, the antique and the live model, -- DISEGNO DALL’ANTICO, DISEGNO DALLA
VITA -- to teach him to master the correct depiction of the naked male. We can
see an idealised version of early academic practices in a complex and
fascinating drawing by Stradano,
engraved by Cort, where the stress is on anatomy, the Antique and on the three
arts of disegno. Similar practices are illustrated in an etching by Alberti
showing a structured curriculum of studies involving anatomical dissection,
geometry, the Antique and architectural drawing. These studies codify artistic
exercises (and give a bad name to ‘academic’) that had been current from the
early Renaissance onwards but important new teaching structures were
introduced. These include a rotating academic staff, a competition and a prize,
and an organised debate on artistic questions and they are supported especially
by the regulations of the Accademia di San Luca. Although we do not know to
what extent and how effectively these new structures functioned in the first
decades of the Roman institution, they soon spread to other academies, becoming
the model for the Académie Royale in Paris. All these institutions strongly
advocate the copy of the Antique, both in plaster reproduction or in the
original. The Accademia del Disegno supervises drawing from the Antique both in
the Academy and in the workshops where apprentices were trained. It also owns a
‘libreria’, which includes drawings, models of statues, architectural plans,
and ancient sculpture, all used as teaching tools. The Accademia di San Luca
lists the copying after the Antique in its first statutes and receives a donation of casts, while numerous
plasters – such as reliefs from Trajan’s Column, the bust and the head of the
Laocoonte, one of the Horse Tamers of the Quirinal, the Torso del Belvedere and
many other entire or in fragments – appear in its early inventories. The
importance accorded by Zuccaro, the founder of the Roman Academy’s curriculum,
to the thorough study of Rome’s most famous statues, emerges from his wonderful
drawing of his brother, Taddeo sketching the Laocoonte at the Belvedere. The
series to which this drawing belongs, produced around the same time as the
foundation of the Accademia di San Luca, illustrates the ideal training that am
artist should follow: imitation of the Antique and the works of Renaissance
masters, such as Sanzio’s Stanze and Loggie, Buonarroti’s Last Judgment and
Polidoro’s painted façades. Another sketch, by a Zuccaro follower, depicts Zuccaro
himself in the Accademia, surrounded by students sketching after the cast of an
ancient torso. The Carracci academy too, although primarily focused on
life-drawin (DISEGNO DALLA VITA), advocates study of the Antique and we know
that Carracci makes his collection of drawings, medals and casts available for
students. Early academies also codified a teaching model, defined as the
‘alphabet of drawing’ or the ‘ABC’ method, which, in a less regulated form, was
already established within work-shops and which would have a long-lasting
impact. This contributes significantly to giving the Antique a fixed place
within teaching curricula. Modelled on the learning of grammar, the ‘alphabet’ is
a sequence that encourage students to advance from elementary unity to complex
whole and from the simple and similar to the varied and different. The scheme
once again originated in Alberti, who advises a painter to follow the method
practiced by teachers of writing, from the alphabet to whole words. So the beginner
is supposed to learn first ‘the outlines of surfaces, then the way in which
surfaces are joined together, and after that the forms of all the members
individually; and they should commit to memory all the differences that can
exist in those members’. He recommends the same process for the study of the
male anatomy: starting from the bones, proceeding to the sinews and muscles,
and finally to the flesh and skin. An iincreased stress on the naked male means
that pupils often start from the eye, then assembles different parts of the
body in ever more intricate combinations, and finally reaches the whole naked
male, via the study of ancient sculpture AND the live model. Benvenuto [Workshop
of Federico Zuccaro, A Group of Artists Copying a Sculpture, c. 1600, 190 × 264
mm, pen, black and red chalk on prepared paper, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan,
inv. F 261 inf. n. 128, 125] Cellini reports that starting with the eye is the
common practice and advised, like Alberti, a similar process for the study of
anatomy. This process is reflected in the various images of early academies or
studios, such as Stradanus’ The Practice of the Visual Arts, where one pupil is
shown drawing an eye on his sheet, or Alberti’s Painters’ Academy where an artist
is presenting a similar drawing to his master. A parallel progression led the
student from simplicity to complexity in the depiction of outlines, surfaces,
chiaroscuro, poses and expressions: from copying objects in the same medium and
in two dimensions, to the imitation of three-dimensional figure. The process
usually starts with copying a drawing or print, then paintings, first in
grisaille and then in colour, moving onto ancient sculpture [PRELIMINARY to the
LIVE MODEL – drawn from life], either originals or casts, and, FINALLY, to the
live model. This progression, already outlined by Vinci in his treatise on
painting, and advocated also by Vasari, is codified by Armenini, the first to
list all its stages while simultaneously assigning a central role to classical
statuary in providing a model for ideal forms. Armenini delineates both the
progression from the eye to the whole body and from a drawing or print to the
live model (via the preliminary of the ‘drawn from the antique’, and warned the reader not to subvert this
order. The earliest academies applied this method and Zuccaro’s statutes of the
Accademia di San Luca, which are the most explicit, specifically mentioned the
‘alphabet’ or ‘ABC’ of drawing. It becomes standard practice in academies. The aim is, as most writers reiterated, to
assimilate this repertory of forms through constant study and the exercise of
memory, as to finally be able to create a form from imagination – for a
mythological heroic figure -- *independent* of any object of imitation
(IMITATUM). The ‘alphabet of drawing’ has its physical manifestation in the
publication of the drawing-book, conceived in the environment of the Carracci
academy, such as Fialetti’s “Il vero modo”. The diffusion of such manuals contributed
enormously to spreading the knowledge of the didactic role of the Antique to
artists who makes a grand tour to Rome a compulsory part of his education. Odoardo
Fialetti, Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar tutte le parti et membra del
corpo humano, Venice, c. 1608, etching, 100 × 140 mm, The Bellinheger Collection].
Rome establishes herself as the preeminent centre for anyone
eager to assimilate the principle of Italian art. The first significant artist,
and one of the greatest of all to do the tour to the Belvedere with the specific
educational intent, is Dürer. Durer spends the years in Rome. The impact of
classical statuary is evident in many of his prints and paintings, for example,
in his “Adam and Eve”. But the largest number of artists to travel to Rome
originates from the Low Countries. Coming from a powerful and influential
pictorial tradition that privileged an analytical representation of nature, and
having received little or no exposure to classical antiquity in their training,
Netherlandish artists seek especially to learn how to master the naked male
through the lessons of the Antique and the works of Sanzio and Buonarroti. Rome
offers also the opportunity of training in one of its many workshops and the
appealing possibility of benefiting from the system of commissions. Indeed the
‘fiamminghi’, as they are called in Rome, gain an increasing number of
commissions, eventually, in their turn, influencing the Roman art world. Some
of them stayed for long periods or moved permanently, such as Stradanus, Giambologna
– il ratto delle sabine, il mcurio di Medici -- or Tetrode. We know about the
Roman years of many of these artists mainly thanks to Mander’s “Schilderboeck”,
the earliest systematic account of Netherlandish and Northern European
painters, based on Vasari’s “Vite”. The approach of these artists towards the
Antique could be varied and multi-faceted. Most fill their sketchbooks with
drawings that served as a collection of forms to be re-used. Others, like
Spranger, according to Van Mander, aim to assimilate the principles of
classical art to establish a repertoires of forms and an attitude towards the
naked male that could be infused in their own creations, rather than spending
too much time in the physical act of drawing. Although ‘Mabuse’ is the first
Fleming to pass time in the peninsula, it was only with Scorel that the lesson
of antiquity was transmitted, through his work-shop at Utrecht. Of his various
pupils, Heemskerck is certainly the most prolific and versatile in copying
antique statuary. Two albums from the
years he spent in Rome are preserved in Berlin. They constitute one of
the largest surviving collections of copies after the Antique and are filled
with exceptional drawings in different media and size, offering an invaluable
opportunity to categorise the many different approaches to classical statuary
that can be described as record drawings. Many are topographical views of Rome
in which Heemskerck indulges in the depiction of architectural ruins and
sculptural fragments, and which he later reuses in imaginary landscapes. Some
of his views are poetic meditations on the colossal ruins of the city, physical
reminders of the passage of time, of human grandeur and fragility, a mood he
shared with other artists, such as Herman [Heemskerck, View of the Santacroce
Statue Court, 1532–37, pen and brown ink, 136 × 213 mm, Staatliche Museen zu
Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album I,
fol. 29r] Posthumus. Other drawings are more or less accurate depictions of
classical statues in their physical locations, from the Belvedere to the Campidoglio,
to Roman private courtyards and gardens (figs 16 and 38), where the antiquities
are shown in their still fragmentary state. In numerous detailed drawings
focusing on single statues, we see Heemskerck’s different approaches to copying
the Antique and, correspondingly, the different media he employs to do so. His
drawings range from the precise pen-and-ink study, in which he faithfully
records the condition of celebrated statues, isolating the head as a physiognomic
type to a drawing where the whole statue is presented FROM DIFFERENT ANGLES, to
record the different poses and volumes of the naked male in space. He also makes
copies in which he exploits the softness of red chalk to study anatomical
details, assembling parts from different statues on the same sheet and focusing
on torsos and legs, sometimes even disregarding the face, the drapery or other
details. Finally, in yet other red chalk drawings he carefully records
decorative details from a statue or a relief. The variety of techniques
and handling deployed in these [Fig. 39. (top left) Maarten van Heemskerck,
Head of the Laocoön, 1532–36, pen and brown ink, 136 × 211 mm, Staatliche
Museen zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck
Album I, fol. 39r. Heemskerck, Two Studies of the Head of the Apollo Belvedere,
1532–36, pen and brown ink, 136 × 211 mm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin,
Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album I, fol. 36v. Heemskerck,
Three Studies of a Fragmentary Statue of a Crouching Venus in the Palazzo
Madama, 1532–36, pen and brown ink, 135 × 210 mm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin,
Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album I, fol. 06v. Heemskerck,
Studies of Three Torsos and a Leg from Classical Statues in the Casa Sassi,
1532–33, red chalk, 135 × 211 mm, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Preussischer
Kulturbesitz, Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album I, fol. 51v. Heemskerck,
The Right Foot of the So-Called ‘Colossal Genius’, 1532–33, red chalk, 135 ×
208 mm, Berlin, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz,
Kupferstichkabinett, Heemskerck Album I, fol. 65v ] copies allowed him to
find appropriate solutions to the variety of problems posed by the style and
condition of the works that he copied. The result is a stunning visual
repertory that is easy to access and use, and which would inspire him when he
returned home. Several Frenchmen also established their residence in Rome. Many
of them, such as Beatrizet, Lafréry, or Dupérac, specialise in engraved views
of the city and its ancient remains, catering to a market increasingly
fascinated by Rome’s ruins and statues. In one engraving attributed to
Beatrizet, we find a rare image of an artist in the act of copying from ancient
statuary in situ – in this case the famous colossal “Grande Bellezza” Marforio,
at that time located in the Forum now in the courtyard of the Palazzo Nuovo of
the Campidoglio. The image clearly expresses the sense of awe that one feels in
front of the grandeur of the remains of Roman classical statuary. The
fragmentary condition of so much monumental sculpture inspired thoughts about
the fragility of the human condition and the ultimate insignificance of worldly
troubles, which, as the inscription on the print remarks, the old Marforio
‘does not consider worth a single penny’. It is against this backdrop that we
must consider Goltzius’ draughtsmanly activity in Rome, where he arrived almost
certainly on the recommendation of his friend Mander, who had already been in
Italy. Goltzius was then is celebrated as an [Fig. 44. Beatrizet (attr.), An
Artist Drawing the ‘Marforio’, 1550, engraving, 370 × 432 mm, published in
Antoine Lafréry’s Speculum Romanae Magnificentiae] engraver throughout Europe.
With Mander and Haarlem he establishes an academy in Haarlem. Although we know
almost nothing about this artistic association, it must have involved
discussions about the Antique and its representation among the three friends,
who had the advantage of direct access to Heemskerck’s Roman drawings, then
owned by Cornelisz. It is therefore significant that while in Rome, Goltzius takes
an approach to classical statuary that is very different from Heemskerck’s. Goltzius
concentrates from the beginning on *thirty* of the most famous classical
statues, of which 43 drawings in total survive. Goltzius’s drawings are highly
finished and unprecedentedly detailed, carefully recording the tonal passages
on the muscles of the statues. The viewpoint is almost always close and frontal
to the statue, or exploits the most dramatic or informative angle. Most importantly,
unlike almost all of his predecessors, who fill single pages of their
sketchbooks with details from unrelated sculptures, he devotes a full page to *each*,
a practice followed by Rubens. Goltzius’s intent from the beginning is clearly
to produce a drawing that may be transformed into an engravings capable of
surpassing in precision all previously published series, and which, in
faithfully reproducing the volume of the naked male, would also demonstrate his
renowned virtuosity in handling the burin. His set is intended for a market of
connoisseurs and collectors, but it is also likely that Goltzius wishes to
provide anyone with correct and detailed images of classical statues that they
could copy during their apprenticeships. Goltzius engraves only three plates,
one of which, significantly, shows an artist at work copying the celebrated
Apollo del Belvedere. A few years after Goltzius’s tour to Rome, Rubens arrives.
He spends two prolonged periods in Rome. Rubens constitutes a special case,
being the perfect embodiment of the humanistic ideal of the artist-scholar: the
son of a wealthy Antwerp family, highly educated in the classics and socially
accomplished, Rubens arrives in Rome already equipped with a thorough
understanding of the Antique and its literary sources, a passion he cultivates throughout
his life with his circle of scholarly friends and patrons. Rubens’s approach
towards classical statuary is therefore fascinating, complex and varied.
Rubens’ appetite for the most famous ancient statues must have been stimulated
already in Antwerp through the engravings by Raimondi and his pupils and
through those in the collections published by Lafréry and De Cavalieri. When in
Rome Rubens devotes himself completely to copying this or that original with
unique thoroughness, both to exercise his draughtsmanship and to create an
immense repertory of forms, to which he refers for inspiration throughout his
life. His approach towards classical statuary istwofold. One is purely intellectual,
focused on understanding the mathematical proportions and volumes of this or
that emblematic antique which he divides into different categories according to
muscular strength, to capture the very essence of their perfection. The other is
more direct: to study the statue exhaustively in order to assimilate its formal
principle For Rubens it is not only necessary to ‘understand the antique’, but
‘to be so thoroughly possessed of this knowledge, that it may diffuse itself
everywhere’. Unlike Goltzius, Rubens studies a statue over and over again,
copying it from many, and often unusual, points of view, devoting a single page
to each. No one before Rubens shows such a painstaking interest in
understanding the formal logic of a single statue intended as a whole. Rubens’s
focus on the naked male – to learn the principles of a perfect naked male – on specificslly ‘muscular’ masculine male
statues, such the Laocoonte, the Torso del Belvedere, and the Ercole Farnese
and his choice of the most favourable points of view, may reflect the specific
advice and examples given in Lomazzo’s Trattato and in Armenini’s Veri Precetti.
But, as Dolce and Armenini had already done before him, Rubens also cautions to
focus on the form and not on the matter of the statue, to avoid the ‘smell’ in a
drawing or a creation. Rubens is aware of the danger of transferring the
characteristics and limits of a three-dimensional medium (is flesh the medium
of the live model?) into another – drawing or painting. In a section titled “De
Imitatione Statuarum” of a larger theoretical notebook that he compiles over
several years, Rubens refers to painters who ‘make no distinction between the
form and the matter -- the ‘figura’ and the flesh, with the result
that ‘instead of ‘imitating’ living flesh from the life of nature, they
only represent marble tinged with various colours’. We can see Rubens’s genius
at re-vitalising the ‘inert’ substance of the antique model as if it were a
live model to be drawn from life, by applying his principle of inventive and
transformative imitation in most of his drawings after the Antique, for which
he uses soft chalk on rough paper better to ‘re-translate’ the substance back into
the natural living flesh, as if drawn from life. This is particularly evident
in muscular figures such as the Torso del Belvedere and the Laocoonte, which he
brings back to life, to the life Virgil instilled Laocoonte with, or Aiace had.
-- adopting a dramatic angle and a diagonal that completely abandons the
static [Rubens, The Back of the Belvedere Torso, c. 1601–02, red
chalk, 395 × 260 mm, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, inv. 2002.12b] and
the academic frontal point of view of most academic drawings. This attention to
the qualities of the naked male skin and flesh, and the dynamism, pathos, and
drama that he learns mainly from classically Roman – but POST-classically
Greek] statuary is to become the main traits of his own art. In this he is following
in the footsteps of Buonarroti, who, not by chance, Rubens copied extensively,
focusing especially on the nudes of the Sistine Chapel and on his statues. Rubens
adopts a similar approach to the live model, which he often poses in attitudes
reminiscent of an antique – such as the Spinario, or the Wrestlers. Unsurprisingly,
he frequently cited the Laocoonte and the Torso, but the most recurrent is the
Spinario in the Campidoglio – even though the head is not the original one -- for
which several drawings of the complex pose made from different angles survive. The Spinario pose is already chosen by one of
the pupils of Gozzoli for this particular purpose of the antique-imitating live
model, and it remains one of the most popular, even, easiest, for posing the
live model – everyone has a thorn! -- Rubens’s drawings of the Spinario convey
the essence of Rubens’s attitude towards the ideal human form, and the
Spinario’s attitude towards his own thorn. By posing flesh as imitatiang
another substance imitating flresh, Rubens – or the artist who does this -- is
able to bypass the dangers of the ‘matter’ to focus only on the complex form and
pose of the original statue or statuary group or syntagma (think Lottatori!). Back
in Antwerp, Rubens retains until his death his drawings after the Antique,
bound together in separate books, as a distinctive part of the collection of
his house-museum, which hosted also numerous antiquities. They remain a
constant source of inspiration and they may also have been used as teaching
tools – as in the best tradition of Renaissance workshop practices – judging by
the copies deposited by his pupils in the cantoor, Rubens’s cabinet or studio.
The flux of artists coming to Rome did not cease, although most become fascinated
by the radical naturalism of Caravaggio and his followers, rather than aiming
at recreating the principles of classical art. A group of artists even develops
a successful speciality in the depiction of contemporary Roman street life and
everyday reality: a rustic tavern, a drinking scenes, brigands, street vendors,
charlatans and carnivals. The art of the ‘Bamboccianti’, so named after their
leader, Laer, dubbed ‘Bamboccio’, or ‘ugly puppet’, is fiercely criticised as a
debased form of art that deliberately chose the ‘worst’ of nature (cf. verismo,
and the customs of realistic naturalism) by the supporters of classicism and
history painting, such as Albani, Sacchi, and Rosa, as well as by the
philosophers of ‘ideal beauty’ such as Bellori. In contrast to the Dutch, among
the foreign communities in Rome, it was the French who are to take the lead in
the cause of classicism, the defence of Ideal Beauty and the copy and study of
the Antique. The contrasting attitudes of artists towards the study of art in
Rome is perfectly visualised in a canvas by Goubau, a Flemish painter
influenced by the Bamboccianti, who had been in Rome. On the right, judicious [Rubens,
Study of the Laocoön Seen from the Back, c. 1606–08, black chalk, 440 × 283 mm,
Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan, inv. 624, F 249 inf. n. 5, 11. Rubens, Study of
the Younger Son FIGLIO PIU GIOVANE of the Laocoön Seen from the Back, black
chalk, 444 × 265 mm, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan, inv. 623, F 249 inf. n. 5, 11]
artists under the supervision of a master are busy at work among imaginary
Roman ruins, copying and measuring an ancient statue or a relief, among them
the ERCOLE FARNESE; on the left the Bamboccianti indulge in the pleasures of
wine and music under the pergola of a rustic tavern. Nevertheless, this wittily
expressed opposition should not be taken too literally, as the educational and
inspirational role of classical statuary had been deeply assimilated by artists
of every inclination or aesthetic Many move between genres and artistic
currents such as the Flemish genre painter Lint, who produced many drawings
after the Antique while in Rome. Even those close to the Bamboccianti clearly
treasured the didactic role of classical statuary, as can be seen in the
depictions of workshops and artists at work by the Flemish Sweerts. The
Antique, and its didactic role in the Italian model of artistic education, also
made rapid progress in all of civilised Europe, supported by the publication of
Karel van Mander’s Schilderboeck. Knowledge was transmitted mainly through
drawings, drawing-books and plaster casts. These are used in the drawing
schools or private academies that proliferate, some of which were founded by
the same artists who had been exponents of the Bamboccianti in Rome. These
drawing schools often had to struggle against regulations by the guilds, which
remained the dominant associations for artists, dictating what goes on in a workshop
– the notable exception being the academy founded in Antwerp by royal [Goubau,
The Study of Art in Rome, 1662, oil on canvas, 132 × 165 cm, Royal Museum of
Fine Arts, Antwerp, inv. 185] decree. But despite the heavy hands of the
guilds, many thriving workshops, while accepting individual apprentices, adopt *Italian*
academic practices, such as conducting classes for groups of students, or
implementing a training programme focused on drawing and the mastery of the
human form. This often included the ‘alphabet of drawing’, as was the practice
of Rembrandt’s studio in Amsterdam, in which many students were taught
annually, and of Rubens, who, as court painter, did not have to register his
apprentices with the Antwerp guild.142 According to Van Mander, another studio
famous for its educational efficacy was that of Abraham Bloemaert in Utrecht
(see cat. 11).143 During the second half of the century, other private drawing
schools or ‘colleges’ were founded, which cater for a clientele of artists or
the dilettanti giving them the chance to draw from casts and the nude live model
alongside their studio practice. Among the most famous are those of Sweerts,
opened in Brussels and of Bisschop in The Hague. Closely connected with
workshops’ and schools’ drawing practices was the proliferation of
drawing-books and artists’ manuals. Most of them were based on the example of
Odoardo Fialetti’s Il Vero Modo and Giacomo Franco’s De excellentia et
nobilitate delineationis (1611) sometimes re- printing parts of them.147 Like
their Italian predecessors, Netherlandish drawing-books focused on the human
form, on classical statuary, and on the different stages of the academic
learning process.148 The increasing importance of 38 39 the Antique
in the Netherlands is well expressed by the various Dutch translations of
François Perrier’s Segmenta (1638) – the most successful collection of prints
after classical statues of the 17th century (fig. 57 and cat. 16, figs 3–6) –
and by the equal success of its Dutch counterpart, Jan de Bisschop’s Icones
(1668, see cat. 13), explicitly compiled as a teaching tool.149 Antique models
were also copied by young Northern artists in three dimensions, thanks to the
proliferation of casts, as shown in the frontispiece of Abraham Bloemaert’s Konstryk
Tekenboek (c. 1650) – one of the most influential draw- ing-books of the second
half of the century (see cat. 11). Many studios and drawing schools owned
collections of casts, often of famous prototypes such as the Laocoön or the
Apollo Belvedere. Inventories of the studios of Cornelis Cornelisz. van
Haarlem, Hendrik van Balen (1575–1632), and Rembrandt, for instance, testify to
their presence.150 The diffusion of casts appears explicitly in the numerous
paintings depicting young artists at work, which became popular from the middle
of the century onwards (figs 49–53, see also cats 12 and 14). These works
constitute an individual iconographical genre that probably derives from
Fialetti’s striking etching (see cat. 10), which, as we have seen, was well
known and reprinted several times in the Netherlands.151 This genre was
practised mainly by Jacob Van Oost the Elder (1601–71, 50), Wallerant Vaillant
(1623–77, 51), Balthasar Van den Bossche (1681–1715) and Michael Sweerts (fig.
52 and cat. 12), whose canvases tend to represent the ideal training curricu-
lum, where the copying of plaster casts after the Antique has the place of
honour.152 As ‘low’ genre paintings that celebrate the didactic role of the
Antique – traditionally considered to be essential for the lofty genre of
history painting rather than for scenes of daily life – they indirectly attest
to the ubiquitous penetration of classical models in all 17th-century artistic
practices. Incidentally they are also a direct visual source for the most
widely diffused typologies of classical statues in the North of Europe in the
17th century: from busts of the Apollo Belvedere (figs 18 and 50), of the
Laocoön group, both father and sons (figs 19 and 51), and of the so-called
Grimani Vitellius (fig. 52), to reduced copies of the Spinario (figs 15 and
49), the Belvedere Antinous (figs 22 and 51), the Venus de’ Medici (figs 53 and
56), and the Farnese Hercules (see 32 and cat. 14). Also frequently depicted
are busts of Niobe (see 34 and cat. 12), reduced copies of the Wrestlers (fig.
33) and the Borghese Gladiator (fig. 54). The Italian and the French Academies
in the Seventeenth Century and the Establishment of Classicism The 17th century
witnessed dramatic changes of attitude towards the study of the Antique in
terms of codification, diffusion and theoretical debate; at the same time it
saw the formulation of a style heavily dependent on classical sculp- ture,
setting the stage for the final affirmation of classicism as a pan-European
phenomenon in the following century. The selection of the most significant
antique statues, begun in the 16th century, was further refined, especially in
the cos- mopolitan antiquarian environment of Rome. Excavations continued and
some of the new discoveries immediately joined the canon of ideal models. Three
of them, in particu- lar, were ubiquitously reproduced and copied in studios
and academies: the Borghese Gladiator (fig. 54), discovered in 1611, which soon
became the preferred model for the anatomy of the muscular man in action; the
Dying Gladiator (fig. 55), first mentioned in 1623, whose complex pose could be
drawn from different angles and which offered an ideal of heroic pathos
expressed in the moment of death; and finally, the Venus de’ Medici (fig. 56),
first recorded in 1638 but possibly known in the late 16th century, which
rapidly became the most admired embodiment of the graceful female body.153 New
collections gradually replaced earlier ones and a few families succeeded in
acquiring some of the newly discovered statues that had gained canonical
status. The magnificent urban palaces and suburban villas of the Medici,
Farnese, Borghese, Ludovisi and Giustiniani attracted an increasing number of
visitors and artists, becoming privileged centres for the study of the Antique,
and family names became attached to certain statues, as the Farnese Hercules or
the Venus de’ Medici testify.154 Some of these, such as the Palazzo Farnese
(see cat. 21), and the Casino Borghese retained their status as ‘private
museums’ until the end of the 18th century. Prints continued to play a vital
role in the dissemination of images of classical statues throughout Europe.
They were produced predominantly in Rome, where, as in the 16th century, French
printmakers played a prominent role along- side Italian antiquarians and
engravers.155 Among others, the publications of François Perrier (1594–1649)
and the duo comprising the antiquarian and theoretician Giovanni Pietro Bellori
(1613–96) and the engraver Pietro Santi Bartoli (1615– 1700), offered artists
and the educated public a choice of 54. Agasias of Ephesus, Borghese Gladiator,
c. 100 bc, marble, 199 cm (h), Louvre, Paris, inv. Ma 527 55. Dying Gladiator,
Roman copy of a Pergamene original of the 3rd century bc, marble, 93 cm (h),
Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. MC0747 49. (top left) Jan ter Borch, The Drawing
Lesson, 1634, oil on canvas, 120 × 159 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, inv.
SK-A-1331 50. (top right) Jacob van Oost the Elder, The Painter’s Studio, 1666,
oil on canvas, 111.5 × 150.5 cm, Groeningenmuseum, Bruges, inv. 0000.GRO0188.II
51. (bottom left) Wallerant Vaillant, The Artist’s Pupil, c. 1668, oil on
canvas, 119 × 90 cm, Bonnefantenmuseum, Maastricht, inv. 673 52. (bottom
centre) Michael Sweerts (attr.), Boy Copying a Cast of the Head of Emperor
Vitellius, c. 1658–59, oil on canvas, 49.5 × 40.6 cm, The Minneapolis Institute
of Arts, inv. 72-65 53. (bottom right) Pieter van der Werf, A Girl Drawing and
a Boy near a Statue of Venus, 1715, oil on panel, 38.5 × 29 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam,
inv. SK-A-472 40 41 the ‘best’ ancient statues and reliefs; the authority
of their selections lasted throughout the 18th century. For full-length
statues, crucial was the appearance in 1638 of Perrier’s Segmenta nobilium
signorum et statuarum (fig. 57 and cat. 16 figs 3–6), a collection of prints
which in many ways fulfils what Goltzius had intended to publish four decades
earlier (see cats 6–7).156 Offering good quality reproductions and different
points of view– three for the Farnese Hercules and four for the Borghese
Gladiator, for instance – Perrier’s images were essential in focusing the
attention of artists on a selected number of models considered exemplary in
anatomy, proportions, poses and expressions. Reprinted and trans- lated several
times, the success of the Segmenta was immense and it was used in studios and
academies as a teaching tool for almost two centuries, as we have seen earlier
in the Netherlands. As late as 1820 John Flaxman was still recom- mending the
use of Perrier to his students at the Royal Academy.157 Such publications were
the results of the antiquarian and theoretical interests of a French-Italian
classicist milieu that flourished in the first half of the century in Rome.158
Innumerable French artists now spent time in the city, filling sketchbooks with
copies after the Antique and Renaissance 56. Venus de’ Medici, Greek or Roman
copy of the 1st century bc of a Greek original of the 4th century bc, marble,
153 cm (h), Uizi, Florence, inv. 224 57. François Perrier, Venus de’Medici,
plate 81, from Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum, Rome, 1638 masters, and
devoting increasing space to the study of Raphael.159 Two of the most relevant
figures in this context were the great French painter Nicolas Poussin
(1594–1665), who resided in Rome between 1624 and 1665 (with a brief sojourn in
France in 1640–42), and his friend and biographer Giovanni Pietro Bellori,
possibly the most influential art writer of the century, who deserves to be
called the pro- tagonist in the theoretical formulation of classicism. Of
similar significance was the scholar, antiquarian, collector and patron
Cassiano dal Pozzo (1588–1657), a friend of both Poussin and Bellori – and
patron of the former – who assem- bled a vast encyclopaedic collection of
drawings divided by themes, a ‘Paper Museum’, with sections devoted to classi-
cal antiquity commissioned from several contemporary artists.160 Classicism
found probably its clearest and most influen- tial formulations in a landmark
discourse composed by Bellori and delivered in 1664, the year before Poussin’s
death, in the Roman Accademia di San Luca: the ‘Idea of the painter, the
sculptor and the architect, selected from the beauties of Nature, superior to
Nature’ (see Appendix, no. 11). Bellori’s theoretical statement, published as a
prologue to his Vite in 1672, was to become enormously influential in defining
and disseminating the central tenets of the classicist ideal (see cat. 15).161
Joining Aristotelian and neo-Platonic premises, Bellori’s Idea advocates in the
selection of the best parts of Nature according to the right judgement of the
artist in order to create ideal beauty – a concept that we have already
encountered many times. According to Bellori, the Idea had been embodied in art
at several periods of history and he traced its development according to a
scheme of peaks and descents. It took shape first and foremost in the ancient
world and was revived in modern times by Raphael, who is accorded nearly divine
status. After the decadence and excesses of Mannerism, it was revitalised by
the Bolognese Annibale Carracci (1560–1609) and by his pupils and follow- ers,
notably Domenichino (1581–1641). Their flame was kept alive in Bellori’s time
by Poussin and Carlo Maratti (1625– 1713), a protégé of Bellori, who fashioned
himself as the new Raphael and whose Academy of Drawing is the most program-
matic representation of the principles of Roman classicism (see cat. 15).
Bellori’s classicism, heir of the rich debates of the first half of the
century, can be defined as a codification and defence of an idealistic style
and of moralising history painting against the radical naturalism introduced by
Caravaggio and his followers, whose slavish dependence on Nature and choice of
low subjects were seen to undermine the intellectual premises of art. On the
other hand, Bellori also confronted the excesses and liberties of the Baroque,
whose representatives, according to him, leaned towards artificiality and
despised the ‘ancient purity’.162 Classicism in many ways was based on the
princi- ples laid down by the art theory of the second half of the 16th
century, as it shared with it a fundamental premise: the neces- sity of the
defence of what was perceived as the ideal path of art – the ‘bella maniera’ –
against contemporary artistic trends which were considered erroneous or even
noxious.163 The classicist theoretical approach further reinforced the practice
of copying: it reinstated the intellectual value of drawing while providing a
selected group of correct models to follow, with the Antique and Raphael on the
loftiest pedestal. These premises were embraced by the Italian and French
academies, and became the basis of most of the European academies of the
following century – Opie’s words to the young pupils of the Royal Academy in
1807 still reiterate their fundamental tenets. Although the debate was at times
fierce – as for instance within the Accademia di San Luca in the 1630s – a
strict division of 17th-century artists into classicist, naturalist and Baroque
categories would be arbitrary and inaccurate, as many of them moved between
currents and at times incor- porated elements of each in their own creations.
Indeed, artists of all allegiances copied, studied and took inspiration from
the Antique. We know from surviving drawings and contemporary written sources
that ‘classicist’ artists such as Annibale Carracci, Poussin and Maratti copied
antique statues (figs 58–61), yet an equal number of ‘Baroque’ 58. Annibale
Carracci, Head of Pan from the marble group of Pan and Olympos in the Farnese
Collection, 1597–98, black chalk heightened with white chalk on grey-blue
paper, 381 × 245 mm, Louvre, Paris, inv. 7193 artists, such as Rubens
(figs 45–47 and cat. 9), Pietro da Cortona (1596–1669, 62) and Bernini (figs
63–64) spent as much time in absorbing the principles of the Antique.164
Nevertheless their approaches towards the Antique could be very different.
Poussin, the intellectual and antiquarian painter par excellence, copied
hundreds of details from classical sculpture, especially reliefs and
sarcophagi, to give archaeo- logical consistency to his art, so that his
paintings would represent classical histories with the maximum of
accuracy, 42 43 59. Nicolas Poussin, Equestrian Statue of Marcus
Aurelius, c. 1630–32, pen and brown ink and brown wash, 244 × 190 mm, Musée
Condé, Chantilly, inv. AI 219; NI 264 60. Carlo Maratti, The Farnese Flora, c.
1645–70, black chalk, 294 × 159 mm, The Royal Collection, Windsor Castle, inv.
904377 61. Carlo Maratti, or Studio of, The Farnese Hercules, c. 1645–70, red
chalk, 292 × 165 mm, The Royal Collection, Windsor Castle, inv. 904382 62.
Pietro da Cortona, The Trophies of Marius, c. 1628–1632, pen, brown ink, brown
wash, heightened in white, on blue sky prepared paper, 518 × 346 mm, The Royal
Collection, Windsor Castle, inv. RL 8249 integrity and power, an approach in
several ways similar to that of Mantegna and Raphael. Bernini, arguably the
greatest 17th-century sculptor, spent his youth obsessively copying the ancient
statues in the Belvedere (see Appendix, nos 9–10) and in his old age
recommended that students of the Académie Royale in Paris begin their studies
by copying casts of the most famous classical statues before approaching Nature
(see Appendix, nos 9–10). But Bernini’s attitude towards ancient statuary was
poles apart from that of Poussin (whom he nevertheless highly admired): he
assimilated its principles in order to create his own independent forms, at
times deviating radically from the classical model – an atti- tude that we have
already seen in Michelangelo and Rubens. To develop their own style and avoid a
slavish dependency on the Antique – something already stressed by Dolce,
Armenini and Rubens (Appendix, nos 4, 6, 8) – he advised his students to
combine and alternate ‘action and contemplation’, that is to alternate their
own production with the practice of copy- ing (Appendix, no. 10). A wonderful
example that allows us to follow Bernini’s creative process of transforming of
the antique model is provided by a study of the torso of the Laocoön, the
unbalanced and twisted pose of which he then ingeniously adapted in reverse for
the complex attitude of his Daniel (figs 63–66). A recollection of the Laocoön
is further- more recognisable in Daniel’s powerful expression (fig. 66).165 A
practical outcome of the French and Italian theoretical formulation of a
classicist doctrine was the foundation in 1648 of the Académie Royale de
Peinture et de Sculpture in Paris, followed in 1666 by that of the Académie de
France in Rome – the latter intended to give prize-winning students the
opportunity to study the Antique in situ and to provide 44 Louis XIV (r.
1643–1715) with copies of classical and Ren- aissance statues.166 The
foundation of the French Académie in Paris is a turning point in the history of
the teaching of art, as its codified programme – based on Italian examples, and
especially the Roman Accademia di San Luca – would constitute the basis for the
academies that spread over the Western world in the 18th and 19th centuries. Founded
by several artists, most of whom had spent periods in Rome such as Charles Le
Brun (1619–90), the Paris Académie was supported by the monarch and candidates
could apply for admission only after they had trained in a workshop. Its
regulations aimed at full intellectual develop- ment for its students to
prepare them for the creation of the highest genre, history painting, or the
grande manière. Although its curriculum was rather loosely organised and, in
the first tw o decades of its history, fairly tolerant in its aesthetic
positions, during the 1660s the Académie was drastically reformed by the
powerful Minister and Super- intendent of Buildings Jean-Baptiste Colbert
(1619–83) and by Le Brun to become an institution in the service of the
absolutist policy of Louis XIV, with a codified version of classicism as its
official aesthetic. The rationalistic nature of French 17th-century culture
meant that the Académie conceived of art as a science that could be taught by
rules. This was explicitly stated by Le Brun in 1670,167 and efforts were
concentrated in clarifying and applying most of the precepts already devised by
the early Italian academies and theoreticians. If a student followed these
precepts correctly he – and only he, as the institution was limited to male
pupils until the late 19th century – would be able to assimilate the principles
of ideal beauty and create grand art.168 The future European success of this
regimented version of the humanistic theory of art rested exactly in its
rational nature, as a clear system of rules easy to export and replicate,
offering at the same time a safe path towards ‘true’ and universal art. Pupils
were supposed to follow the ‘alphabet of drawing’, from copying drawings, to
casts and statues, to the live model, which remained the most difficult task
and one reserved for the most advanced students. Regular lectures on geometry,
perspective and anatomy were provided. As in Federico Zuccaro’s statutes for
the Accademia di San Luca, professors rotated monthly to supervise the life
class, prizes were awarded to students and regular debates were initiated on
the principles of art – the celebrated so-called Conférences, regularly held
from 1667 onwards on the advice of Colbert, although they faltered by the end
of the century to be revived only a few decades later.169 Other aspects of the
reforms of the 1660s included the division of the drawing course into lower
classes, devoted to copying, and higher classes, for 63. Gian Lorenzo Bernini,
Study of the Torso of the Father in the Laocoön group, c. 1650–55, red chalk
heightened with white on grey paper, 369 × 250 mm, Museum der Bildenden Künste,
Leipzig, inv. 7903 64. Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Two Studies for the Statue of
‘Daniel’, c. 1655, red chalk on grey paper, 375 × 234 mm, Museum der Bildenden
Künste, Leipzig, inv. 7890 65. Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Daniel in the Lion’s Den,
c. 1655, terracotta, 41.6 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv. 2424 drawing from
the live model. Competitions were further structured to lead towards the highest
reward, the famous Grand Prix or Prix de Rome, which allowed the winners to
spend between three and five years at the Académie de France in Rome, to
complete their education and to assimilate the principles of the greatest
ancient and modern art. The official doctrine of the Paris Académie was
distilled and diffused by André Félibien (1619–95), the most promi- nent French
art theorist of the period, in his preface to the first series of Conférences
held in 1667 and published in 1668. Félibien offered a clear structure for the
hierarchy of genres that would be associated with academic painting for the
next two centuries: at the bottom was still life, followed on an ascending line
by landscape, genre painting, portraiture and finally by history painting, for
which the study of the Antique, of modern masters and of the live model were
considered necessary.170 The first Conférences reveal in their subjects and
approach the central tenets of the Parisian Académie: paintings by Raphael,
Poussin, Le Brun and the Laocoön were meticulously analysed in their parts
according to strict rules: invention, expression, composition, drawing, colour,
proportions etc. Some Conférences were devoted to specific parts of painting:
one given by Le Brun in 1668, on the ‘passions of the soul’, which was printed
posthumously and translated into several languages, constituted the basis for
the study of facial expres- sions until well into the 19th century.171 The
Antique remained one of the favourite subjects to be dissected by the
academicians. After the 1667 Conférence on the Laocoön (see Appendix, no.
12),172 praised as the ideal model for drawing and for the ‘strong expressions
of pain’,173 many more followed specifically devoted to the Farnese Hercules,
Belvedere Torso, Borghese Gladiator, and Venus de’ Medici, the ultimate
selected canon of sculptures.174 Conférences were also given on the study of
the Antique in general.175 Sébastien Bourdon’s (1616–71) Conférence sur les
proportions de la figure humaine expliquées sur l’Antique, in 1670 advised
students to fully absorb the Antique from a very early age, measure precisely
its proportions and control ‘compass in hand’ the 66. Gian Lorenzo Bernini,
Daniel in the Lion’s Den, 1655–57, marble, over life-size, Chigi Chapel, Santa
Maria del Popolo, Rome 45 live model against classical sculptures,
as they are never arbitrary – a method, according to Bourdon, approved by
Poussin.176 This extreme rationalistic approach, based on the actual
measurement of the Antique, which, as we will see, would generate opposition,
was put into practice by Gérard Audran (1640–1703), engraver and ‘conseiller’
of the Académie (Appendix, no. 13). His illustrated treatise of 1682 (figs
72–73) provided students with the carefully measured proportions of the antique
statues that they were supposed to follow and became a standard reference work
in many languages, continuously republished until 1855. While the Académie de
France in Rome must have started accumulating casts after the Antique from
early on – the inventory of 1684 lists a vast collection of statues, reliefs,
busts, etc.177 – it is not entirely clear how readily the students of the
Académie in Paris had access to casts or copies in the first decades of the
institution’s history. Bernini, in his 1665 visit, explicitly advised the
formation of a cast collection for the Parisian Académie, and some, among them
a Farnese Hercules, were ordered or donated in the following years.178 But
although students certainly copied casts already in Paris, full immersion in
the practice was reserved for the period they spent in Rome.179 ‘Make the
painters copy everything beautiful in Rome; and when they have finished, if
possible, make them do it again’ Colbert tellingly wrote in 1672 to Charles
Errard (c. 1606–9 – 1689), the first Director of the Académie de France in
Rome.180 In Rome a similar practice was encouraged in the Accademia di San
Luca, which, like its Parisian counterpart, was significantly reformed in the
1660s, perhaps a sign of the increasingly important reversal of influence, from
France to Italy. From the beginning of the presidency of Carlo Maratti in 1664,
a staged drawing curriculum, competitions and lectures were implemented and new
casts were ordered (see cat. 15).181 Some twenty years later the Accademia
received the donation of hundreds of casts of antique sculp- tures from the
studio of the sculptor and restorer Ercole Ferrata (1610–86).182 Sharing the
same values and similar curricula, in 1676 the Accademia di San Luca and the
Parisian Académie Royale were formally amalgamated and on occa- sion French
painters even became principals of San Luca – Charles Errard in 1672 and 1678,
and Charles Le Brun in 1676–77.183 But the Italians could never feel wholly
comforta- ble with the extreme rationalisation of art characteristic of so much
French theory.184 After the publication of the French Conférences, debates were
held in defence of the Vasarian tradi- tion and of the value of grace,
judgement and natural talent against the rules and the overly rational analysis
of art and the Antique by the French.185 The engraving by Nicolas Dorigny
(1658–1746) after Carlo Maratti is the most eloquent 46 visual expression of
this intellectual confrontation that con- tinued into the 1680s (cat. 15). Some
of the most doctrinal aspects of the Parisian academy also generated an
internal counteraction and the supporters of disegno, classicism and Poussin,
headed by Le Brun, were challenged by the promot- ers of Venetian colore and
Rubens, led by the artist and critic Roger de Piles (1635–1709) and by the
painter Charles de la Fosse (1636–1716). The battle between ‘Poussinisme’ and
‘Rubénisme’ – a new incarnation of the debate started more than a century
earlier by Giorgio Vasari and Lodovico Dolce – captured the imagination of the
French academic world between the end of the 17th and the first decade of the
18th centuries. The victory of the Rubénistes led the way to a freer,
anti-classicist and more painterly aesthetic and to the eventual affirmation of
the Rococo in French art.186 But the next century would also witness the
triumph of the classicist ideal, as its principles spread all over Europe. The
Antique Posed, Measured and Dissected Given the rationalistic approach of
French artists and theo- rists to the Antique – ‘compass in hand’ – it does not
come as a surprise that, during the 17th century, they actually started to
measure ancient statues in order to tabulate their pro- portions. And as well
as measuring statues they began to merge the study of anatomy with study of the
Antique to provide young students with ideal sets of muscles to copy. Such
efforts produced a series of extremely influential drawing-books filled with
fascinating and disturbing images, in which ancient bodies are covered by nets
of numbers or flayed and presented as living écorchés. In a way it was
inevitable that the study of human propor- tions applied by Alberti, Leonardo
and Dürer to living bodies 67. Peter Paul Rubens, Study of the Farnese
Hercules, c. 1602, pen and brown ink, 196 × 153 mm, The Courtauld Gallery,
Samuel Courtauld Trust, London, inv. D.1978.PG.427.v, 68. Charles Errard,
Antinous Belvedere, plate on 457 in Giovanni Pietro Bellori, Le vite de’
pittori scultori e architetti moderni, Rome, 1672 would eventually be merged
with the study of the ideal bod- ies of ancient statues, to test Vitruvius’
assertion that ancient artists worked according to a fixed canon (Appendix, no.
1). The main problem was that the canonical proportions of 5th-century bc
sculpture had been disregarded from the 3rd century bc onwards. Furthermore, as
we now know, most of the ‘perfect’ Greek statues were actually modified Roman
copies of lost originals. The measuring efforts of 17th- century art theorists
were therefore for the most part in vain, as most of the revered marbles did
not embody the principles of commensurability and overall harmonic proportion
that they believed they did. Although we have seen that Raphael had already
initiated the practice of measuring statues (fig. 27), the first to refer explicitly
to this exercise is Armenini in his 1587 De veri precetti della pittura, in
which a chapter is devoted specifically to the ‘measure of man based on the
ancient statues’.187 Rubens also devoted much attention to trying to discover
the perfect num- bers and forms of ancient statues, dividing for instance the
Farnese Hercules, the strongest type of male body, according to series of
cubes, the most solid of the perfect forms (fig. 67).188 Not surprisingly,
Poussin’s approach to the Antique in Rome was similar, and we know from Bellori
that he and the sculptor François Duquesnoy (1597–1643) ‘embarked on the study
of the beauty and proportion of statues, measuring them together, as can be
seen in the case of the one of Anti- nous’ – two illustrations of which he
published in Poussin’s life in his Vite (fig. 68).189 But the first artist to
provide accurate drawings of the most famous statues was the future founding
director of the Académie de France in Rome, Charles Errard, who, later, also
provided the measured Antinous illustrations for Bellori’s Vite (fig. 68). In
collaboration with the theorist Roland Fréart de Chambray (1606–76), and most
likely inspired by Poussin, he executed in 1640 a series of intriguing measured
red chalk drawings today preserved at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris (figs
69–71).190 Produced only two years after the publication 69.
Charles Errard, or collaborator, Measured Drawing of the Belvedere Antinous,
1640, red chalk, pencil, pen and brown ink, 430 × 280 mm, École nationale supérieure
des Beaux-Arts, Paris, inv. PC6415, no. 27 70. Charles Errard, Measured Drawing
of the Laocoön, 1640, red chalk, pen and brown ink, 430 × 280 mm, École
nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris, inv. PC6415, no. 11 71. Charles
Errard, Measured Drawing of the Venus de’Medici, 1640, red chalk, pencil, pen
and brown ink, 430 × 280 mm, École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris,
inv. PC6415, no. 28 47 of Perrier’s successful Segmenta, Errard’s
drawings were clearly intended to be published and to present young artists
with a set of certain and ideal proportions on which they could base their own
figures. A similar search for discipline was undertaken by Fréart de Chambray,
and later by other theorists, among the remains of ancient architecture, which
involved an even more intense effort to discover their ‘perfect’ proportions.
Although a few of Errard’s drawings were published in 1656 by Abraham Bosse –
the first professor of perspective of the Parisian Académie Royale – the first
successful manuals appeared in the 1680s, as a result of the theoretical
debates on the proportions of ancient statues held in the Académie during the
previous decade.191 By far the most influential was a manual we have already
encountered, Gérard Audran’s Proportions du corps humain mesurées sur les plus
belles figures de l’antiquité, published in 1683 (Appendix, no. 13). This
provided a fully ‘classicised’ drawing-book, following the ‘alphabet of
drawing’ from the measured eye, nose and mouth of the Apollo Belvedere (fig.
72), to whole canonical statues, such as the Laocoön (fig. 73). Audran’s book,
republished several times in various languages, became the model for many
similar publications that appeared during the 18th and early 19th centuries and
espoused a practice embraced by many artists. Examples from different nations
include a Dutch manual, where, fascinatingly, the Apollo Belvedere is presented
according to Vitruvian principles (fig. 74; see also 2 and Appendix, no. 1);
drawings by the sculptor Joseph Nollekens (1737–1823; 75); and measured notes
drawn by Antonio Canova over an engraving of the Apollo Belvedere from a
didactic series of prints after the Antique (fig. 76).192 In addition to being
carefully measured, antique bodies were also dissected. If classical statues
displayed perfect anat- omies, then, it was thought, they would offer an ideal
starting point for young students to study bones and muscles. Combining the
study of the Antique with that of anatomy was intended to reinforce the
familiarity of young artists with ancient canonical models, now also analysed
from the inside. Students until then had trained mainly on the immensely
influential De humani corporis fabrica, published by Andrea Vesalius in 1543,
and on the anatomical treatises that were based on it, but from the late 17th
century new ‘classicised’ manuals appeared.193 The first, Anatomia per uso et
intelligenza del disegno..., based on drawings by Errard, was published in 1691
by Bernardino Genga (1655–1720), professor of anatomy at the Académie de France
in Rome.194 Probably conceived much earlier, the set of engravings included
fascinating and somewhat morbid images of the skeletons of classical statues
(figs 77–78; although these were not eventually included in the book) and
several different views of the muscles of the strongest types of ancient
prototypes, the Laocoön, the Borghese Gladiator, the Farnese Hercules and the
Borghese Faun (figs 79–80).195 Genga and Errard’s Anatomia was a model for
several similar books which appeared in the 18th and early 19th centuries to
satisfy the needs of the increasingly classicistic curricula of European
academies. Not surprisingly, only male antiquities, and usually the most
muscular ones, were illustrated, both for reasons of decorum and also because the
74. Jacob de Wit, Measured ‘Apollo Belvedere’, plate 8 in Teekenboek der
proportien van ‘t menschelyk lighaam, Amsterdam, 1747 75. Joseph Nollekens,
Measured Drawing of the ‘Capitoline Antinous’, 1770, pen and brown ink over
traces of black chalk, 431 × 292 mm, Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, inv. DBB 1460 76.
Giovanni Volpato and Rafaello Morghen, Measured ‘Apollo Belvedere’, engraving
(with inscribed measures in pencil, red chalk, pen and brown ink by Antonio
Canova), post 1786, plate 35 in Principi del disegno. Tratti dall più
eccellenti statue antiche per il giovanni che vogliono incamminarsi nello
studio delle belle arti, Rome, 1786, Museo Civico, Bassano del Grappa, inv. B 42.69 Audran, Measured Details of the ‘Apollo Belvedere’, plate 27
in Les Proportions du corps humain mesurées sur les plus belles figures de
l’antiquité, Paris, 1683 73. Gérard Audran, Measured ‘Laocoön’, plate 1 in Les
Proportions du corps humain mesurées sur les plus belles figures de
l’antiquité, Paris, 1683 48 49 77. (above left) After
Charles Errard, The Skeleton of the ‘Laocoön’, c. 1691, engraving, 328 × 198
mm, Bibliothèque des Arts décoratifs, Paris, Album Maciet 2-4 (4) 78. (above
centre) After Charles Errard, The Skeleton of the ‘Borghese Gladiator’, c.
1691, engraving, 334 × 280 mm, Bibliothèque des Arts décoratifs, Paris, Album
Maciet 2-4 (1) 79. (above right) After Charles Errard, Anatomical Figure of the
‘Borghese Gladiator’, c. 1691, plate 51 in Bernardino Genga and Charles Errard,
Anatomia per uso et intelligenza del disegno . . ., Rome, 1691 80. (left) After
Charles Errard, Anatomical Figure of the ‘Laocoön’, c. 1691, plate 43 in
Bernardino Genga and Charles Errard, Anatomia per uso et intelligenza del
disegno . . ., Rome, 1691 male body was believed to provide more
anatomical infor- mation compared to the female one. One of the most dis-
turbingly accurate, printed in two colours to distinguish the muscles from the
bones, is the Anatomie du Gladiateur combatant ... published in 1812 by the
military surgeon Jean- Galbert Salvage (1772–1813). Although this provided a
precise anatomical analysis of the head of the Apollo Belvedere (fig. 81), its
main focus was on the anatomy of the Borghese Gladiator analysed in all its
parts (fig. 82). The accuracy of the manual’s plates made it extremely
influential throughout Europe.196 81. Nicolaï Ivanovitch Outkine after
Jean-Galbert Salvage, Muscles and Bones of the Head of the ‘Apollo Belvedere’,
engraving in two colours, plate 1 in Jean Galbert Salvage, Anatomie du
Gladiateur combatant ..., Paris, 1812 82. Jean Bosq after Jean-Galbert Salvage,
Anatomical Figure of the ‘Borghese Gladiator’, engraving in two colours, plate
6 in Jean Galbert Salvage, Anatomie du Gladiateur combatant ..., Paris, 1812 50
The stress on anatomical precision also produced a spectacu- lar
three-dimensional écorché of the Borghese Gladiator created by Salvage in 1804
and acquired as a teaching tool in 1811 by the École des Beaux-Arts, where it
remains (fig. 83).197 An earlier model, which had served as inspiration for
Salvage, was the gruesomely naturalistic écorché posed as the Dying Gladiator
(see 55) made by William Hunter (1718– 83), the professor of anatomy at the
Royal Academy of Arts in London, in collaboration with the sculptor Agostino
Carlini. Casted on the body of an executed smuggler, it was aptly Latinised as
Smugglerius.198 The Antique found its way into academic anatomical manuals for
students throughout the 19th century, and its pervasiveness was enormous,
extending even beyond Western culture. A plate with a flayed Laocoön from the
popu- lar Anatomie des formes extérieures du corps humain, published in 1845 by
Antoine-Louis-Julien Fau (fig. 85), served as inspira- tion for a popular
artists’ manual produced in Japan at the end of the century, resulting in an
extraordinary image which fuses the Western canon and the Japanese woodblock
print tradition of the Ukiyo-e (fig. 86).199 The osmosis between the Antique
and other disciplines of the academic curriculum gained ground also in the
study of the live model. We have seen that already in the 15th century it was
common practice to pose apprentices in imitation of ancient sculpture (see 14),
and great artists like Rubens often returned to this expedient (see cat. 9).
But the practice became increasingly diffused within the codified curricula of
French and Italian academies during the 17th and 18th centuries (figs 87–89).
Recommended by several 83. Jean-Galbert Salvage, Écorché of the ‘Borghese
Gladiator’, 1804, plaster, 157 cm (h), École nationale supérieure des
Beaux-Arts, Paris, inv. MU11927 84. (top left) William Pink after Agostino
Carlini, Smugglerius, c. 1775 (this copy c. 1834), painted plaster, 75.5 ×
148.6 cm, Royal Academy of Arts, London, inv. 03/1436 85. (middle left)
M. Léveillé, Anatomical Figure of the ‘Laocoön’, lithography, plate 24 in
Antoine-Louis-Julien Fau, Anatomie des formes extérieures du corps humain,
Paris, 1845 86. (middle right) Anatomical Figures of the ‘Laocoön’ and
of a Small Child, woodblock print, plate in Kawanabe Kyo-sai, Kyosai Gadan.
(bottom left) Antoine Paillet, Drawing of a Model Posing as the ‘Laocoön’,
1670, black and white chalk on brown paper, 580 × 521 mm, École nationale
supérieure des beaux-arts, Paris, inv. EBA 3098 88. (bottom centre) Giuseppe
Bottani, Drawing of a Model in the Pose of the ‘Lycean Apollo’ Type, c.
1760–70, red and white chalks on red-orange prepared paper, 423 × 270 mm,
Philadelphia Museum of Art, inv. 1978-70-197 89. (bottom right) Jacques-Luois
David, An Academic Model in the Pose of the ‘Dying Gaul’, 1780, oil on canvas,
125 × 170 cm, Musée Thomas Henry, Cherbourg, inv. MTH 835.102 51
academicians, posing the live model with the same tension and flexing of
muscles as the ancient statues encouraged students to correct their drawings
after fallible Nature against the perfection of the antique examples and to
derive universal principles from particular living models (see cats 16 and
27b).200 The Eighteenth Century and the Diffusion of the Classical Ideal The
seeds planted by 17th-century classicist theory fully blossomed during the 18th
with the affirmation of Neo- classicism in the second half of the century.
Supported by and supporting the exponential diffusion of academies – from some
nineteen in 1720 to more than 100 in 1800 – the cult of the Antique spread to
the four corners of Europe, from St Petersburg to Lisbon and beyond.201 The
‘true style’, as classicism was often called in the 18th century, was inextri-
cably linked with many of the values of Enlightenment culture: in an age in
search of order and universal principles, the appeal of the rational and
‘eternal’ ideals embodied by classical statuary proved irresistible. At the
same time they provided a useful tool for existing political powers and a for-
midable one for new authorities in search of legitimisation. The new academies
based their curricula mainly on that of Paris and Rome, and the didactic role
assigned to the Antique was physically imported through an army of plaster
casts – the ‘Apostles of good taste’ – as Denis Diderot called them, which
became the most recognisable trademark of the newly founded institutions (fig.
90).202 The progressive method of the ‘alphabet of drawing’ definitively
established itself as the basis of the training of European artists well into
the 20th century. Not necessarily followed in practice, as students often
wanted to rush to the copy of the live model, its didactic value was, in 90.
After Augustin Terwesten, The Life Academy at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in
Berlin, engraved vignette on 217 from Lorenz Beger, Thesaurus Brandenburgicus
Selectus...,3, Berlin, 1701 theory, supported by the vast majority of
academies.203 The plate illustrating the entry on ‘Drawing’ in Diderot and
D’Alembert’s epochal Encyclopédie significantly focuses on the three steps,
being followed in different media (fig. 91).204 While the French model was
spreading throughout Europe during the first half of the century, ironically
the Parisian Académie itself underwent a period of crisis. After the death of
Colbert in 1683 and of Le Brun in 1690, the royal institution became
decreasingly relevant in determining the direction of the national school of
painting. Financial constraints and the waning of royal patronage coincided
with the fact that the vital forces of French art were becoming less interested
in adhering to the precepts of the Académie. A change in taste under the
regency of Philippe d’Orléans (r. 1715–23) favoured the so-called petite
manière, a form of painting dealing with light-hearted subjects – ‘bergeries’,
‘fêtes galantes’ – against the grande manière. Partly as a conse- quence, the
traditional curriculum of the Académie, centred on the study of the human
figure to prepare for history painting, was increasingly neglected.205 But
things changed radically in 1745 with the appointment of Charles-François- Paul
Le Normant de Tournehem – the uncle of Madame de Pompadour – as Surintendant
des Bâtiments du Roi, the official protector of the Académie Royale on behalf
of the king. He initiated a reform involving the reinvigoration of royal
patronage, the re-establishment of Conférences and, more generally, a series of
initiatives aimed at re-establishing the leading role of the Académie and of
history painting in the French art world.206 The principles of Le Normant’s
reform, supported by the influential antiquarian and theorist Comte de Caylus
(1692–1765) and visualised by Charles-Joseph Natoire’s beautiful drawing (cat.
16), paved the way for the final affirmation of the grande manière in the
second half of the century, despite the continuing clamour of dissenting
voices. If Paris progressively became the centre of the modern art world, Rome
retained its status as the ‘academy’ of Europe 91. Benoît-Louis Prévost after
Charles-Nicolas Cochin the younger, A Drawing School, plate 1, illustrating the
entry ‘Dessein’ from Denis Diderot and Jean Le Ronde D’Alambert, Encyclopédie
..., Recueil de planches, sur les sciences, les art libéraux, et les arts
méchaniques ..., Paris, 1763,20 where a thriving international community of
artists congre- gated to round off their education in the physical and spirit-
ual presence of the Antique and the great Renaissance masters.207 The crucial
role that Rome occupied in 18th- century culture is evoked in the words of the
most famous art critic of the age and the champion of classicism Johann Joachim
Winckelmann (1717–68): ‘Rome’ he wrote in his letters ‘is the high school for
all the world, and I also have 208 been purified and tried in it’. Of course,
artists and travel- lers had visited the city to study its art for at least two
centu- ries, but the 18th century represented Rome’s golden age as the
traveller’s ultimate destination. The Grand Tour – as the trip to Italy and to
Rome was known – became a social and cultural phenomenon that included artists,
antiquarians, collectors and, in general, members of European elites.209 It
generated an industry of collectibles that travellers could bring back to their
homeland, and an army of original ancient statues and modern copies in all
media was exported, alongside portraits and paintings of various kinds that
would powerfully recall the time spent by their owners in the eternal city.
Among the most fascinating and systematic evocations of Rome are a series of
celebrated canvases by Giovanni Paolo Panini (1691–1765), where ‘the best of
the best’ of Roman sites and antiquities are gathered together in imaginary
galleries. In the foreground of 92, (see also cat. 20, 5) artists are busy
drawing and measuring with their compasses a selected choice of canonical
classical statues – a reminder of one of the most widespread artistic
activities in the city.210 The demands of the Grand Tour ‘industry’ also
generated a specific category of ‘marketable drawings’ after the Antique
destined to fill the ‘paper museums’ of collectors and anti- quarians all over
Europe. They were mainly produced for collectors and travellers from Britain, a
nation that became increasingly important in the study of the Antique through-
out the century. Among the most famous drawings were those produced in the
workshop of the entrepreneurial painter Francesco Ferdinandi Imperiali
(1679–1740) in the 1720s by various painters and draughtsmen – among them
Giovanni Domenico Campiglia (1692–1775; see cats 19–20) and the young Pompeo
Batoni (1708–87; 93).211 Created for the extensive collection of the
antiquarian Richard Topham 52 53 92. Giovanni Paolo
Panini, Roma Antica, 1754–57, oil on canvas, 186 × 227 cm, Staatsgalerie
Stuttgart, inv. Nr 3315 (1671–1730), Batoni’s red chalk drawings
are among the most extraordinary produced in the 18th century. With their
preci- sion, attention to detail, fidelity to the originals and frontal
viewpoint, they encapsulate many of the typical qualities of this category of
drawings. Their manner continues and devel- ops some of the characteristics
already seen in the classicist drawings of Carlo Maratti, of whom Batoni was
the natural artistic heir (figs 60–61). Growing interest in the classical past
was also supported by massive expansion in antiquarian publications, such as
the monumental Antiquité expliquée (Paris, 1719–24) by the Abbé Bernard de Montfaucon,
an illustrated encyclopaedia of the Antique for the use of the European
educated public. Artists could also benefit from an increase in printed collec-
tions of classical statues.212 Paolo Alessandro Maffei and Domenico de Rossi’s
Raccolta di Statue Antiche e Moderne (1704) set new standards of accuracy, and
it was followed by the various sumptuous volumes devoted to the antiquities of
the Grand Ducal collection in Florence and of the Capitoline Museum in Rome
(see cats 19–20). With its wealth of patrons, artistic competitions, acade-
mies and artists’ studios, many displaying collections of casts, Rome also
offered an unrivalled opportunity to learn and practice the arts of disegno.213
The classicist direction given to the Accademia di San Luca by Giovanni Pietro
Bellori and Carlo Maratti, was sanctioned by the Pope Clement XI (r. 1700–21)
who in 1702 established papal- supported competitions, the celebrated Concorsi
Clementini, which thrived especially during the second half of the century (see
cat. 20).214 Open to all nationalities, the Concorsi 93. Pompeo Batoni, Drawing
of the Ceres of Villa Casali, c. 1730, red chalk, 469 × 350 mm, Eton College
Library, Windsor, inv. Bn. 3, no. 45 were divided into three classes of
increasing difficulty, the third and lowest class being reserved for copying,
usually after the Antique (see cat. 20, 4). This reinforced, as nowhere else in
Europe, the study of classical statuary as the cornerstone of the artist’s
education, giving to Italian and foreign artists alike the chance to be
rewarded publicly in sumptuous ceremonies held in the Capitoline palaces, even
in early stages of their careers. The cosmopolitan atmos- phere of the
Accademia di San Luca is reflected in the fact that among its Principals were
several foreigners, such as the Frenchman Charles-François Poerson (elected
1714) or the Saxon Anton Raphael Mengs (1771–2) and the Austrian Anton von
Maron (1784–6). The Accademia was also open to leading women painters such as
Rosalba Carriera (1675–1757) or Elisabeth-Louise Vigée Le Brun (1755–1842),
although they were not allowed to attend meetings. Crucial for artistic
education was the opening of the Capitoline as a public museum in 1734, thanks
to the enlight- ened policy of Pope Clement XII (r. 1730–40).215 One of the
main reasons behind the papal decision was specifically to support ‘the
practice and advancement of young students of the Liberal Arts’ through the
copy of the Antique.216 An evocative vignette inserted in the Musei Capitolini
– the first sumptuously illustrated catalogue of the collection – reflects the
popularity of its cluttered rooms among artists of all nations (see cat. 20).
With the opening in the Capitoline of the Accademia del Nudo in 1754 –
specifically devoted to the study of the live model and controlled by the Acca-
demia di San Luca – the museum became a sort of ideal academy where art
students could copy concurrently from the Antique, Old Masters paintings and
the live model.217 Apart from the Capitoline and other traditional places, such
as the Belvedere Court or the aristocratic palaces where original antiquities
could be studied in situ (cat. 21), the other favoured locus for the study of
the Antique in the city was the Académie de France in Rome, which owned the
largest collection of plaster casts in Europe. Although the Académie, like its
Parisian counterpart, had gone through a troubled period in the early decades
of the century – the Prix de Rome was cancelled for lack of funds in 1706–8,
1714 and 1718–20 – its role was revamped and its practices drastically reformed
under the directorship of Nicholas Vleughels (1668–1737) between 1725 and
1737.218 The casts were redisplayed in Palazzo Mancini, the Académie’s
prestigious new location on the Corso, and integrated for didactic purposes
with the study of the live model (see cat. 16). The collection of the Académie
served as an example for similar institutions throughout Europe, as its
arrangement of many copies side- by-side was considered ideal for the
assimilation of classical forms. With the advancing neo-classical aesthetic,
their flawless white appearance was even preferred for didactic purposes above
the originals: young students could concen- trate on their purified forms,
without the signs of time shown by real antiquities. No other nation had as
many members in Rome as France, both as pensionnaires of the Académie and
permanent residents (see cats 17–18, 21).219 The long directorship of
Charles-Joseph Natoire, between 1751 and 1775, greatly devel- oped and expanded
the copying of antiquities that had been reinstated by Vleughels. But Natoire
also encouraged the creation of ‘classical’ landscapes of the Roman campagna,
following the principles established by the great 17th-century French
landscapists: Poussin, Dughet and Claude.220 Natoire and his most gifted and
prolific pupil, Hubert Robert (1733– 1808), who spent more than a decade in
Rome between 1754 and 1765, produced a series of drawings in which copy- ing in
the city’s museums and palaces is splendidly evoked (figs 94–97 and cat.
17).221 Focused in particular on the Capitoline collection, Robert’s images are
among the most fascinating products of a genre – that of the artist drawing in
situ surrounded by classical statues – that, as we know, goes back to the 16th
century (see cat. 5 and 44). Robert specialised in evocative views of the
remains of ancient Rome, with artists and wanderers lost among their crumbling
grandeur. In many ways he recaptured the spirit of wonder and meditation on the
ruins of the city expressed by 16th-century Northern artists, such as Maarten
van Heemskerck, Herman Posthumus, and Nicolas Beatrizet (fig. 44).222 Boosted
by the enthusiasm generated by the unearthing of the remains of Herculaneum and
Pompeii in 1738 and 1748, in the second half of the century the ‘true style’ of
Neo-classicism firmly established itself, spreading from the international
community in Rome to the whole of Europe. Significant figures in the
formulation of the new taste were the architect and engraver Giovanni Battista
Piranesi (1720– 78), whose lyrical etchings and engravings of ancient and
modern Rome established – and sometimes created – the image of Rome among a
European public, and the art historian Johann Joachim Winckelmann, whose
powerful descriptions of classical statues inspired generations of artists and
travellers, firmly establishing a new classicist doctrine in European taste.223
More than ever before, artists now aimed not only at assimilating the
principles of classical sculpture, but at recreating its formal aspect, as a
universal standard of perfection to which any great artist should aspire.
54 55 94. Charles-Joseph Natoire, Artists Drawing in the Inner Courtyard
of the Capitoline Museum in Rome, 1759, pen and brown ink, brown and grey wash,
white highlights over black chalk lines on tinted grey-blue paper, 300 × 450
mm, Louvre, Paris, inv. 3931381 Robert, The Draughtsman at the Capitoline
Museum, c. 1763, red chalk, 335 × 450 mm, Musée des Beaux-Arts et d’Archéologie
de Valence, inv. D. 80 96. Hubert Robert, Antiquities at the Capitoline
Museum, c. 1763, red chalk, 345 × 450 mm, Musée des Beaux-Arts et d’Archéologie
de Valence, inv. D. 81 97. Hubert Robert, The Draughtsman of the Borghese Vase,
c. 1765, red chalk, 365 × 290 mm, Musée des Beaux-Arts et d’Archéologie de
Valence, inv. D28 As Winckelmann famously stated in his Reflections
on the Painting and Sculpture of the Greeks (1755): ‘There is but one way for
the moderns to become great, and perhaps unequalled; I mean, by imitating the
ancients’ (see Appendix, no. 15). Although in 1775 new regulations for the
Académie de France in Rome stressed again the centrality in the curriculum of
study of the live model, most pupils now favoured the study of the Antique, an
evident sign of the evolution of taste towards a new radical classicism.224 Of
all the artists converging on Rome, Jacques-Louis David (1748–1825), was one of
the most prolific in making copies after the Antique.225 Leaving Paris in 1775
with the firm resolution of maintaining his independence and avoiding the
seductions of the Antique, his arrival in Rome, according to his own words,
opened his eyes.226 He started his artistic education again by spending the
next five years as a pension- naire obsessively copying from modern masters and
classical statues, reliefs and sarcophagi with an attention to detail that
recalls Poussin’s approach to antiquity (fig. 98).227 Generally speaking,
between the end of the 18th century and the beginning of the 19th, artists
copying from the Antique concentrated progressively on the outlines of statues
rather than on the modelling or the chiaroscuro, as the neo-classical aesthetic
valued the purity of the line over any other pictorial element, accentuating
the stress on disegno inaugurated by Vasari more than two centuries before. 98.
Jacques-Louis David, Drawing of a Relief with a Distraught Woman with Her Head
Thrown Back, 1775/80, pen and black ink with gray wash over black chalk, 196 ×
150 mm, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C., Patrons’ Permanent
Fund1998.105.1.bbb But coinciding with David’s residence in Rome, other
interpretations of the Antique started to emerge within a circle of artists
that included Tobias Sergel (1740–1814) and Thomas Banks (1735–1805) and which
revolved around the Swiss painter Henry Fuseli (1741–1825).228 The approach of
this ‘Poetical circle’ was utterly anti-academic and prefigures some of the
principles that would be embraced by Romantic artists a few years later. For
them ancient sculptures were embodiments of the emotions of the artists who
created them, rather than models of ideal beauty and proportional perfection.
Fuseli’s extraordinary drawing, The Artist Moved by the Grandeur of Antique
Fragments (cat. 22), which he produced immediately after leaving Rome in 1778,
perfectly expresses this more empathic and meditative relation with classical
antiquity and its lost grandeur. The attitude of Fuseli and his friends
represents a turning point in the relation of the artist with ancient statuary,
stressing the creative genius of the artist, his or her individuality and, in
general, the subjective values of art: all principles that would contribute to
the decline of the classical model in the following century. The Antique in
Britain: The eighteenth century Of the various nationalities of artists
resident in Rome during the 18th century, the British were among the most
numerous. Britain had arrived late on the international artistic stage. Until
the late 17th century, several factors, including the theological disapproval
of pagan and Catholic imagery of large sections of Protestant society, had made
Britain, outside the confined patronage of the Court, a virtual backwater in
the visual arts. There was no established national school of painting or
sculpture and no academy; painters were tied to the craft guild of the Painter
Stainers’ Company; it was illegal to import pictures for sale, and there was no
proper art market.229 However, by a century later, things had changed
radically: following the nation’s dramatic political liberalisa- tion and
economic expansion, Britain had one of the most dynamic national art schools in
Europe and a Royal Acad- emy, founded in 1768. Several hundred thousand
artworks – including a multitude of original antiquities and copies – had been
imported to adorn the urban townhouses and country mansions of the upper
classes; and London had become the centre of the international art market,
displacing Antwerp, Amsterdam and Paris.230 The new ruling class that had
emerged from the Glorious Revolution of 1688 embraced classicism, defined as
the ‘Rule of Taste’; at the same time artists started gathering to form private
academies where they could study together and where beginners could receive at
least some training, based, 56 57 of course, on the continental model,
with the copy after the Antique as one of its cornerstones.231 Many British
artists also travelled to Rome, where they participated in the Concorsi of the
Accademia di San Luca or attended the Accademia del Nudo in the Capitoline and
several built national and interna- tional reputations thanks to their success
in the city.232 In Rome, furthermore, artists encountered British travellers
and potential future patrons. Plaster casts must already have been relatively
widely available during the first half of the 18th century.233 Drawings after
classical sculptures survive by British artists who did not travel to Italy:
among them some fascinating, rough, early studies by Joseph Highmore, possibly
from casts in the Great Queen Street Academy – which operated under Sir Godfrey
Kneller and Sir James Thornhill between 1711 and 1720 – where he enrolled in
1713 (fig. 99).234 But the insular situation of the British art world, where
many painters struggled in vain to create a modern and national school and
genre of painting, plus an innate distrust of cultural models imported from the
Continent, especially France, meant that copying the Antique encountered strong
criticism. The most vociferous opponent was William Hogarth, who, as director
of the second St Martin’s Lane Academy from 1735, became increasingly hostile
to a curriculum based on the French Académie model and to history painting in
general, although, paradoxically, he demonstrated great admiration for a few
classical statues in his writings (see Appendix, no. 14).235 His war against
fashionable imported taste and didactic principles is well 99. Joseph Highmore,
Study of a Cast of the Borghese Gladiator, Seen from Behind, c. 1713, graphite,
ink and watercolour on paper, 354 × 230 mm, Tate, London, inv. T04232 expressed
by the celebrated first plate in his Analysis of Beauty, where the Antique,
anatomy and the study of proportions evocated in the centre of the composition
are surrounded by vignettes illustrating Hogarth’s own aesthetic ideas (fig.
100).236 But despite such discontented voices, fascination with the Antique
would only intensify, and educational curricula based on French or Italian
models would gradually impose themselves. In 1758, a ‘continental’ enterprise
was launched by the 3rd Duke of Richmond with the opening of a gallery attached
to his house in Whitehall ‘containing a large collec- tion of original plaister
casts from the best antique statues and busts which are now at Rome and
Florence’.237 With a curriculum based on the ‘alphabet of drawing’ and under
the directorship of the Italian painter Giovanni Battista Cipriani (1727–85)
and the sculptor Joseph Wilton (1722–1803) – the first Englishman to receive,
in 1750, the prestigious first prize of the Accademia di San Luca – the gallery
was set up specifically with the didactic purpose of training youths on the
basis of the Antique (fig. 101).238 To compensate for the absence of a national
Academy, a semi-formal system developed probably inspired by the joint model of
the Accademia di San Luca and the Capitoline, where many British artists had
worked.239 Students would have started by copying drawings, prints and parts of
the body in the private drawing school set up in 1753 by the entrepreneur and
drawing master William Shipley (1714– 1803); they would then progress to the
Duke of Richmond’s Academy when they were ready to study three-dimensional
forms; finally they would proceed to the study of the live model in the second
St Martin Lane’s Academy.240 Competi- tions were set up and the Society for the
Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce, which was founded 100.
William Hogarth, The Analysis of Beauty (Plate 1), 1753, etching and engraving,
387 × 483 mm, private collection, London 101. John Hamilton Mortimer,
Self-portrait with Joseph Wilton, and an Unknown Student Drawing at the Duke of
Richmond’s Academy, c. 1760–65, oil on canvas, 76 × 63.5 cm, Royal Academy of
Arts, London, inv. 03/970 in 1754, awarded prizes for the best drawings after
casts and copies, several of which survive in the institution’s archive (figs
102–03).241 The continental system also reached cities outside London. For
example, academies and artists’ societies were set up in Glasgow – in an image
of the Foulis Academy of Art and Design founded there in 1752 we see the familiar
presence of the Borghese Gladiator (fig. 104) – and in Liverpool (see cat.
24).242 But it was with the foundation of the Royal Academy in London in 1768
that Britain finally had a national institution with a formal curriculum based
on continental models (see cats 25–27). Directed by Sir Joshua Reynolds
(1723–92) – its first president between 1768 and 1792 – the Academy had a
teaching structure that centred on the Antique or ‘Plaister’ Academy and the
Life Academy, to which students would progress after having practised for years
on plaster casts.243 To advance from one stage to another, they had to supply a
presentation drawing showing their skills in depicting antique forms: one by
the young Turner (1775–1851), who enrolled in the Academy in 1789 as a boy of
fourteen, proba- bly belongs to this category (cat. 27a). Several evocative
images testify to the study of the growing collection of plaster casts, both in
daylight and at night (fig. 105 and cats 25–27),244 while the Life Academy is
evoked in the famous painting by Johan Zoffany (1733–1810) which shows the
first academicians in discussion around two male models – one glancing at us in
the pose of the Spinario – surrounded by familiar plaster casts of classical
and Renaissance sculpture (fig. 106). In the background, on the right, an
écorché appears among the other casts, to remind us that anatomy lessons were
delivered in the Academy by the physician William Hunter (1718–83). By bringing
together plaster casts, anatomy and the study of the live model, Zoffany’s
image declared unmistakably the Royal Academy’s affinity with continental
academic models of teaching. The two female members, Mary Moser (1744–1819) and
Angelica Kauffmann (1741–1807) are evoked through their portraits, as their
presence in the Life Academy was considered improper.245 A system of
discourses, competitions and exhibitions, complemented and completed the
teaching curriculum. The official theoretical line of the Academy, fixed in
Reynolds’ celebrated Discourses – which were delivered between 1769 and 1790 –
was a distillation of the idealistic theory of the previous centuries and
included frequent references to the Antique (see Appendix, no. 17). Reynolds’
highest praise was reserved for the Belvedere Torso, which embodied the 102.
William Peters, Study of a Cast of the ‘Borghese Gladiator’, c. 1760, pencil,
black and white chalk on coloured paper, 410 × 450 mm, Royal Society of Arts,
London, inv. PR/AR/103/14/621 103. William Peters, Study of a Cast of the
‘Callipygian Venus’, c. 1760, pencil, black and white chalk on coloured paper,
525 × 355 mm, Royal Society of Arts, London, inv. PR/AR/103/14/669
58 59 104. David Allan, The Foulis Academy of Art and
Design in Glasgow, c. 1760, engraving, 134 × 168 mm, Mitchell Library, Glasgow,
inv. GC ILL 156 105. Anonymous British School, The Antique School of the Royal
Academy at New Somerset House, c. 1780–83, oil on canvas, 110.8 x 164.1 cm,
Royal Academy of Arts, London, inv. 03/846 106. Johan Zofany, The Portraits of
the Academicians of the Royal Academy, 1771–72, oil on canvas, 100.1 × 147.5
cm, The Royal Collection, Windsor Castle ‘superlative genius’ of ancient art,
and this judgement is reflected in the official iconography of the Royal
Academy, as the Torso appeared, significantly below the word ‘Study’, on the
silver medals awarded in the Academy’s competitions (see cat. 27a).246 The
muscular fragment reappears as well in one of the female allegories of
Invention, Composition, Design and Colour, commissioned by the Royal Academy from
Angelica Kauffman in 1778 to decorate the ceiling of the Academy’s new Council
Chamber and to provide a visual manifesto for Reynolds’ theory of art (fig.
107).247 Showing her wit and erudition, Kauffman’s Design is a significant
image, as she took the traditional personification of Disegno, depicted as male
(the word is masculine in Italian), and transformed it into a woman copying the
ideal male body – thereby asserting the right of women to study the Antique and
pursue a traditional artistic career. Although increasingly questioned by
anatomists and by a growing number of artists, plaster casts were used in the
Academy’s curriculum well into the 19th century and beyond. In London the
didactic role of original sculptures and casts was also exploited outside
official institutions. This was the case of the antiquities assembled by the
influential antiquar- ian and collector Charles Townley (1737–1805) at his
house on 7 Park Street, which became a sort of alternative academy where
artists, amateurs – and also women – could study the statues he had imported
from Italy (cat. 28).248 Another private space set up with the specific
intention of training young architects in the study of the Antique was the
house- academy established by Sir John Soane (1754–1837) at No. 13 Lincoln’s
Inn Fields (cat. 29). In the labyrinthine spaces of Soane’s interiors, which
were constantly enlarged to house 107. Angelica Kaufman, Design, 1778–80, oil
on canvas, 130 × 150.3 cm, Royal Academy of Arts, London, inv. 03/1129 his
growing collections, he obsessively juxtaposed paintings, architectural
fragments, copies of celebrated classical statues, drawings and objects of all
sorts.249 Architecture, sculpture and painting were seamlessly integrated to
create a whole and to express the qualities of ‘variety and intricacy’,
advocated by Reynolds in his 13th Discourse (1786). This variety was intended
to stimulate the imagination of Soane’s students – in 1806 he was appointed the
Royal Academy’s Professor of Architecture – and to invite would-be architects
not to limit themselves but to train in the three sister arts, as recommended
by Vitruvius.250 Academic training continued as students gathered to copy the
Antique in the newly built galleries of the British Museum,251 but, as the 19th
century progressed, its authority faded dramatically as young artists looked
increasingly to the modern world for their inspiration. Dissenting Voices and
Seeds of Decline The linear evolution of the classical ideal from the early
Renaissance to the beginning of the 19th century was in reality punctuated by
several opposing voices. But none of them, with rare exceptions, ever
questioned the greatness and authority of classical art. What was at times
disputed was the didactic value of copying from the Antique or the slavish
dependence on its forms demonstrated by some of the most dogmatic devotees of
classicism. We have seen that even in the 16th century, art critics like
Vasari, Dolce and Armenini had warned against excessive dependence on classical
forms and had advocated an independent and creative approach based on the
artist’s own judgement. Rubens and Bernini too had warned against the ‘smell of
stone’ in painting or psycho- logical dependence on the model. This balanced
approach to the Antique would become a leitmotif among later genera- tions of
art theorists. Furthermore, artistic traditions outside Central Italy had
always demonstrated a good dose of scepticism towards the dependence of the
Florentine and Roman schools on the forms and ideals embodied by classical
statuary. One of the most intelligent expressions of this attitude is the
famous woodcut by Nicolò Boldrini, almost certainly after an original drawing
by Titian, in which Laocoön and his sons are transformed into three monkeys and
set in a bucolic landscape (fig. 108).252 In this complex image Titian, one of
the greatest creative geniuses of the Renaissance, who him- self had a profound
and fruitful relationship with the Antique, was presumably issuing an ironic
statement against the faithful artistic imitation of the classical models – a
behav- iour similar to that of mimicking monkeys. 108. Nicolò Boldrini after
Titian, Caricature of the Laocoön, c. 1540–50, woodcut, 267 × 403 mm, private
collection In the 17th century the pernicious effect on painting from
too-slavish imitation of sculptural forms would be summa- rised by the
Bolognese art theorist Carlo Cesare Malvasia (1616–93) with the specific
neologism ‘statuino’ or ‘statue- like’ (see cats 9 and 15).253 But during the
17th and 18th centuries even the most outspoken critics of the perfection of
the Antique, such as the champion of colore versus disegno Roger de Piles, or
the defender of a modern and independent artistic language like Hogarth, always
demonstrated great admiration for classical statues, especially in terms of
their proportions (see Appendix, no. 14).254 According to Bellori, the only
great master who showed no interest at all in them was the ultra-naturalist
Caravaggio. In a famous passage of his Vite, the champion of classicism
reported that Caravaggio expressed ‘disdain for the superb marbles of the
ancients and the paintings of Raphael’ because he had decided to take ‘nature
alone for the object of his brush’. ‘Thus’, Bellori continues, ‘when he was
shown the most famous statues of Phidias and Glycon so that he might base his
studies on them, his only response was to gesture toward a crowd of people,
indicating that nature had provided him with masters enough’.255 But this
anecdote must not be taken too literally, as it certainly contains Bellori’s
defence of idealism against the dangers of the unselective imitation of Nature,
as repre- sented by Caravaggio and his followers. In fact, although it is not
immediately obvious, Caravaggio had a profound under- standing of antique forms,
and was deeply conscious of High Renaissance prototypes by Michelangelo (his
namesake) and by Raphael. Even if Bellori’s account of Caravaggio had been
accurate, such a radical attitude would have to be considered an exception in
the long period covered here. In the 18th century criticism of the academic
curriculum, in particular that of the Parisian Académie, and the art that it
produced, increased. But, once again, two of its sternest 60
61 critics, Diderot and David, had an immense admiration for classical
statuary and Diderot’s attack was directed at the codified and repetitive
nature of academic practices, in particular the drawing lessons, and at the
slavish dependence on the Antique at the expense of Nature of most of his
contemporaries, not at classical models as such (see Appen- dix, no. 16).256
Significantly David, who played a crucial role in the closure of the Parisian
Académie in 1793 during the French Revolution, would become the hero of the
refounded École des Beaux-Arts in the 19th century. More significant criticism
came from the students forced to copy casts for sessions on end. The great
French painter Jean-Siméon Chardin recalled the frustration that many artists
must have felt by being forced to follow the oppressive ‘alphabet of drawing’,
as powerfully evoked in his recollections (see also cat. 26): We begin to draw
eyes, mouths, noses and ears after patterns, then feet and hands. After having
crouched over our portfolios for a long time, we’re placed in front of the
Hercules or the Torso, and you’ve never seen such tears as those shed over the
Satyr, the Gladiator, the Medici Venus, and the Antinous . Then, after having spent entire days and
even nights by lamplight, in front of an immobile, inanimate nature, we’re
presented with living nature, and suddenly the work of all preceding years
seems reduced to nothing.257 But even the painter of still-lifes and domestic
genre scenes Chardin recognised the greatness of the original statues. The
appeal of the forms and principles of the Antique was still supreme within an
aesthetic system – the humanistic theory of art – that placed the
representation of mankind and its most noble behaviours at the centre of the
artistic mission, and this was true even for painters, like Chardin, who did
not abide by the academic hierarchy of genres. The real beginning of the
decline of the authority of the Antique started when these premises began to be
challenged by artists who felt at odds with a conception of art that they
perceived as increasingly inadequate. Romanticism landed a first, but
eventually fatal, blow by challenging the rationalistic, idealistic and
supposedly ‘universal’ principles of classicism, in the name of subjective
emotion and individ- ual genius. The drastic changes imposed by industrialisation
and urbanisation accelerated the process. Opie’s outline of what constitutes
art, with which this essay began – a pedantic and codified version of Reynolds’
aesthetic – came to be perceived as increasingly irrelevant by students exposed
to urban life in London, Paris or any other modern city, as the words of the
painter James Northcote (1746–1831) in 1826 clearly express (see Appendix, no.
19). But if various ‘progres- sive’ avant-gardes rejected more decisively the
principles of classicism and academic art, one need only remember that artistic
education remained almost everywhere based on the traditional curriculum and
that casts were used in academies and art schools until a few decades ago. Some
of the greatest modern painters, such as Cézanne, Degas, Van Gogh and Picasso,
spent portions of their youth copying plaster casts. And, as the last part of
this exhibition shows (cats 32, 34–35), with mass-production casts became ever
more available to wider audiences, including women and the bourgeoisie,
entering the realm of the private home, often in a reduced format. But an
assault on the canonical status of many of the most famous sculptures also came
from another ‘academic’ direction, as a new archaeological precision recognised
them as more or less accurate Roman copies of Greek originals. If art education
remained solidly structured around the traditional curriculum, becoming more
and more conserva- tive, the creative forces of European art placed themselves
firmly outside the academic system, and principles of ideal imitation would
become progressively irrelevant. An image that perfectly visualises the dawn of
the new aesthetic era, and an ideal conclusion to our journey, is a painting
produced by Thomas Couture as a satire against the Realist fashion of the
mid-19th century (fig. 109) – a preparatory study for which is in the Katrin
Bellinger collection.258 Couture, who ran a successful studio in Paris,
described his own painting in his Methodes et Entretiens d’Atelier published in
1867: I am depicting the interior of a studio of our time; it has nothing in
common with the studios of earlier periods, in which you could see fragments of
the finest antiquities. At one time, you could see the head of the Laocoön, the
feet of the Gladiator, the Venus de Milo, and among the prints covering the
walls there were Raphael’s Stanze and Poussin’s Sacraments and landscapes. But
thanks to artistic progress, I have very little to show because
the gods have changed. The Laocoön has been replaced by a cabbage, the feet of
the Gladiator by a candle holder covered with tallow or by a shoe . As for the painter , he is a studious artist, fervent, a
visionary of the new religion. He copies what? It’s quite simple – a pig’s head
– and as a base what does he choose? That’s less simple, the head of Olympian
Jupiter.259 Couture’s image, wherein a once revered antique frag- ment of the
Olympian god, Jupiter, has been relegated to a mere stool and the object of
study is now the severed head of a pig, encapsulates the decline of the Antique
in the 19th century and the shift of interest from the ‘ideal’ to the ‘real’.
Little did Couture kn0w that in a few decades not only the traditional role of
imitation would be subverted, but that the principle of imitation itself – formulated
by Alberti four hundred years before – would be questioned in favour of
expressive or abstract values, leaving even less space for the previously
revered Laocoön, Borghese Gladiator and the Venus de Milo. The Antique
continued its life in the 20th century in many, often unexpected ways: quoted,
subverted and deconstructed by many avant-garde artists; in the official art of
totalitarian regimes; in the ironic and playful, but often shallow game of
post-modernism; and even, one may say, in much of the aesthetic of fashion
advertisement. The relation of the classical model and ideal with modernity is
a story that still needs to be written fully and would be a fascinating subject
for another exhibition. 109. Thomas Couture, La Peinture Réaliste, 1865, oil on
panel, 56 × 45 cm, National Gallery of Ireland, Dublin. Hoare 1809, 11. See
also Opie 1809,3–52. The italics are the author’s. On the Renaissance or
humanistic theory of art good overviews are: Lee 1967; Schlosser Magnino 1967;
Blunt 1978; Williams 1997; Barasch 2000,1. Anthologies of primary sources in
English translation are: Gilbert 1980; Gilmore Holt 1981–82; Harrison, Wood and
Gaiger 2000. Alberti 1972. See also M. Kemp’s introduction, in Alberti
1991,1–29. Although initially circulating only in manuscript form, Alberti’s
treatise had an immense impact on artists and successive art theoreticians. The
first Latin (Basel, 1540) and Italian (Venice, 1547) editions, and subsequent
ones, influenced the earliest academies such as Vasari’s Accademia del Disegno,
founded in 1563. The first French translation (Paris 1651) took shape in the
environment of the French Académie Royale, founded just three years before
(1648). The first English translation (London, 1726) was motivated by the
aspirations of English artists towards the foundation of a national academy
based on continental standards. Innumerable transla- tions and editions
contributed to the diffusion of Albertian principles well into the 19th
century. See Alberti 1991,23–24. Alberti 1972, 53 (book 1, chap. 18). Alberti
quotes Protagoras, probably through Diogenes Laertius, De Vitis ...
philosophorum, 9.51: Alberti 1991, 53, note 11. On the sources and structure of
De Pictura see especially Spencer 1957 and Wright 1984. Alberti 1972, 97 (book
3, chap. 55). Ibid., 101 (book 3, chap. 58). Ibid., 99 (book 3, chap. 55).
Ibid., 99 (book 3, chap. 56). Albertis’s sources are Cicero, De inventione,
2.1.1–3 and Pliny, Naturalis Historia, 35.36 (with differences in detail).
Alberti 1972, 75 (book 2, chap. 36). See also Alberti 1988, 156 (book 6, chap.
2) and301–09 (book 9, chaps 5–6), esp. 303. On the theory of proportions see
Panofsky 1955; R. Klein’s introduction to ‘De Symmetria’ in Gaurico 1969, 76–91;
Gerlach 1990. On Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man see Kemp 2006, 71–136; Salvi 2012,
with previous bibliography. Other ancient surviving sources on the Canonical
ideal are Cicero, Brutus, esp. 69–70, 296; Pliny, Naturalis Historia, 34.55;
Galen’s treatises, esp. De 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 Placitis
Hippocratis et Platonis, 5, and De Temperamentis, 1.9; Quintilian, Institutio
Oratoria, esp. 5.12.21 and 12.10.3-9; Vitruvius’ De Architectura, 3.1. For
Alberti’s concept of historia, see Alberti 1972, 77–83 (chaps 39–42). The
clearest definition of history painting according to the academies of the 17th
and 18th centuries is provided by Félibien 1668, Preface (not paginated). The
Codex Coburgensis is preserved in the Kunstsammlungen der Veste Coburg: see
Wrede and Harprath 1986; Davis 1989. Cassiano dal Pozzo’s Paper Museum is
divided between several collections but mainly concen- trated in the Royal
Collection, Windsor Castle and the British Museum, London: see Herklotz 1999;
Claridge and Dodero forthcoming. Macandrew 1978; Connor Bulman 2006; Windsor
2013. London and Rome 1996–97, 257–69; Bignamini and Hornsby 2010. General
introductions to drawing techniques in the Renaissance and beyond are Joannides
1983, 11–31; Bambach 1999, esp. 33–80; Ames Lewis 2000a; Petherbridge 2010;
London and Florence 2010–11. See Ames-Lewis 2000b, 36–37. Recent general
introductions to drawing after the Antique and the training of young artists in
the 15th century include Rome 1988a; Ames-Lewis 2000b, 35–60, 109–40; Jestaz
2000–01; Chapman 2010–11, 46–60. More focused on the 16th century is Barkan
1999. Haskell and Penny 1981, 252–55, no. 55 (Marcus Aurelius), 308–10, no. 78
(Spinario), 167–69, no. 16 (Camillus), 136–41, no. 3 (Horse Tamers); Buddensieg
1983; Nesselrath 1988; Rome 1988a, 232–38 (Marcus Aurelius); Paris 2000–01, 200–25
and 417–20, nos 221–24 (Spinario); Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 223–25, no. 176
(Marcus Aurelius), 254–56, no. 203 (Spinario), 192–93, no. 192 (Camillus),
172–75, no. 125 (Horse Tamers). Dacos 1969; Morel 1997; Miller 1999. Alberti
calls the relief of a sarcophagus in Rome representing the death of Meleager a
historia, specifically praising it as a source for the compositio: see Alberti
1972, 74–75 (chap. 37). Cavallaro 1988b; Cavallaro 1988c; Scalabroni 1988.
Cavallaro 1988b; Scalabroni 1988; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, passim. On Brunelleschi and Donatello’s Roman trip see the famous account by
Antonio di Giannozzo Manetti: Manetti 1970, 53–57. See also Vasari’s
anecdote of Donatello producing a pen drawing after a sarcophagus that he saw
in Cortona on his way back from Rome to Florence: Bettarini and Barocchi
1966–87,3, 151–52. See also Micheli 1983, 93. On the drawings after the Antique
produced in the workshops of Gentile of Pisanello see: Degenhart and Schmitt
1960; Cavallaro 1988a; Degenhart and Schmitt 1996, 81–117; Paris, 1996,
Appendix IX, ‘Le “Carnet de voyage dessins sur parchemin”’, 465–67; Cavallaro
2005. 26 Rome 1988a, 95–96, no. 24 (A. Cavallaro); Paris 1996, 180–81, no. 100.
27 See Rome 1988a, 158–59, no. 51, see also 155–56, no. 49; Bober and
Rubinstein 2010, 87, no. 38. 28 Wegner 1966, 88–89, no. 228; Bober and
Rubinstein 2010, 86–87, no. 38. 29 Weiss 1969. 30 London and New York 1992, 445–48,
no. 145 (D. Ekserdjian); Paris 2008–09b, 378–79, no. 159 (C. Elam); Bober and
Rubinstein 2010, 207, no. 158iii (158c). 31 Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 207–08,
no. 158iii. 32 Alberti 1972, 80–81 (chap. 41). 33 See Lightbown 1986, 140–53,
424–33; Elam 2008–09. 34 For the drawing after the Marcus Aurelius see Rome
1988a, 232–33, no. 80 (A. Nesselrath); Rome 2005, 263, II.10.7, 267–68, no.
II.10.7 (A. Nesselrath). For the drawing after the Horse Tamers see Rome 1988a,
211–12, no. 61 (A. Nesselrath); Paris 1996, 153–54, no. 84; Rome 2005, 334, III.8.1,
338–39, no. III.8.1 (A. Cavallaro). 35 On the fame of their nudity see the
contemporary comments by Angelo Decembrio in his De Politia litteraria, written
in the central decades of the 15th century: Baxandall 1963, 312. For other
mentions in contemporary written sources see Nesselrath 1988, 196–97. 36 Nesselrath
1988, 197, 61; Cole Ahl 1996, 6, pl. 1; Ames-Lewis 2000b, 120, 57; Cavallaro
2005, 330; London and Florence 2010–11, 118–19, no. 14 (M.M. Rook). On Gozzoli
and the Antique see Pasti 1988. 37 For a notable exception see Gozzoli’s
faithful drawing of a fragmentary classical Venus: Pasti 1988, 137, 38;
Ames-Lewis 2000b, 121, 59. 38 For a general overview see Weiss 1969, 180–202;
Ames-Lewis 2000b, 52–60, 79–85. 39 Gaurico 1969, 62–63; Gaurico 1999, 142–43,
providing a less accurate translation. 40 Cennini 1933,2, 123–31. 41 Fiocco
1958–59; Lightbown 1986, 18; Favaretto 1999. On Ghiberti’s col- lection of
casts see Ames-Lewis 2000b, 81, with previous bibliography. 42 Ames-Lewis 1995.
43
Fusco 1982; Ames-Lewis 2000b, 52–55. 44 Ragghianti and Dalli Regoli 1975;
Ames-Lewis 2000a, 91–123; Forlani- Tempesti 1994. 45 Ames-Lewis 1995, 394, 397, 10. For the practice see Schwartz 2000–01.
46 For an overview see Nesselrath 1984–86. Lists of sketchbooks are provided in
Nesselrath 1993, 225–48 and Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 473–96. 47 The first
printed edition of Biondo’s Roma Instaurata was published in Rome in 1471:
Weiss 1969, esp. 59–104. 48 On Michelangelo’s and Raphael’s attitude towards
the Antique the bibliogra- phy is vast. For Michelangelo good surveys are
Agosti and Farinella 1987 (pp. 12–13, note 3, with the most exhaustive
bibliography to date); Florence 1987; Haarlem and London 2005–06, 58–68; Parisi
Presicce 2014. On Raphael: Becatti 1968; Jones and Penny 1983, 175–210; Burns
1984 (p. 399, footnote 2, with exhaustive bibliography to date); Nesselrath
1984; Dacos 1986. 49
Clark 1969b; Marani 2003–04; Marani 2007. 50 Leonardo 1956,1, 51, no. 77. 51
Ibid.,1, 45, no. 59, 64, no. 112. 52 Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87,6, 21. On other sources on the para- gone between Michelangelo and the ancients
see Florence 1987, 107–08. 53 Elam 1992; Florence 1992; Joannides
1993; Baldini 1999–2000; Paolucci 2014. 54 Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87,6, 9–12;
Condivi 1998, 10–11; Condivi 1999, 10. 55 Knab, Mitsch
and Oberhuber 1984, 51–54; Ferrino Padgen 2000. 56 See Franzoni 1984–86;
Cavallaro 2007; Christians 2010. A list of collec- tions with essential
bibliography is providedalso in Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 497–507. 57 For the
Nile and the Tiber see Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 112–13, no. 65. 58 The Apollo
Belvedere was discovered in 1489, the Laocoön in 1506, the Cleopatra in the
first decade of the 16th century, the Hercules Commodus in 1507, the Tiber in
1512 and Nile probably in 1513: see Haskell and Penny 1981, respec- tively 148–51,
no. 8, 243–47, no. 52, 184–87, no. 24, 188–89, no. 25, 310–11, no. 79, 272–73,
no. 65; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, respectively 76–77, no. 28, 164–68, no. 122,
125–26, no. 79, 180–81, no. 131, 113–14, no. 66, 114–15, no. 67. The discovery
date of the Venus Felix is not known, but it was placed in the Belvedere
Courtyard in 1509: Haskell and Penny 1981, 323–25, no. 87; Bober and Rubinstein
2010, 66–67, no. 16. For the Belvedere Courtyard see Brummer 1970; Winner,
Andreae and Pietrangeli 1998. The first mention of the Belvedere
Antinous-Hermes is in 1527 and it was placed in the Belvedere Courtyard by
1545; the Belvedere Torso is recorded from 1432 and by the middle of the 16th
century it was displayed in the Courtyard: see Haskell and Penny 1981,
respectively 141–43, no. 4 and 311–14, no. 80; Bober and Rubinstein 2010,
respectively 62, no. 10 and 181–84, no. 132. The first mention of
Michelangelo’s praise of the Torso is in Aldrovandi 1556, 121. For a selection
of other primary sources see Barocchi 1962,4, 2100–03; Agosti and Farinella
1987, 43–44. For the Torso as ‘School of Michelangelo’ see Haskell and Penny
1981, 313. Schwinn 1973, 24–37. Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87,6, 108. Bober
and Rubinstein 2010, 126, no. 79. Joannides 1983, 192, no. 240r; Knab, Mitsch
and Oberhuber 1984, 615, no. 375. In this drawing Raphael also references
Michelangelo’s Sistine Adam. Golzio 1971, 38–40, 72–73; Nesselrath 1984. The
original Italian is in Camesasca 1994, 257–322 (esp. 290–98); Shearman 2003, 500–45.
For an English translation, see Holt 1981–86,1, 289–96. See also Frommel, Ray
and Tafuri 1984, 437, no. 3.5.1. (H. Burns and H. Nesselrath). Nesselrath 1982,
357, 37; Frommel, Ray and Tafuri 1984, 422, no. 3.2.10 (A. Nesselrath); Jaffé
1994, 187, no. 315 617*. For the few other surviving Raphael drawings after
Roman antiquities see Frommel, Ray and Tafuri 1984, 438, no. 3.5.3 (A.
Nesselrath). Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 172–75, no. 125. This consideration is
already in Jones and Penny 1983, 205. The practice of measuring classical
statues would become widespread from the 17th century onwards: see 46–49 in the
present volume. A good selection is in Mantua and Vienna 1999. Check also Bober
and Rubinstein 2010, 473–96. Oberhuber 1978; Mantua and Vienna 1999; Viljoen
2001; Pon 2004. Boissard 1597–1602,1, 12–13, translated by Bober and Rubinstein
2010, 165. According to a letter by Francesco da Sangallo of 1567, Michel-
angelo and Giuliano da Sangallo were sent by the Pope to witness and comment
upon the unearthing of the Laocoön on the Esquiline in 1506: Fea 1790–1836,1, cccxxix–cccxxxi,
letter XVI. Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87,6, 109. An opinion then appropri-
ated by Vasari himself in the introduction to his chapter on Sculpture:
Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87,1, 84–86. This was repeated later by many
authors see for instance Lomazzo 1584, 332, reprinted in Lomazzo 1973–74,2, 288.
Wilde 1953, 79–80, nos 43–44, pls lxx–lxxi; Agosti and Farinella 1987, 33–36,
figs 11–14; Tolnay 1975–80,2, 51–53, nos 230–34; Florence 2002, 150–51, nos 2–5
(P. Joannides); Haarlem and London 2005–06, 64–66. Wilde 1953, 9–10, no. 4, pl.
vi; Tolnay 1975–80,1, 58–59, no. 48; Haarlem and London 2005–06, 88–89, 285,
no. 13. On the restoration of classical statues, see Rossi Pinelli 1984–86;
Howard 1990; Pasquier 2000–01a. Specifically on Montorsoli’s restorations:
Haskell and Penny 1981, 148, 246; Vetter 1995; Nesselrath 1998b; Winner 1998;
Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 77, 165. See Haskell and Penny 1981, 229–32, no. 46;
Gasparri 2009–10,3, 17–20, no. 1. On the Wrestlers see Haskell and Penny 1981, 337–39,
no. 94; Cecchi and Gasparri 2009, 62–63, no. 50 (71). For the Niobe Group see
Haskell and Penny 1981, 274–79, no. 66; Cecchi and Gasparri 2009, 316–26, nos
596 (1251) (1–14). On Guido Reni using the Niobe Group as a source for the
expression of many of his figures see Bellori 1976, 529. See Haskell and Penny
1981, 16–22. Haskell and Penny 1981, 16–22. On Lafréry see Chicago 2007–08. On
Cavalieri see Pizzimano 2001. See Lee 1967, esp. 3–16; Blunt 1978, esp. 137–59;
Barasch 2000,1, 203–309. Armenini 1587, 136–37 (book 2, chap. 11). Lee 1967, 7,
note 23. See also Weinberg 1961, 361–423. The first commentary appeared only in
1548 and the first Italian translation in 1549. Horace, Ars Poetica, 361. See
Lee 1967, esp. 3–9. Aristotle, Poetics, see esp. 9; 15.11; 25.1–2; 25.26–28.
Lomazzo 1590, see esp. chap. XXVI; Zuccaro 1607. On this see Lee 1967, 13–14;
Panofsky 1968, esp. 85–99; Blunt 1978, 137–59. Also in Bettarini and Barocchi
1966–87,1, 110. The definition of Disegno was added only to the second edition
of the Lives in 1568. On Vasari and the Antique see Barocchi 1958; Cristofani
1985. Puttfarken 1991; Rosand 1997, 10–24. Walters 2014, 57. Whitaker 1997. See
for instance Vasari’s comments in the lives of Andrea Mantegna and Battista
Franco: Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, respectively 3, 549–50 and vol 5, 459–61.
Armenini 1587, see esp. 59–60 (book I, chap. 8), 86–89 (book II, chap. 3). See
also Lomazzo’s treatment of the Antique: Lomazzo 1584, 481 (book VI, chap. 64).
General surveys about the development of European academies include Pevsner
1940; Goldstein 1996. See also Levy 1984; Olmstead Tonelli 1984; Boschloo 1989.
On images of academies see Kutschera-Woborsky 1919; Pevsner 1940, passim; Roman
1984. On the Florentine Accademia del Disegno see Pevsner 1940, 42–55;
Goldstein 1975; Dempsey 1980; Wa ́zbin ́ski 1987; Barzman 1989; Barzman 2000.
On the Carracci Academy see Dempsey 1980; Goldstein 1988, esp. 49– 88; Dempsey 1989;
Feigenbaum 1993; Robertson 2009–10. On the Accademia di San Luca the
bibliography is vast. On its early history see Pevsner 1940, 55–66; Pietrangeli
1974; Lukehart 2009. On the teaching in the first decades of the Accademia see
Roccasecca 2009. On Alberti’s print see Roccasecca 2009, 133. Olmstead Tonelli
1984. Alberti 1604, esp. 2–15. Jack Ward 1972, 17–18; Olmstead Tonelli 1984, 96–97.
On the donation of the Salvioni collection of casts in 1598 see Missirini 1823,
73. On the inventories see Lukehart 2009, Appendix 7, esp. 368–69, 371–73,
379–80. On the drawing see Bora 1976, 125, no. 126. Malvasia 1678, 1, 378;
Goldstein 1988, esp. 49–50. On this see Meder 1978, 1, 217–95; Amornpichetkul
1984; Bleeke- Byrne 1984; Roman 1984, 91; Bolten 1985, 243. Alberti 1972, 97
(book 3, chap. 55). Alberti 1972, 75 (book 2, chap. 36). Cellini 1731, 156–59.
Leonardo 1956, 1, 45, chaps 59–61, and esp. 64, chap. 112; Bettarini and
Barocchi 1966–87, 1, 112; Armenini 1587, 51–59, esp. 57 (book 1, chap. 7); See
Bleeke-Byrne 1984. Armenini 1587, see esp. 86 (book 2, chap. 3). The necessity
of exercising one’s memory recurs in Alberti (Alberti 1972, 99, book 3, chap.
55); Leonardo (Leonardo 1956, 1, 47, chaps 65–66); Vasari (Bettarini and
Barocchi 1966–87, 1, 114–15); Cellini (Cellini 1731, 157); and Armenini
(Armenini 1587, 53, book 1, chap. 7). Gombrich 1960; Rosand 1970; Maugeri 1982;
Amornpichetkul 1984; Bolten 1985. On Dürer in Italy see Rome 2007. Dacos 1995; Meijer 1995; Dacos 1997; Dacos 2001. Van Mander 1994-99, 1, 342–45 (fols 271r–v). See Meijer 1995, 50, note
18. Dacos 1995, 19–20; Dacos 2001, 23–34. Hülsen and Egger 1913–16; Veldman
1977; Dacos 2001, 35–44; Bartsch 2012; Christian 2012; Veldman 2012. On
Beatrizet see Bury 1996; on Lafréry see Chicago 2007–08; on Dupérac see Lurin
2009. For the print attributed to Beatrizet see Paris 2000–01, 378–79, no. 184
(C. Scailliérez). On the Marforio see Haskell and Penny 1981, 258–59, no. 57;
Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 110–11, no. 64. ‘I disagi e li
affanni tutti del mondo non stima un quattrino’. On the
so-called Haarlem Academy see Van Thiel 1999, 59–90. Veldman 2012, 21, with
previous bibliography. Reznicek On Rubens in Rome and his approach to the
Antique see esp. Stechow 1968; Jaffé 1977, 79–84; Muller 1982; Van der Meulen
1994–95, 1, 41–81; Muller 2004, 18–28; London 2005–06, 88–111. Jaffé 1977, 79;
Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 42, note 6. Copies of Lafréry’s Speculum Romanae
Magnificentiae and De Cavalieri’s Antiquarum statuarum urbis Romae, are listed
in Rubens’ son Albert’s library: Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 42, note 6. It is
most likely that they were originally in Peter Paul’s possession, although we
do not know whether he acquired them before, during or after his Italian years.
See Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 69–74. Armenini 1587, see esp. 59–60 (book I,
chap. 8), 86–89 (book II, chap. 3). On the ultimate Aristotelian character of
this principle see Muller 1982. See also Cody 2013. On Rubens’ handwritten
Notebook, lost in a fire in Paris in 1720, but known through several
transcriptions and partial publications see Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, esp. 71,
note 11 and 77–78, note 44, with previous bibliography; Jaffé and Bradley
2005–06; Jaffé 2010. On the drawing after the Torso see Van der Meulen 1994–95,
1, 70–71, 2, 56–59, nos 37–39; New York 2005a, 140–44, no. 34. On the Laocoön
drawings see: Van der Meulen 1994–95, 2, 98, no. 81, 3, 153 (father), 2, 103–04,
no. 93, 3, 164 (son); London 2005– 06, 90–91, nos 24 (son), 25 (father); Bora
2013. The question of whether he copied the original Laocoön in Rome, or a cast
derived from it, possibly Federico Borromeo’s in Milan, remains open: see Van
der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 48; London 2005–06, 90–91, no. 25. Muller 2004, 22;
Edinburgh 2002, 43–46, nos 8–14; Wood 2011, 1, 129–241; Cody 2013. Van der
Meulen 1994–95, 1, 80–81. Muller 2004, 22. On Rubens’ collection see Antwerp
2004, with previous bibliography. Jaffé 1977, 80; Healy 2004. On the
Bamboccianti see Briganti, Trezzani and Laureati 1983; Cologne and Utrecht
1991–92; Rome and Paris 2014–15. On the fierce criticism by artists see
Malvasia 1678, 2, 267 (Sacchi), 268–69 (Albani); Cesareo 1892, 1, 223–55
(Rosa); Castiglione 2014–15. On Bellori’s condemna- tion
see Bellori 1976, 16. On Goubau see Briganti, Trezzani and Laureati 1983, 295–99.
On the painting see Paris 2000–01, 382–83, no. 188 (J. Foucart); Cappel- letti
2014–15, 48–50. Vlieghe 1979. On other Dutch artists copying the Antique in
Rome in the 17th century see Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 35–36. Already at the
beginning of the 17th century Karel Van Mander explicitly laments the poor
state of the visual arts in the Netherlands, blaming the ‘shameful laws and
narrow rules’ by which in nearly all cities save Rome ‘the noble art of
painting has been turned into a guild’: Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 264–65 (fol.
251v). See also Bleeke-Byrne 1984. On the Antwerp Academy see Pevsner 1940, 126–29;
Van Looij 1989. See Emmens 1968, 154–59; Bleeke-Byrne 1984, 30, 38, notes
76–77. Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 448–49 (fol. 297v); Bolten 1985, 248. De Klerk
1989. Bolten 1985, 248–50. For Bisschop’s school see Van Gelder 1972, 11. Bolten
1985. Bolten 1985, 119, 131, 133–34, 141, 143, 153, 157, 188–207, 243–56;
Walters 2009, 1, 79. Bolten 1985, 159–60. Also many Dutch theoretical treatises
on the art of painting and drawing insisted on the human form and on the stages
of the learning process. For instance William Goeree’s influential Inleydinge
tot de al-gemeene Teycken-Konst, Middelburgh, 1668, revised and reprinted many
times, lays out the five stages of artistic training: copy of prints, drawings,
paintings, plaster casts and the life model (pp. 31–37). See Bleeke- Byrne
1984, 34 and note 45; De Klerk 1989, 284. On Perrier’s diffusion in the
Netherlands see Bolten 1985, 257–58; Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 51–52; Van der
Meulen 1994–95, 76. For Van Haarlem’s 1639 inventory see Van Thiel 1965, 123,
128; Van Thiel 1999, 84, and Appendix II, 254–255, 257, 270–71, 273. For van
Balen’s 1635 and 1656 inventories, see Duverger 1984–2009, 4, 200–11. For
Rembrandt’s 1656 bankruptcy inventory see Strauss and Van der Meulen 1979, 349–88.
For Rembrandt’s use of statues, casts and models, see Gyllenhaal 2008. See also
cat. 23 in this catalogue, note 18. For the use of plaster casts in 17th- and
18th-century artists’ studios in Antwerp and Brussels, see Lock 2010. Also
collections of original antiquities were formed in the 17th century, especially
in the Southern Netherlands and in Antwerp: Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 35–50,
esp. 35, note 65. 64 65 151 For a copy in reverse, dated 1639, see Bolten
1985, 133–34, and 138, fig.a. 152 On Jan ter Boch’s painting (fig. 49) see
Paris 2000–01, 401–02, no. 207 (J. Foucart). On Van Oost the Elder’s painting
(fig. 50), see Antwerp 2008, 77, no. 20 (S. Janssens). On Vaillant’s painting
(fig. 51), see MacLaren 1991, 1, 440, note 8; Amsterdam 1997, 349, 2. On the
painting attrib- uted to Sweert (fig. 52) see Waddingham 1976–77; Amsterdam
1997, 348–52, under no. 74; Paris 2000–01, 400–01, no. 206 (J. Foucart);
Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 134–36, no. 40 (J. Clifton), where the painting is
attributed to Wallerant Vaillant. On Balthasar Van den Bossche’s paintings of
artists’ workshops see Mai 1987–88; Paris 2000–01, 402–03, no. 208 (J.-R.
Gaborit and J.-P. Cuzin); Lock 2010. 153 For the Borghese Gladiator see Haskell
and Penny 1981, 221–24, no. 43; Paris 2000–01, no. 1, 150–51 (L. Laugier);
Pasquier 2000–01c. For the Dying Gladiator see Haskell and Penny 1981, 224–27,
no. 44; Mattei 1987; La Rocca and Parisi Presicce 2010, 428–35. For the Venus
de’ Medici, see Haskell and Penny 1981, 325–28, no. 88; Cecchi and Gasparri
2009, 74–75, no. 64 (137). 154 See Haskell and Penny 1981 esp. 23–30. On the
Medici collection of classical sculptures see Cecchi and Gaspari 2009. On the
Farnese’s see Gasparri 2007. On the Borghese’s: Rome 2011–12; on the
Ludovisi’s: Rome 1992–93; on the Giustiniani’s Rome 2001–02. 155 Haskell
and Penny 1981, 16–22; Coquery 2000; Picozzi 2000. 156 Picozzi 2000;
Laveissière 2011; Di Cosmo 2013; Fatticcioni 2013. 157 Haskell and Penny 1981, 21; Goldstein 1996, 144; Coquery 2000, 43–44.
On Perrier’s success in the Netherlands see Bolten 1985, 257–58; Van Gelder and
Jost 1985, 51–52; Van der Meulen 1994–95, 76. 158 Boyer 2000; Montanari 2000;
Rome 2000a; Bonfait 2002; Bayard 2010; Bayard and Fumagalli 2011. 159
Bertolotti 1886; Bousquet 1980; Coquery 2000. 160 Herklotz 1999; see also the
ongoing catalogue raisonné of Cassiano dal Pozzo’s Paper Museum: http://warburg.sas.ac.uk/research/projects/
cassiano 161 For the text of Bellori’s Idea see Bellori 1976, 13–25, and for an
English translation see Bellori 2005, 55–65. On it see Mahon 1947, esp. 109–
54, 242–43; Panofsky 1968, 103–11; Bellori 1976, esp. XXIX–XL; Barasch 2000, 1,
315–22; Cropper 2000. 162 Bellori 1976, 299. 163 See Barasch 2000, 1, 310-72. 164
Bellori mentions many of these artists devoting time and efforts in the copying
of celebrated classical statuary, such as the Farnese Hercules, the Belvedere
Torso, the Niobe Group, the Borghese Gladiator: Bellori 1976, 75, 90–91
(Annibale Carracci), 529–30 (Guido Reni), 625 (Carlo Maratti). For Rubens,
Bernini and Cortona see Bellori 1976, XXXI. For Annibale Carracci and the
Antique see also Weston-Lewis 1992. For his drawing (fig. 58) see Washington
D.C. 1999–2000, 177, no. 50 (G. Feigenbaum). For Poussin and the Antique the
literature is vast: see Bull 1997; Bayard and Fumagalli 2011; Henry 2011, with
previous literature. For his drawing (fig. 59) see Rosenberg and Prat 1994, 1, 312–13,
no. 161. For Maratti’s drawings (figs 60–61) see Blunt and Cooke 1960, 63, nos
378, 380. On Pietro da Cortona and the Antique see Fusconi 1997–98. Some of his
drawings after the Antique were commissioned for the Paper Museum of Cassiano
dal Pozzo. On the drawing (fig. 62) see Rome 1997–98, 71, no. 2.4 (G. Fusconi).
165 Wittkower 1963; Princeton, Cleveland and elsewhere 1981–82, 159–73; New
York 2012–13, 234–38, no. 25. 166 Pevsner 1940, 82–114; Goldstein 1996, 40–45. On the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture in Paris see Vitet 1861;
Montaiglon 1875–92; Hargove 1990; Tours and Toulouse 2000; Michel 2012. On the Académie de France in Rome see Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912;
Lapauze 1924; Henry 2010–11; Coquery 2013, 173–219, with previous bibliography.
167 Montaiglon 1875–92, 1, 346. 168 Women were admitted to the Académie, then
named École des Beaux- Arts, only in 1896 and allowed to enrol for the Prix de
Rome in 1903: Goldstein 1996, 61. 169 Montaiglon 1875–92, 1, 315–17. 170
Félibien 1668, Preface (not paginated). 171 Le Brun 1698. On it see Montagu
1994. 172 Félibien 1668, 28–40; Lichtenstein and Michel 2006–12, 1.1, 127–35.
173 Félibien 1668, Preface (not paginated). 174 Lichtenstein and Michel
2006–12, see esp. vols 1-2, passim. 175 Lichtenstein and Michel Lichtenstein and Michel 2006–12, 1.1, 374–77.
See also Goldstein 1996, 150. 177 Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 1, 129–32.
178 Montaiglon 1875–92, 1, 293 (for a Venus donated by Chantelou in 1665), 300,
330–31 (for the cast of the Farnese Hercules ordered in 1666 and delivered in
1668), 366 (for several casts after ancient reliefs and statues copied for the
Académie from the Royal collection on the order of Colbert). 179 See Foster
1998; Schnapper 2000 and Macsotay 2010. 180 Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 1,
36. 181 Goldstein 1978, esp. 2–5. 182 Golzio 1935. 183 Boyer 1950, 117;
Goldstein 1970; Bousquet 1980, 110–11; Goldstein 1996, 45–46. 184 Mahon 1947, 188–89.
185 Missirini 1823, 145–46 (chap. XCI); Mahon 1947, 189; Goldstein 1996, 46.
186 Teyssèdre 1965; Puttfarken 1985; Montagu 1996; Arras and Épinal 2004. 187
Armenini 1587, 93–99, esp. 96 (book 2, chap. 5). 188 See esp. Van der Meulen
1994–95, 1, 69–75; Muller 2004, esp. 18–21; Jaffé and Bradley 2005–06; Jaffé
2010. For the drawing (fig. 67) see Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 71–72, notes 11,
14, 16 with previous literature. Rubens applied this method to several other
statues. 189 Bellori 1976, 451, 473–77, ; Bellori 2005, 311, and for the plates
334–37. See Rome 2000b, 2, 403–04, no. 9 (V. Krahn); Henry 2011; Coquery 2013, 361,
nos G. 179–80. 190 The surviving 39 drawings are today preserved in an ‘Album
de dessins et mesures de statues romaines...’ at the École nationale supérieure
des Beaux-Arts in Paris: Coquery 2000, 48–50; Paris 2000–01, 389–90, no. 195;
Coquery 2013, 37–40; Stanic 2013. For the three drawings repro- duced here see
Coquery 2013, 281, no. D114 (Laocoön), 283, no. D130 (Belvedere Antinous), 283,
no. D131 (Venus de’Medici). 191 Bosse 1656. See the Conférences by Sébastien Bourdon, Charles Le Brun, Henri Testelin,
Michel Anguier, etc.: Lichtenstein and Michel 2006–12, 1.1, esp. 161–66
(Charles Le Brun), 316–33 (Charles Le Brun), 332–35 (Michel Anguier), 374–77
(Sébastien Bourdon); 1.2, 636–38 (Michel Anguier), 667–71 (Henry Testelin). 192 On De Wit’s Teekenboek (fig. 74) see Bolten 1985, 82–86. On
Nollekens’ drawing (fig. 75) see Blayney Brown 1982, 484, no. 1460; Nottingham
and London 1991, 58–59, no. 31 (Venus de’ Medici); Lyon 1998–99, 123–24, no.
101. On Volpato’s and Morghen’s print annotated by Canova (fig. 76) see Rome
2008, 144, no. 25, with previous bibliography. 193 On the study of anatomy in
the Renaissance and the 17th century see Schultz 1985; Ottawa, Vancouver and
elsewhere 1996–97; London, Warwick and elsewhere 1997–98; and the excellent
essays in Paris 2008– 09a, esp. Carlino 2008–09. On the combination of the
study of anatomy and of the Antique between the 17th and 19th centuries see
esp. Schwartz 2008–09. 194 Paris 2000–01, 391–92, no. 197; Coquery 2013, 195–200;
Paris 2008–09a, 222–23, no. 79. 195 For the skeletons (figs 77–78) and
anatomical figures (figs 79–80) of the Laocoön and Borghese Gladiator see
Coquery 2013, respectively 384, no. G.416, 383, no. G.413, 381, no. G.400, 382,
no. G.408. A series of Conférences at the Académie Royale in Paris had been
devoted to the Antique and anatomy: see esp. Lichtenstein and Michel 2006–12, 1.2, 581–93 (Pierre Monnier, ‘Sur les
muscles du Laocoon’, 2 May 1676). 196 See Paris
2000–01, 393–94, no. 199, with previous bibliography; Paris 2008–09a, 226–27,
no. 85. 197 See Paris 2000–01, 392–93, no. 198, with previous bibliography;
Paris 2008–09a, 226–27, no. 82. Sauvage also made écorchés of other classical
prototypes. 198 The original cast appears to have been destroyed. The écorché
preserved at the Royal Academy of Arts is a 19th-century copy by William Pink:
see Postle 2004, esp. 58–59, with previous bibliography. 199 See Jordan and
Weston 2002, 97, 4.7. 200 For the practice see Paris 2000–01, 415–29; Schwartz
2008–09; London 2013–14, 62–69. On Paillett’s drawing (fig. 87) see London
2013–14, 21, pl. 1, 96, no. 1. For Bottani’s (fig. 88) see Philadelphia 1980–
81, 59–60, no. 47. For David’s painting (fig. 89) see Rome 1981–82, 101–02, no.
25. 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 Pevsner 1940, 140–41. On the diffusion of
academies in the 18th century see Boschloo 1989, passim. A good recent overview
is Brook 2010–11. Diderot’s remark appeared in an article in the
Correspondance littéraire, philos- ophique et critique, no. 13, 1763: ‘Sur
Bouchardon et la sculpture’, 45. See an English
translation in Diderot 2011, 19. On the diffusion of casts in the 18th century
see Haskell and Penny 1981, esp. 79–91, chap. 11; Rossi Pinelli 1984; Rossi
Pinelli 1988; Pucci 2000a; Frederiksen and Marchand 2010. London 2013–14, 36,
46–47. See the explanatory text for the plate: Diderot and D’Alembert 1762–72, 20,
entry ‘Dessein’, 1–20, esp. 2–5. See also Michel 1987, 284, 288. Locquin 1912, 5–13;
Toledo, Chicago and elsewhere 1975–76; Plax 2000. Locquin 1912, 5–13;
Schoneveld-Van Stoltz 1989, 216–28, with previ- ous bibliography. Excellent
introductions to the art world of Rome in the 18th century are the essay
contained in Philadelphia and Houston 2000 (see esp. Barroero and Susinno 2000)
and in Rome 2010–11b. Goethe 2013, 2, 373. Overviews on the Grand Tour are
Black 1992; London and Rome 1996–97; Chaney 1998; Black 2003. On Panini’s
painting see London and Rome 1996–97, 277–78, no. 233; Philadelphia and Houston
2000, 425, no. 275, with previous literature. Macandrew 1978; Connor Bulman
2006; Windsor 2013, with previous bibliography. Haskell and Penny 1981, esp. 23–30,
43–52; Paris 2010–11, with previous bibliography. On drawing in Rome in the
18th century see Bowron 1993–94; Percy 2000, with previous bibliography. On
collections of casts in private academies see Bordini 1998, 387. On the
Concorsi see Cipriani and Valeriani 1988–91; Rome, University Park (PA) and
elsewhere 1989–90; Cipriani 2010–11. On the early years of the Capitoline as a
public museum see Arata 1994; Franceschini and Vernesi 2005; Arata 2008. See Arata
1994, 75. On the Accademia del Nudo see Pietrangeli 1959; Pietrangeli 1962;
MacDonald 1989; Barroero 1998; Bordini 1998. Haskell and
Penny 1981, 62–63; Raspi Serra 1998–99; Macsotay 2010; Henry 2010–11. The main
source for Vleughels’ reform, rich in information on the study of the Antique
in the Académie under his directorship, is Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912,
vols 7–9, passim (for description of the collection of casts see 7, 333–37).
Boyer 1955; Loire 2005–06, 75–81. Caviglia-Brunel 2012, 115–63. For Natoire’s
drawing (fig. 94) see Paris 2000–01, 372, no. 177; Caviglia- Brunel 2012, 415–16,
no. D.558. On Robert’s drawings (figs 95–96) see Paris 2000–01, 373–74, nos
178–79; Rome 2008, 132–33, nos 12–13; Ottawa and Caen 2011–12, 22–23, nos
1a–1b. For 97 see Paris 2000– 01, 384, no. 190. On Robert in Rome see Rome
1990–91. On Piranesi and his influence on artists see Fleming 1962; Wilton Ely
1978; Rome, Dijon and elsewhere 1976; Brunel 1978. On Winckelmann see Potts
1994, with previous bibliography. Henry 2010–11. For David in Rome see Rome
1981–82. For his drawings after the Antique see Sérullaz 1981–82; Rosenberg and
Prat 2002, passim, esp. 1, 391– 746, 2, 754–866. Sérullaz 1981–82, 42. For
David’s drawing (fig. 98) see Rosenberg and Prat 2002, 499, no. 642. See Pressly
1979; Valverde 2008; Busch 2013. On all these aspects see Pears 1988, esp. 1–26.
As general introductions see Denvir 1983; Solkin 1992; Brewer 1997; Bindman
2008. On the ‘Rule of Taste’ see Lipking 1970; Barrell 1986, esp. 1–68; Pears
1988, 27–50; Ayres 1997. For a recent overview see Aymonino 2014. On academies
in Britain before the foundation of the Royal Academy see Bignamini 1988;
Bignamini 1990. See MacDonald 1989. An excellent introduction to the use of the
Antique in artists’ education in 18th-century Britain is Postle 1997. For casts
in Britain in the first half of the 18th century see: Bignamini 1988, 59, note
63, 65, 77, note 9, 81, note 65, 88, 103. Einberg and Egerton 1988, 64–71.
Kitson 1966–68, esp. 85–86; Postle 1997, esp. 83–84. See Paulson 1971, 2, 168–71;
Nottingham and London 1991, 62, no. 37. Coutu 2000, 47; Kenworthy-Browne 2009.
On Mortimer’s painting see Nottingham and London 1991, 45, no. 11, with
previous bibliography. MacDonald 1989. Allan 1968, 76–88; Bignamini 1988, 108;
Postle 1997, 85–87; Coutu 2000, 52; Kenworthy-Browne 2009, 43–44. Ibid. On the
Glasgow Foulis Academy see Pevsner 1940, 156; MacDonald 1989, 84–85;
Fairfull-Smith 2001. On the Royal Academy see Hutchison 1986. On its
regulations see also Abstract 1797. On the Antique School at the Royal Academy
(fig. 105) see Nottingham and London 1991, 43, no. 7; Rome 2010–11b, 432,
no.V.6. On Zoffany’s painting see New Haven and London 2011–12, 218–21, no. 44,
with previous bibliography. For the medal see Hutchison 1986, 34. On Kauffman’s
painting see Rome 2010–11b, 325, 432–33, no. V.7. For Townley see particularly
Coltman 2009. On Soane’s collection of plaster casts see Dorey 2010. De
Architectura, 1.1, esp. 1.1.13; Watkin 1996. Jenkins 1992, 30–40. Venice 1976, 114–15,
no. 49. Malvasia 1678, 1, 359, 365, 484. On the 17th-century neologism
‘statuino’ see Pericolo’s forthcoming article. See De Piles 1677, 253–54; De
Piles 1708, esp. 128–38. Bellori 1976, 214; Bellori 2005, 180. See Pucci 2000a;
Bukdahal 2007 Diderot 1995, 4. See also Haskell and Penny 1981, 91. Boime 1980,
330–35, pl. ix.47. Couture 1867, 155–56. 6609a, 226–27, no. 85. 197 See Paris
2000–01, 392–93, no. 198, with previous bibliography; Paris 2008–09a, 226–27,
no. 82. Sauvage also made écorchés of other classical prototypes. 198 The
original cast appears to have been destroyed. The écorché preserved at the
Royal Academy of Arts is a 19th-century copy by William Pink: see Postle 2004,
esp. 58–59, with previous bibliography. 199 See Jordan and Weston 2002, 97, 4.7.
200 For the practice see Paris 2000–01, 415–29; Schwartz 2008–09; London
2013–14, 62–69. On Paillett’s drawing (fig. 87) see London 2013–14, 21, pl. 1, 96,
no. 1. For Bottani’s (fig. 88) see Philadelphia 1980– 81, 59–60, no. 47. For
David’s painting (fig. 89) see Rome 1981–82, 101–02, no. 25. Pevsner 1940, 140–41.
On the diffusion of academies in the 18th century see Boschloo 1989, passim. A
good recent overview is Brook 2010–11. Diderot’s
remark appeared in an article in the Correspondance littéraire, philos- ophique
et critique, no. 13, 1763: ‘Sur Bouchardon et la sculpture’, 45. See an English translation in Diderot 2011, 19. On the diffusion of
casts in the 18th century see Haskell and Penny 1981, esp. 79–91, chap. 11;
Rossi Pinelli 1984; Rossi Pinelli 1988; Pucci 2000a; Frederiksen and Marchand
2010. London 2013–14, 36, 46–47. See the explanatory text for the plate:
Diderot and D’Alembert 1762–72, 20, entry ‘Dessein’, 1–20, esp. 2–5. See also
Michel 1987, 284, 288. Locquin 1912, 5–13; Toledo, Chicago and elsewhere
1975–76; Plax 2000. Locquin 1912, 5–13; Schoneveld-Van Stoltz 1989, 216–28,
with previ- ous bibliography. Excellent introductions to the art world of Rome
in the 18th century are the essay contained in Philadelphia and Houston 2000
(see esp. Barroero and Susinno 2000) and in Rome 2010–11b. Goethe 2013, 2, 373.
Overviews on the Grand Tour are Black 1992; London and Rome 1996–97; Chaney
1998; Black 2003. On Panini’s painting see London and Rome 1996–97, 277–78, no.
233; Philadelphia and Houston 2000, 425, no. 275, with previous literature.
Macandrew 1978; Connor Bulman 2006; Windsor 2013, with previous bibliography.
Haskell and Penny 1981, esp. 23–30, 43–52; Paris 2010–11, with previous
bibliography. On drawing in Rome in the 18th century see Bowron 1993–94; Percy
2000, with previous bibliography. On collections of casts in private academies
see Bordini 1998, 387. On the Concorsi see Cipriani and Valeriani 1988–91;
Rome, University Park (PA) and elsewhere 1989–90; Cipriani 2010–11. On the
early years of the Capitoline as a public museum see Arata 1994; Franceschini
and Vernesi 2005; Arata 2008. See Arata 1994, 75. On the Accademia del
Nudo see Pietrangeli 1959; Pietrangeli 1962; MacDonald 1989; Barroero 1998;
Bordini 1998. Haskell and Penny 1981, 62–63; Raspi Serra 1998–99;
Macsotay 2010; Henry 2010–11. The main source for Vleughels’ reform, rich in
information on the study of the Antique in the Académie under his directorship,
is Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, vols 7–9, passim (for description of the
collection of casts see 7, 333–37). Boyer 1955; Loire 2005–06, 75–81.
Caviglia-Brunel 2012, 115–63. For Natoire’s drawing (fig. 94) see Paris
2000–01, 372, no. 177; Caviglia- Brunel 2012, 415–16, no. D.558. On Robert’s
drawings (figs 95–96) see Paris 2000–01, 373–74, nos 178–79; Rome 2008, 132–33,
nos 12–13; Ottawa and Caen 2011–12, 22–23, nos 1a–1b. For 97 see Paris 2000–
01, 384, no. 190. On Robert in Rome see Rome 1990–91. On Piranesi and his
influence on artists see Fleming 1962; Wilton Ely 1978; Rome, Dijon and
elsewhere 1976; Brunel 1978. On Winckelmann see Potts 1994, with previous
bibliography. Henry 2010–11. For David
in Rome see Rome 1981–82. For his drawings after the Antique see Sérullaz
1981–82; Rosenberg and Prat 2002, passim, esp. 1, 391– 746, 2, 754–866.
Sérullaz 1981–82, 42. For David’s drawing (fig. 98) see Rosenberg and Prat
2002, 499, no. 642. See Pressly 1979; Valverde 2008; Busch 2013. On all these
aspects see Pears 1988, esp. 1–26. As general introductions see Denvir 1983;
Solkin 1992; Brewer 1997; Bindman 2008. On the ‘Rule of Taste’ see Lipking
1970; Barrell 1986, esp. 1–68; Pears 1988, 27–50; Ayres 1997. For a recent
overview see Aymonino 2014. On academies in Britain before the foundation of
the Royal Academy see Bignamini 1988; Bignamini 1990. See MacDonald 1989. An
excellent introduction to the use of the Antique in artists’ education in
18th-century Britain is Postle 1997. For casts in Britain in the first half of
the 18th century see: Bignamini 1988, 59, note 63, 65, 77, note 9, 81, note 65,
88, 103. Einberg and Egerton 1988, 64–71. Kitson 1966–68, esp. 85–86; Postle
1997, esp. 83–84. See Paulson 1971, 2, 168–71; Nottingham and London 1991, 62,
no. 37. Coutu 2000, 47; Kenworthy-Browne 2009. On Mortimer’s painting see
Nottingham and London 1991, 45, no. 11, with previous bibliography. MacDonald
1989. Allan 1968, 76–88; Bignamini 1988, 108; Postle 1997, 85–87; Coutu 2000, 52;
Kenworthy-Browne 2009, 43–44. Ibid. On the Glasgow Foulis Academy see Pevsner
1940, 156; MacDonald 1989, 84–85; Fairfull-Smith 2001. On the Royal Academy see
Hutchison 1986. On its regulations see also Abstract 1797. On the Antique
School at the Royal Academy (fig. 105) see Nottingham and London 1991, 43, no.
7; Rome 2010–11b, 432, no.V.6. On Zoffany’s painting see New Haven and London
2011–12, 218–21, no. 44, with previous bibliography. For the medal see Hutchison
1986, 34. On Kauffman’s painting see Rome 2010–11b, 325, 432–33, no. V.7. For
Townley see particularly Coltman 2009. On Soane’s collection of plaster casts
see Dorey 2010. De Architectura, 1.1, esp. 1.1.13; Watkin 1996. Jenkins 1992, 30–40.
Venice 1976, 114–15, no. 49. Malvasia 1678, 1, 359, 365, 484. On the
17th-century neologism ‘statuino’ see Pericolo’s forthcoming article. See De
Piles 1677, 253–54; De Piles 1708, esp. 128–38. Bellori 1976, 214; Bellori
2005, 180. See Pucci 2000a; Bukdahal 2007 Diderot 1995, 4. See also Haskell and
Penny 1981, 91. Boime 1980, 330–35, pl. ix.47. Couture 1867, 155–56. 66 67. Primary
Sources On The Antique. Rome to copy its antiquities as a source of
inspiration, a phenomenon that increased over the subsequent four hundred
years. Bembo is, in addition, one of the earliest writers to rank Raphael and
Michelangelo on the level of artists from antiquity. Excerpt from Bembo,
Prose . . . della volgar lingua, Venice, 1525, XLII r (translation Michael
Sullivan). At all times of day [Rome] witnesses the arrival of
artists from near and far, intent on reproducing in the small space of their
paper or wax the form of those splendid ancient figures of marble, sometimes
bronze, that lie scattered all over Rome, or are publicly and privately kept
and treasured, as they do with the arches and baths and theatres and the other
various sorts of buildings that are in part still standing: and hence, when
they mean to produce some new work, they aim at those examples, striving with
their art to resemble them, all the more so since they believe their efforts
merit praise by the closeness of resemblance of their new works to ancient ones,
being well aware that the ancient ones come closer to the perfection of art
than any done afterwards. These have succeeded more than others, Messer Giulio
[de’ Medici], your Michelangelo of Florence and Raphael of Urbino so
outstanding and illustrious that it is easier to say how close they come to the
good old masters than decide which of them is the greater and better artist. 4.
Ludovico Dolce (1508–68) on the necessity for artists copying from antique
statues to learn how to correct the defects of Nature and to aim for perfect
beauty. In his treatise Dialogo della pittura . . . (1557), the humanist,
writer and art theorist Lodovico Dolce upheld a strong defence of the Venetian
school of painting, based on colour, against the Florentine and Roman ones,
based on drawing, supported by Giorgio Vasari. At the same time he included one
of the earliest theoretical statements on the necessity to study the Antique as
a model of idealised nature and perfect beauty – especially in the study of the
proportions of the human figure. However, in Dolce, one finds also a warning
against the indiscriminate copying of classical sculptures – which should
always be imitated with the correct artistic judgement to avoid eccen-
tricities – a principle that would become a leitmotif in subsequent art
literature, as shown here in excerpts from Rubens (no. 8) or Bernini (no. 10).
For Dolce a slavish dependence on the Antique can lead to the excesses of
Mannerism. Exerpts
from Ludovico Dolce, Dialogo della pittura intitolato l’Aretino . . ., Venice,
1557, 32r–33r. The following translation is from the first English
edition: Aretin: A Dialogue on Painting. From the Italian of Ludovico Dolce,
London, 1770, 127–32. Whoever would do this [to form a justly proportioned
figure] should chuse the most perfect form he can find, and partly imitate
nature, as Apelles did, who, when he painted his celebrated Venus emerging from
the sea [p. 128] drew her from Phryne, the most famous
courtesan of the age; and Praxiteles also formed his statue of the Venus of
Gnidus, from the same model. Partly he should imitate the best marbles and
bronzes of the [p. 129] antient masters, the admirable perfection [p. 130] of
which, whoever can fully taste and posses, may safely correct many defects of
Nature herself, and make his pictures universally pleasing and grateful. These
contain all the perfection of the art, and may be properly proposed as examples
of perfect beauty. [p. 131] Proportion being the principal
foundation of design, he who best observes it, must always be the best master
in this respect: and it being necessary to the forming of a perfect body, to
copy not only nature but the antique, we must be careful that we do this with
judgement, lest we should imitate the worst parts, whilst we think we are
imitating the best. We have an instance of this, at present, in a painter, who
having observed that the [p. 132] antients, for the most part, designed their
figures light and slender, by too strict an obedience to this custom, and
exceeding the just bounds, has turned this, which is a beauty, into a very
striking defect. Others have accustomed themselves in painting heads
(especially of women) to make long necks; having observed that the greatest
part of the antique pictures of Roman ladies have long necks, and that short
ones are generally ungrace- ful; but by giving into too great a liberty, have
made that which was in their original pleasing, totally otherwise in the copy.
5. Giorgio Vasari (1511–74) on drawing as the intellectual foundation of all arts;
on grace, and on the classical sculptures in the Belvedere Courtyard in the
Vatican as the source for the ‘beautiful style’ of High Renaissance masters.
Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors and Architects –
published first in 1550 and in an expanded edition in 1568 – is arguably the
most influential example of art literature of the Renaissance. Vasari’s
biographies of the most famous modern artists set the standard for a
progressive conception of the history of art, with the Florentine and Roman
schools representing its culmination. At the start of his essay on painting, in
a section added to the 1568 edition of the Lives, he provides a definition of
disegno, drawing, to give a theoretical underpinning to his defence of the Central
Italian schools of painting. Vasari’s conception of drawing as the first
physical manifestation of the artist’s idea – the intellectual part of art
common to painting, sculpture and architecture – would provide the founda- tion
for the centrality of drawing in the curriculum of future acade- mies. In
another passage to be found in both editions, Vasari praises the best ancient
sculptures, as they embodied the supreme quality of grazia, or grace, which
cannot be attained by study but only by the judgement of the artist – a concept
that remained one of the central tenets of Italian art theory for the next two
centuries. He attributes the rise of the modern manner or ‘bella maniera’, and
the great achievements of Raphael and Michelangelo, to their familiarity and
exposure to the best examples of classical sculpture in the Belvedere Courtyard
in the Vatican. Excerpts
from Giorgio Vasari, Le Vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori et
architettori, Florence, 1568, part 1, 43. The following translation
is from Vasari on Technique, ed. G. Baldwin Brown, trans. L. S. Maclehose,
London, 1907, 205–06. 69 SOURCE #1 VITRUVIO (80–70 bc – post c. 15 bc) On
harmonic proportions as the principle of ideal beauty. Marcus Vitruvius
Pollio’s De Architectura, c. 30–20 bc, is the only complete treatise on
classical architecture to have survived from antiquity and its impact on
Western architecture from the Renaissance onwards is paramount. Manuscript
copies of the treatise circulated widely in the 15th century and were well
known to Filippo Brunelleschi, Leon Battista Alberti, Donatello and to
subsequent generations of early Renaissance artists and architects. The first
printed Latin edition appeared in 1486, followed by a more popular version in
1511 (edited by Fra Giovanni Giocondo). Italian translations appeared in 1521
(by Cesare Cesariano) and in 1556 (edited and translated by Daniele Barbaro
with illustrations by Andrea Palladio). The first chapter of book 3, provided
architects and artists with an authoritative account of the principle of
harmonic proportions based on commensurability which had inspired ancient
sculptors and paint- ers in search of ideal beauty. The celebrated passage on
the perfect proportions of the human body was visualised by Leonardo in his
‘Vitruvian Man’ (see 17, 2). The following translation is from the first
integral English edition: The Architecture of M. Vitruvius Pollio. Translated
from the Original Latin, by W. Newton Architect, London, 1771, book 3, chapter
1, 45–46: ‘On the Composition and Symmetry of Temples’.1 The composition of
temples, is governed by the laws of symmetry; which an architect ought well to
understand; this arises from pro- portion, which is called by the Greek,
Analogia. Proportion is the correspondence of the measures of all the parts of
a work, and of the whole configuration, from which correspondence, symmetry is
produced; for a building cannot be well composed without the rules of symmetry
and proportions; nor unless the members, as in a well formed human body, have a
perfect agreement. For nature as so composed the human body, that the face from
the chin to the roots of the hair at the top of the forehead, is the tenth part
of the whole height; and the hand, from the joint to the extremity of the middle
finger, is the same; the head, from the chin to the crown, is an eight part; the
rest of the members have their measures also proportional; this the ancient
painters and statuaries strictly observed, and thereby gained universal
applause. The central point of the body is the navel:
for if a man was laid supine with his arms and legs extended, and a circle was
drawn round him, the central foot of the compasses being placed over his navel,
the extremities of his fingers and toes would touch the circumferent line; and
in the same manner as the body is adapted to [p. 46] the circle, it will also
be found to agree with the square; for, if the measure from the bottom of the
feet to the top of the head is taken, and applied to the arms extended, it will
be found that the breadth is equal to the height, the same as in the area of a
square. Since, therefore, nature has so composed the human body, * All
sentences in Italics are by the present author throughout. 68 that the members
are proportionate and consentaneous to the whole figure, with reason the
ancients have determined, that in all perfect works, the several members must
be exactly proportional to the whole object. 1 The Latin word ‘symmetria’ of
Vitruvius’ text has often been translated in English with ‘symmetry’, while
commensurability – the mathematical relation between the part and the whole
within a given body or building resulting in overall harmonic proportions –
would be a better translation. 2. Cennino d’Andrea Cennini (c. 1370–c. 1440) on
drawing as the foundation of art and on the advantage for young artists of
copying from other masters. Written around 1390 possibly in Padua, Cennini’s Il
Libro dell’Arte is the first art treatise composed in Italian. Although mainly
concerned with practical advice to painters, Cennini also devoted some of the
chapters to the education of the young artist, ofering the first written
evidence of the importance of drawing in the apprenticeship of the aspiring
painter, and especially the copying of works by other artists. Later, in early
Renaissance workshop practices, this increasingly included antique sculpture.
Although not published until 1821, manuscript copies of the Libro circulated
widely in the 16th and 17th centuries, evidenced by the fact that references to
it and passages from it reappear in subsequent art treatises. Excerpts
from Cennino Cennini, Il Libro dell’Arte, ed. F. Brunello, Vicenza, 1971
(translation, present author). [P. 6, chapter 4] The
foundations and the principles of art, and of all these manual works, are
drawing and colouring. [P. 27, chapter 27] If you want to progress further on
the path of this science you must follow this method: take
pain and pleasure in constantly copying the best things that you can find done
by the hands of the great masters. And if you are in a place where many masters
have been, so much better for you. But I will give you some advice: be careful
to imitate always the best and the most famous; and progressing every day, it
would be against nature that you will not eventually be infused by the master’s
style and spirit. 3. Pietro Bembo (1470–1547) on artists going to Rome to copy
the Antique, and on Michelangelo and Raphael having equalled the ancient
masters. Italian scholar, poet, literary theorist, collector and cardinal,
Pietro Bembo was a central figure in the cultivated antiquarian milieu at the
court of Pope Leo X (r. 1513–21) and a personal friend of Raphael and
Michelangelo. His Prose . . . della volgar lingua, a treatise published in
1525, but composed over the previous two decades, contains one of the earliest
and most eloquent reports of artists converging on Seeing that Design,
the parent of our three arts, Architecture, Sculpture and Painting, having its
origin in the intellect, draws out from many single things a general judgement,
it is like a form or idea of all the objects in nature, most marvellous in what
it compasses, for not only in the bodies of men and of animals but also in
plants, in buildings, in sculpture and in painting, design is cognizant of the
proportions of the whole to the parts and of the parts to each other and to the
whole. Seeing too that from this knowledge there arises a certain conception
and judgement, so that there is formed in the mind that something which
afterwards, when expressed by the hands, is called design, we may conclude that
design is not other than a visible expression and declaration of our inner
conception and of that which others have imagined and given form to their idea.
And from this, perhaps, arose the proverb among the ancients ‘ex ungue leonem’
when a certain clever person, seeing carved in a stone block the claw only of a
lion, apprehended in his mind [p. 206] from its size and form all the parts of
the animal and then the whole together, just as if he had had it present before
his eyes. Excerpts
from Giorgio Vasari, Le Vite de’ più eccellenti pittori, scultori et
architettori, Florence, 1568, part 3, 1, 2–3 of the Preface (unpaginated). The following translation is from Lives of the Most Eminent Painters,
Sculptors and Architects by Giorgio Vasari, ed. and trans. by G. du C. de Vere,
London 1912–14, 4, 81–82. [Fifteenth-century artists] were advancing towards
the good, and their figures were thus approved according to the standards of
the works of the ancients, as was seen when Andrea Verrocchio restored in
marble the legs and arms of the Marsyas in the house of the Medici in Florence.
But they lacked a certain finish and finality of perfection in the feet, hands,
hair, and beards, although the limbs as a whole are in accordance with the
antique and have a certain correct harmony in the proportions. Now if they had
had that minuteness of finish which is the perfection and bloom of art, they
would also have had a resolute boldness in their works; and from this there
would have followed delicacy, refine- ment, and supreme grace, which are the
qualities produced by the perfection of art in beautiful figures, whether in
relief or painting; but these qualities they did not have, although they give
proof of diligent striving. That finish, and that certain something that they
lacked, they could not achieve so readily, seeing that study, when it is used
in that way to obtain finish, gives dryness to the manner. After them indeed,
their successors were enabled to attain to it through seeing excavated out of
the earth certain antiquities cited by Pliny as amongst the most famous, such
as the Laocoön, the Hercules, the Great Torso of the Belvedere, and likewise
the Venus, the Cleopatra, the Apollo, and an endless number of others, which,
both with their sweetness and their severity, with their fleshy roundness
copied from the great beauties of nature, and with certain attitudes which
involve no distortions of the whole figure but only a movement of certain
parts, [p. 82] and are revealed with a most perfect grace, brought about the
disappearance of a certain dryness, hardness, and sharpness of manner, which
had been left to our art by the excessive study . 6. Giovan Battista Armenini (c. 1525–1609)
on assimilating the principles of the Antique through constant drawing as a
safe guide for artistic creation. Giovan Battista Armenini’s De veri precetti
della pittura (1587), consti- tutes one of the most systematic art treatises of
the second half of the 16th century. In it we find the clearest formulations of
a progressive method of learning, later defined as the ‘alphabet of drawing’
(see no. 7), and of the necessity of assimilating the principles of the Antique
through drawing. Armenini is also the first to provide a proper canon of
sculptures and reliefs in Rome that students should copy and to praise the
didactic use of plaster casts. Excerpts from Giovan Battista Armenini, De
veri precetti della pittura, Ravenna, 1587, book 1, ch. 8, 61–63. The following translation is from G. B. Armenini, On the True Precepts
of the Art of Painting, ed. and trans. by J. Olszewski, New York, 1977, 130–34.
[To obtain a good style] it is the general and universal rule only to draw
those things which are the most beautiful, learned and most like the good works
of ancient sculptors. Having familiarised him- self with them through continual
study, the student must know these things so thoroughly that when the occasion
demands he can reproduce one or more of these compositions. He must be so
familiar with them that whatever is good in the old works will be marvellously
reflected in his rough sketches, as well as in finished drawings, and
consequently in large paintings . For
the con- tinual drawing and copying of things which are well made ensures that
one has a proper guide to follow and executes his own work very well. In
order that you may fully know the basis of art, make it the foundation of your
own works, and learn how to recognise excellence with certainty, particularly
in figures, we shall place before you as principal models some of the most
famous ancient sculp- tures which most closely approach the true perfection of
art and are still intact in our own days. [p. 131] For it is well known that
the ancients who fashioned these statues first chose the best that nature
offered in diverse models and then, guided by their excellent judgement,
combined the best perfectly into one work. These
ancient statues are as follows: the Laocoön, Hercules, Apollo, the great Torso,
Cleopatra, Venus, the Nile, and some others also of marble, all of them to be
found in the Belvedere in the papal palace in the Vatican. Some others are
scattered throughout Rome and among the [p. 132] foremost is the Marcus
Aurelius in bronze, now in the square of the Campidoglio. Then there are the
Giants of Monte Cavallo, and the Pasquino, and others not as good as these.
Also well known because of the histo- ries depicted thereon are those in the
arches with very beautiful manner of half and low relief as in the two columns,
the Trajan and the Antonine, which still stand, even though time is hostile to
human work. And even though this study we have been
discussing is not in the power of all students, since as is well known not all
can stay in Rome labouring long and at great expense, yet even they have many
of these works in their own homes. I am speaking of those copies of the
originals fashioned by the masters in plaster or other material. I have seen a
wax copy of the Roman Laocoön, not larger than two spans, but one could say
that it was the original in small size. Still, if those parts that are modelled
in gesso from these works can be obtained, they are better without doubt since
every detail is there precisely as in the marble, so that they can be
scrutinised and serve the student’s needs excellently. Also, they are very
convenient because they are light and easily handled and transported. And, as
for price, one can say it is very cheap, that is, in comparison with the
originals. Therefore, with such excellent aids available, there is no excuse
for anyone who really wishes to learn the good and ancient path. I have seen
studios and chambers in Milan, Genoa, Venice, Parma, Mantua, Florence, Bologna,
Pesaro, Urbino, Ravenna and other minor cities full of such well formed copies.
Looking at these, it seemed to me that they were the very works found in Rome.
Nor is any beautiful living model excluded from these, and the closer it is to
the aforementioned [p. 133] sculptures, the better it may be considered to be,
but this is rarely the case. Now, with so many examples and reasons, such as
these, I believe [p. 134] you should have a good idea of all that you must
consider and observe carefully. 7. The ‘alphabet of drawing’ and the role of
the Antique in the first orders and statutes of the Roman Accademia di San Luca
(1593). The first ‘orders and statutes’ of the Roman Accademia di San Luca,
laid out by Federico Zuccaro (c. 1541–1609) in 1593 and published by Romano
Alberti (active 1585–1604) in 1604, codified a progressive method in learning
how to draw the human figure, considered as the central subject of art: from
details, like the eye, to the whole body. This ‘alphabet of drawing’, based on
Renaissance workshop practices, would become enormously influential in the
teaching of art in Europe well into the 20th century. The Antique had a crucial
role in it, as it gave students the possibility to learn how to approach the
third dimension of the human body through models of idealised beauty, anatomy
and proportions, and the role of ancient statuary is clearly specified in
another passage of the Accademia’s rules and regulations. Excerpts from
Romano Alberti, Origine, et progresso dell’Academia del Dissegno, de’ Pittori,
Scultori, et Architetti di Roma, Pavia, 1604, 5–8 (translation, present
author). [P. 5] Another hour will be devoted to practice and to
teaching drawing to young students, showing them the way and the good path of
study, and for this purpose we have appointed twelve Academicians, one for each
month of the year, in charge of taking particular care and responsibility in
assisting the students in this task. .
The Principal will order the young students to produce something by their hand,
while he will draw himself, and he will award his resulting drawings to the
best students. The first figures – to start from the Alphabet of Drawing (so to
speak) – will be the A, B, C: eyes, noses, mouths, ears, heads, hands, feet,
arms, legs, torsos, backs and other similar parts of the human body, as well as
any other sort of animals and figures, architectural elements, and reliefs in
wax, clay and similar exercises. [P. 8] [The Academician in charge] will start
instructing the students in what to study, assigning to each of them a
different task according to his individual disposition and talent: some will
draw from drawings, others from cartoons or from reliefs; others will copy
heads, feet, hands; others will go out during the week drawing after the
antique or the facades by Polidoro, or land- scapes, buildings, animals and
other similar things; other students in convenient times will draw after live
models, and they must copy them with grace and judgement. Others will do
exercises in architecture and in perspective, following its correct and good
rules, and the best students shall always be rewarded . 8. Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640) on the
usefulness and dangers of copying from the Antique. The great Flemish artist
Peter Paul Rubens spent two extended periods in Rome, between 1601 and 1602 and
from late 1605 to late 1608, with short interruptions. His erudite approach
towards the Antique and his desire to assimilate its principles resulted in
many extraordinary drawings after classical statues, mostly in black and red
chalk. In his theoretical treatise, De Imitatione Statuarum (‘On the Imitation
of Statues’), c. 1608–10, he warned against the dangers of slavishly copying
the Antique and transferring the characteristics and limits of one medium –
marble – into another – drawing or painting. Although Rubens’ manuscript
remained unpublished in his lifetime, it was owned by the influential French
art theorist Roger de Piles (1635–1709), who first published it in his Cours de
peinture par principles, Paris, 1708, 139–47. The following translation is from
the first English edition: Roger de Piles, The Principles of Painting, London,
1743, 86–92. To some painters the imitation of the antique statues has been
extremely useful, and to others pernicious, even to the ruin of their art. I
conclude, however, that in order to attain the highest perfection in painting,
it is necessary to understand the antiques, nay, to be so thoroughly possessed
of this knowledge, [p. 87] that it may diffuse itself everywhere. Yet it must
be judiciously applied, and so that it may not in the least smell of stone. For
several ignorant painters, and even some who are skilful, make no distinction
between the matter and the form, the stone and the figure, the necessity of
using the block, and the art of forming it. It is certain, however, that the
finest statues are extremely beneficial, so the bad are not only useless, but
even pernicious. For beginners learn from them I know not what, that is crude,
liny, stiff, and of harsh anatomy; and while they take themselves to be good
proficient, do but disgrace nature; since instead of imitating flesh, they only
represent marble tinged with various colours. For there are many things [p. 88]
to be taken notice of, and avoided, which happen even in the best statues,
without the workman’s fault: especially with regard to the difference of shades
. [p. 89] He who has, with discernment,
made the proper distinctions in these cases, cannot consider the antique
statues too attentively, nor study them too carefully; for we of this erroneous
age, are so far degenerate, that we can produce nothing like them. 70 71
9. Gianlorenzo Bernini (1598–1680) described as a young boy devoting his days
to copying the statues in the Belvedere Courtyard in the Vatican. In 1713
Gianlorenzo Bernini’s son Domenico (1657–1723) published a biography of his
father that constitutes, with Filippo Baldinucci’s Vita del cavaliere . . .
Bernino (MS. 1682), one of the most important sources on the life and art of
the great Baroque sculptor and architect. A passage describing the impact of
the art of Rome on Gianlorenzo, after his arrival from his native Naples,
vividly evokes the dedication and devotion of the young sculptor in
assimilating day and night the principles of the great classical examples in
the Belvedere Courtyard – especially the Antinous Belvedere, the Apollo
Belvedere and the Laocoön. Excerpts from Domenico Bernini, Vita del
cavalier Gio. Lorenzo Bernino, Rome, 1713, 12-13. The following
translation is from Domenico Bernini, The Life of Gian Lorenzo Bernini, ed. and
trans. by F. Mormando, University Park (PA), 2011, 101. There now opened before
him in Rome a marvellous field in which to cultivate his studies through the
diligent observation of the precious remains of ancient sculpture. It is not to
be believed with what dedication he frequented that school and with what profit
he absorbed its teachings. Almost every morning, for the space of three years,
he left Santa Maria Maggiore, where Pietro, his father, had built a small
comfortable house, and travelled on foot to the Vatican Palace at Saint
Peter’s. There he remained until sunset, drawing, one by one, those marvellous
statues that antiquity has conveyed to us and that time has preserved for us,
as both a benefit and dowry for the art of sculpture. He took no refreshment
during all those days, except for a little wine and food, saying that the
pleasure alone of the lively instruction supplied by those inanimate statues
caused a certain sweetness to pervade his body, and this was sufficient in
itself for the maintenance of his strength for days on end. In fact, some days
it was frequently the case that Gian Lorenzo would not return home at all. Not
seeing the youth for entire days, his father, however, did not even interrogate
his son about this behaviour. Pietro was always certain of Gian Lorenzo’s
whereabouts, that is, in his studio at Saint Peter’s, where, as the son used to
say, his girlfriends (that is, the ancient statues) had their home. The
specific object of his studies we must deduce from what he used to say later in
life once he began to experience their effect on him. Accordingly, his greatest
attention was focussed above all on those two most singular statues, the
Antinous and the Apollo, the former miraculous in its design, the latter in its
workmanship. Bernini claimed, however, that both of these qualities were even
more perfectly embodied in the famous Laocoön of Athen0dorus, Hagesander, and
Polydorus of Rhodes, a work of so well-balanced and exquisite a style that
tradition has attributed it to three artists, judging it perhaps beyond the
ability of just one man alone. Two of these three marvellous statues, the
Antinous and the Laocoön, had been discovered during the time of Pope Leo X
amid the ruins of Nero’s palace in the gardens near the church of San Pietro in
Vincoli and placed by the same pontiff in the Vatican Palace for the public
benefit of artists and other students of antiquity. 10. Gianlorenzo Bernini
(1598–1680) on the formative role of ancient sculpture in the education of
young artists. In 1665 Bernini visited France at the invitation of Louis XIV to
discuss designs for the completion of the Palais du Louvre. His five-month stay
was recorded by his guide Paul Fréart, Sieur de Chantelou in his lively Journal
du voyage du Cavalier Bernin en France. The advice given by Bernini on his
visit to the Académie Royale de peinture et de sculpture is among the clearest
statements on the formative role assigned to antique statuary in the education
of young artists in 17th- century Rome. At the same time it reveals the opinion
of the great Baroque sculptor on the dangers of copying from classical models
without also involving independent inspiration and artistic creations. The
manuscript of the Journal du voyage du cavalier Bernin en France par M. de
Chantelou was published for the first time by Ludovic Lalanne in a series of
articles in the Gazette des Beaux-Arts in 1877–84 (a new edition by M. Stanic ́
was published in Paris in 2001). The following translation is from Paul Fréart
de Chantelou, Diary of the Cavaliere Bernini’s Visit to France, ed. by A.
Blunt, trans. by M. Cornbett, Princeton, 1985, 165–67. 5 September: The
Cavaliere worked as usual, and in the evening went to the Academy [p.
166]. The Cavaliere glanced at the pictures round the room: they are not by the
most talented mem- bers. He also looked at a few bas-reliefs by various
sculptors of the Academy. Then, as he was standing in the middle of the hall
sur- rounded by members, he gave it as his opinion that the Academy ought to
possess casts of all the notable statues, bas-reliefs, and busts of antiquity.
They would serve to educate young students; they should be taught to draw after
these classical models and in that way form a conception of the beautiful that
would serve them all their lives. It was fatal to put them to draw from nature
at the beginning of their training, since nature is nearly always feeble and
niggardly, for if their imagination has nothing but nature to feed on, they
will be unable to put forth anything of strength or beauty; for nature itself
is devoid of both strength or beauty, and artists who study it should first be
skilled in recognis- ing its faults and correcting them; something that
students who lack grounding cannot do [p. 167]. He said that when he was very young
he used to draw from the antique a great deal, and, in the first figure he
undertook, resorted continually to the Antinous as his oracle. Every day he
noticed some further excellence in this statue; certainly he would never have
had that experience had he not himself taken up a chisel and started to work.
For this reason he always advised his pupils, and others, never to draw and
model without at the same time working either at a piece of sculpture or a
picture, combining creation with imitation and thought with action, so to
speak, and remarkable progress should result. For support of his contention
that original work was absolutely essential I cited the case of the late
Antoine Carlier, an artist known to most of the members of the Academy. He
spent the greater part of his life in Rome modelling after the statues of
antiquity, and his copies are incomparable: and they had to agree that, because
he had begun to do original work too late, his imagination had dried up, and
the slavery of copying had in the end made it impossible for him to produce
anything of his own. 11. Giovanni Pietro Bellori (1613–96): his ‘Idea of the
painter, the sculptor and the architect, selected from the beauties of Nature,
superior to Nature’ as the manifesto of the classicist doctrine. Giovanni Pietro
Bellori, a central figure in 17th-century art theory and the champion of
classicism, delivered his epochal speech, the ‘Idea’, in front of the Roman
Accademia di San Luca in 1664 and later published it as a preface to his
influential Vite of 1772. In this he provided one of the clearest and most
influential systematisations for the concept of the idealistic mission of art,
already formulated by various Renaissance art theorists such as Dolce, Vasari,
Armenini and Zuccaro. Joining Aristotelian and neo-Platonic premises, for
Bellori God’s perfect Ideas become corrupted in our world because of accidents
and the innate imperfection of the ‘matter’. The role of ‘noble’ artists is
therefore to aim at recreating the perfection of the original divine ideas in
their works by selecting the best parts of nature. Classical statues ofer the
best guide and example for the modern artists as they are the result of this
process of selection already achieved by ancient artists. In the final
paragraph quoted here, Bellori stresses the value of the imitation of the
Antique against some contemporary artists and theorists, like the Venetian
painter and writer Marco Boschini (1605–81), who criticised the practice. Excerpts
from Giovan Pietro Bellori, Le vite de’ pittori scultori e architetti moderni,
Rome, 1672, 3–13. The following translation is from G. Bellori, The
Lives of the Modern Painters, Sculptors and Architects: a New Translation and
Critical Edition, ed. by H. Wohl, trans. by A. Sedgwick Wohl, introduction by
T. Montanari, Cambridge, 2005, 57–61. [P. 57] The supreme and eternal
intellect, the author of nature, looking deeply within himself as he fashioned
his marvellous works, established the first forms, called Ideas, in such a way
that each species was an expression of that first Idea, thereby forming the
wondrous context of created things. But the celestial bodies above the moon,
not being subject to change, remained forever beautiful and ordered, so that by
their measured spheres and by the splendour of their aspects we come to know
them as eternally perfect and most beautiful. The opposite happens with the
sublunar bodies, which are subject to change and to ugliness; and even though
nature intends always to make its effects excellent, nevertheless, owing to the
inequality of matter, forms are altered, and the human beauty in particular is
confounded, as we see in the innumerable deformities and disproportions that
there are in us. For this reason noble painters and sculptors, imitating that
first maker, also form in their minds an example of higher beauty, and by
contemplating that, they emend nature without fault of colour or of line. This
Idea, or rather the goddess of painting and sculpture , reveals itself to us and descends upon
marbles and canvases; originating in nature, it transcends its origins and
becomes the original of art; measured by the compass of the intellect, it
becomes the measure of the hand; and animated by the imagination it gives life
to the image. [P. 58] Now Zeuxis, who chose from five virgins to fashion the
famous image of Helen that Cicero held up as an example to the orator, teaches
both the painter and the sculptor to contemplate the Idea of the best natural
forms by choosing them from various bodies, selecting the most elegant.1 For he
did not believe that he would be able to find in a single body all those
perfections that he sought for the beauty of Helen, since nature does not make
any particular thing perfect in all its parts. Now if
we wish also to compare the precepts of the sages of antiquity with the best of
[p. 59] those laid down by our modern sages, Leon Battista Alberti teaches that
one should love in all things not only the likeness, but mainly the beauty, and
that one must proceed by choosing from very beautiful bodies their most praised
parts.2 Raphael of Urbino, the great master of those
who know, writes thus to Castiglione about his Galatea: In order to paint one
beauty I would need to see more beauties, but as there is a dearth of beautiful
women, I make use of a certain Idea that comes to into my mind.3 [P. 61] It
remains for us to say that since the sculptors of antiquity employed the
marvellous Idea, as we have indicated, it is therefore necessary to study the
most perfect ancient sculptures, in order that they may guide us to the emended
beauties of nature; and for the same purpose it is necessary to direct our eye
to the contemplation of other most excellent masters; but this matter we shall
leave to a treatise of its own on imitation, to meet the objections of those
who criticise the study of ancient statues. 1 Cicero, De inventione, II, 1,
1–3. 2 Alberti 1972, 99 (book 3, chap. 55). 3 Quoted the first time in Pino
1582, 2, 249. 12. A Conférence of the Parisian Académie Royale de peinture et
de sculpture on the artistic excellence of the Laocoön, 1667. Among the
celebrated seven Conférences given at the Académie in 1667, devoted to the
analysis of famous paintings of the Italian and French schools, the third, held
by the sculptor Gerard van Opstal (1594–1668), was specifically dedicated to
the Laocoön. Opstal’s approach, in which each aspect of the famous statue, from
its anatomy, to its proportions, character and expressions, is discussed in
detail, clearly expresses the analytical and didactic approach of the Académie to
the Antique. Excerpts from André Félibien, Conférences de l’Académie
Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture, pendant l’année 1667, Paris, 1668, 28–40. The following translation is from the first English edition: Seven
Conferences held in the King of France’s Cabinet of Paintings . . ., London,
1740, 33–42 (pagination is discontinuous). [Gerard van Opstal] examined all the
Parts of this Figure in order to shew the Excellence of it: and observed with
what Art the Sculptor had given in a large Breast and Shoulders, all the Parts
of which are expressed with a great deal of Exactness and Tenderness. He also
took Notice of the Height of the Hips, and the Nervousness of the Arms: the
Legs neither too thick nor too lean but firm 72 73 and well muscled; and
in general he observed that in all the other Members, the Flesh and Nerves were
expressed with as much strength and sweetness as in Nature herself, but in
Nature well formed. [p. 34]. He did not forget to shew likewise
the strong Expressions which appear in this admirable Figure, where Grief is
not only diffused over the Face, but also over all the other Parts of the Body,
and to the Extremities of the Feet, the Toes of which violently contract
themselves. [p. 35] As every thing about this Statue is contrived with
surprising Art, every one will own that it ought to be the chief study of
Painters and Sculptors: But which they should not consider chiefly as a Model
that only serves to design by; they ought to observe exactly all the Beauties,
and imprint on their Minds an Image of all that is excellent in it: because it
is not the Hand that is to be employed if one desires to make himself perfect
in this Art, but Judgement to form these great Ideas and Memory carefully to
retain them. But as those strong Expressions cannot teach one to design after a
Model, because we cannot put such a Person in a State where all the Passions
are in him at once, and it is likewise difficult to copy them in Persons who
are really active because of the quick Motion of the Soul: It is therefore of
great Importance for Artists to study Causes, and then to try with how great
Dignity [p. 30] they can represent their Effects, and we may aver that it is
only to these fine Antiques they must have recourse since there they will meet
with Expressions which it will be difficult to draw after nature. [P. 31] Every
one will agree that it is from this Model [that] we may learn to correct the
Faults which are commonly found in Nature; for here all appears in a State of
Perfection . 13. Gérard Audran
(1640–1703) on the perfect proportions of antique sculptures. Gérard Audran,
engraver and conseiller of the Parisian Académie Royale, published the most
popular illustrated manual on the measured proportions of selected canonical
ancient statues in 1682 (see 48, figs 72–73). We find in the Preface one of the
clearest expressions of the rationalistic attitude of the Académie: the Antique
here represents an infallible standard of perfect proportions, which Audran has
made available, ‘compass in hand’, for young artists, providing them with
precise references on which to base their own figures. Excerpts from Gérard Audran, Les proportions du corps humain mesurées sur
les plus belles figures de l’antiquité, Paris, 1683, 1-4 of the Preface
(unpaginated). The following translation is from The Proportions of
the Human Body, measured from the most Beautiful Statues by Mons. Audran . . .,
London,There will be, I think, but little occasion to enlarge upon the
Necessity of a perfect Knowledge of the PROPORTIONS, to every Person conversant
in Designing; it being very well known, that without observing them they can
make nothing but mon- strous and extravagant Figures. Everyone agrees to this
Maxim generally consider’d, but everyone puts it differently in practice; and
here lies the Difficulty, to find certain Rules for the Justness and Nobleness
of the Proportions; which, since Opinions are divided, may stand as an
infallible Guide, upon whose Judgement we may rely with Certainty. This appears
at first very easy; for since the Perfection of Art consist in imitating Nature
well, it seems as if we need consult no other Master, but only work after the
Life; nevertheless, if we examin the Matter farther, we shall find, that very
few Men, or perhaps none, have all their Parts in exact Proportion without any
Defect. We must therefore chuse what is beautiful in each, taking only what is
called the Beautiful Nature. I see nothing but the Antique in which we can
place an entire confidence. These Sculptors who have left us those beautiful
Figures have in some sort excell’d Nature; for there
never was any Man so perfect in all his Parts as some of their Figures. They
have imitated the Arms of one, the Legs of another, collecting thus in one
Figure all the Beauties which agreed to the Subject they represented; as we see
in the Hercules all the Strokes that are Marks of Strength; and in the Venus
all the Delicacy and Graces that can form an accomplished Beauty. [p. 2].
I give you nothing of myself; everything is taken from the Antique: but I have
drawn nothing upon the Paper till I had first mark’d all the Measures with the
Compasses, in order to make the Out-Lines fall just according to the Numbers.
14. William Hogarth (1697–1764) against fashionable taste and the uncritical cult
of the Antique. The celebrated painter and engraver William Hogarth played a
crucial role in establishing an English school of painting in the 18th century.
As director of the second St Martin’s Lane Academy from 1735, he became
increasingly hostile to a curriculum based on the French Académie model. In his
theoretical treatise The Analysis of Beauty, published in 1753, he attacked the
idealistic concept of art – as a selection of the best parts of nature – in
favour of a more naturalistic approach. At the same time he disputed the
validity of studies on proportion such as those produced by Dürer and Lomazzo
in the 16th century. Hogarth retained a bold independent-minded position
towards the Antique, criticising the slavish reverential attitude of connoisseurs
and men of taste, while recognising the greatness of certain antiquities. Their
peculiar elegance, according to Hogarth, is the expression of the ‘serpentine
line’, the central principle of his own aesthetic. Excerpts from William
Hogarth, The Analysis of Beauty, London, 1753. [P. 66] We have all along had
recourse chiefly to the works of the ancients, not because the moderns have not
produced some as excellent; but because the works of the former are more
generally known: nor would we have it thought, that either of them have ever
yet come up to the utmost beauty of nature. Who but a bigot, even to the
antiques, will say that he has not seen faces and necks, hands and arms in
living women, that even the Grecian Venus doth but coarsely imitate? [p. 67]
And what sufficient reason can be given why the same may not be said of the
rest of the body? [P. 77, ‘On Proportions’] Notwithstanding the absurdity of
the above schemes [of Dürer and Lomazzo], such measures as are to be taken from
antique statues, may be of some service to painters and sculptors, especially
to young beginners [p. 80]. I firmly believe, that one of our
common proficients in the athletic art, would be able to instruct and direct
the best sculptor living, (who hath not seen, or is wholly ignorant of this
exercise) in what would give the statue of an English-boxer, a much better
proportion, as to character, than is to be seen, even in the famous group of
antique boxers, (or some call them, Roman wrestlers) so much admired to this
day. [P. 91] As some of the ancient statues have been of such singular use to
me, I shall beg leave to conclude this chapter with an observation or two on
them in general. It is allowed by the most skilful in the imitative arts, that
tho’ there are many of the remains of antiquity, that have great excellencies
about them; yet there are not, moderately speaking, above twenty that may be
justly called capital. There is one reason, nevertheless, besides the blind
veneration that generally is paid to antiquity, for holding even many very
imperfect pieces in some degree of estimation: I mean that peculiar taste of
elegance which so visibly runs through them all, down to the most incorrect of
their basso-relievos: [p. 92] which taste, I am persuaded, my reader will now
conceive to have been entirely owing to the perfect knowledge the ancients must
have had of the use of the precise serpentine-line. But this cause of elegance
not having been since sufficiently understood, no wonder such effects should
have appeared mysterious, and have drawn mankind into a sort of religious
esteem, and even bigotry, to the works of antiquity. 15. Johan Joachim
Winckelmann (1717–68) on the Antique. Winckelmann, the greatest art historian
of the 18th century, moved to Rome from Dresden in 1755 and soon established
himself as one of the leading antiquarians and scholars of Europe. His powerful
and intimate descriptions of ancient sculptures, especially those in the
Belvedere Courtyard, had a tremendous impact on the European public and
contributed decisively to the difusion of the classical ideal and the airmation
of the neo-classical aesthetics. His analysis of Greek art provided a stylistic
classification of antiquities by period, stressing the importance of contextual
conditions such as the climate and political freedom of the ancient Greek city
states. This revolutionised the approach to the Antique and contributed to the
establishment of a modern art historical method. He recommended to artists the
imitation of ancient statuary as the only way to achieve perfection, in both
aesthetic and moral terms. Excerpts from Johan Joachim Winckelmann, Gedanken
über die Nachahmung der griechischen Werke in der Malerei und Bildhauerkunst,
ed. by C. L. von Ulrichs, Stuttgart, 1885, 6–12, 24. The following translation
is from the first English edition: J. J. Winckelmann, Reflections on the
Painting and Sculpture of the Greeks . . ., trans. by Henry Fuseli, London,
1765. [P. 1] To the Greek climate we owe the production of Taste, and from
thence it spread at length over all the politer world. [P. 2] There is but one
way for the moderns to become great, and perhaps unequalled; I mean, by
imitating the antients. And what we are told of Homer, that whoever understands
him well, admires him, we find no less true in matters concerning the antient,
especially the Greek arts. But then we must [p. 3] be as familiar with them as
with a friend, to find Laocoon as inimitable as Homer. By such intimacy our
judgment will be that of Nicomachus: Take these eyes, replied he to some paltry
critick, censuring the Helen of Zeuxis, Take my eyes, and she will appear a
goddess. With such eyes Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Poussin considered the
performances of the antients. They imbibed taste at its source; and Raphael
particularly in its native country. We know, that he sent young artists to
Greece, to copy there, for his use, the remains of antiquity. Laocoon
was the standard of the Roman artists, as well as ours; and the rules of
Polycletus became the rules of art. [P. 4] The most beautiful body of ours
would perhaps be as much inferior to the most beautiful Greek one, as Iphicles
was to his brother Hercules. The forms of the Greeks, prepared to beauty, by
the influence of the mildest and purest sky, became perfectly elegant by their
early exercises. Take a [p. 5] Spartan youth, sprung from heroes, undistorted
by swaddling-cloths; whose bed, from his seventh year, was the earth, familiar
with wrestling and swimming from his infancy; and compare him with one of our
young Sybarits, and then decide which of the two would be deemed worthy, by an
artist, to serve for the model of a Theseus, an Achilles, or even a Bacchus [p. 6].
By these exercises the bodies of the Greeks got the great and manly Contour
observed in their statues, without any bloated corpulency. [P. 9] Art claims
liberty: in vain would nature produce her noblest offsprings, in a country
where rigid laws would choak her progressive growth, as in Egypt, that
pretended parent of sciences and arts: but in Greece, where, from their
earliest youth, the happy inhabitants were devoted to mirth and pleasure, where
narrow- spirited formality never restrained the liberty of manners, the artist
enjoyed nature without a veil. [P. 30] The last and most eminent characteristic
of the Greek works is a noble simplicity and sedate grandeur in Gesture and
Expression. As the bottom of the sea lies peaceful beneath a foaming surface, a
great soul lies sedate beneath the strife of passions in Greek figures. ’ Tis
in the face of Laocoon this soul shines with full lustre, not confined however
to the face, amidst the most violent sufferings. 16. Denis Diderot (1713–84) on
the excessive dependence on the Antique at the expense of the study of Nature.
Philosopher, polymath and editor of the Encyclopédie, Diderot is one of the
central figures of the French Enlightenment. His celebrated art criticism was
directed towards the biennial Salons organised by the Académie Royale de
peinture et de sculpture in Paris, and covered the period from 1759 to 1781.
His review of the 74 75 1765 Salon included a section on sculpture in
which he criticised Winckelmann’s semi-religious dependence on the Antique and
instead urged artists to return to the study of Nature, as the source of all
excellence in art, classical statues included. Diderot’s ‘naturalistic’ and
anti-academic approach – already difused into European art theory at least from
the 17th century onwards – became predominant in the 19th century.
Nevertheless, Diderot had an immense admiration for classical sculpture in
itself; for him it represented the best result of that fruitful study of Nature
and freedom of artistic creativity that he advocated for contemporary French
art. Diderot’s review of the Salon of 1765 was written for Melchior Grimm’s
Correspondence littéraire, which circulated in manuscript form. It was printed
for the first time in Jacques-André Naigeon, Oeuvres de Denis Diderot publiés
sur les manuscrits de l’auteur, 15 vols, Paris, 1798, 13, 314–16. This
translation is from Diderot on Art – 1: The Salon of 1765 and Notes on
Painting, ed. and trans. by J. Goodman, New Haven and London, 1995, 156–57. I
am fond of fanatics [p. 157]. Such one is Winckelmann when he
compares the productions of ancient artists with those of modern artists. What
doesn’t he see in the stump of a man we call the Torso? The swelling muscles of
his chest, they’re nothing less than the undulation of the sea; his broad bent
shoulders, they’re a great concave vault that, far from being broken, is
strengthened by the burdens it’s made to carry; and as for his nerves, the
ropes of ancient catapults that hurled large rocks over immense distances are
mere spiderwebs in compari- son. Inquire of this charming enthusiast by what
means Glycon, Phidias, and the others managed to produce such beautiful,
perfect works and he’ll answer you: by the sentiment of liberty which elevates
the soul and inspire great things; by rewards offered by the nation, and public
respect; by the constant observation, study and imitation of the beautiful in nature,
respect for poster- ity, intoxication at the prospect of immortality, assiduous
work, propitious social mores and climate, and genius . There is not a single point of this response
one would dare to contradict. But put a second question to him, ask him if it’s
better to study the antique or nature, without the knowledge and study of
which, without a taste for which ancient artists, even with all the specific
advantages they enjoyed, would have left us only medio- cre works: The antique!
He’ll reply without skipping a beat; The antique! and in
one fell swoop a man whose intelligence, enthusiasm, and taste are without
equal betrays all these gifts in the middle of the Toboso. Anyone who scorns
nature in favour of the antique risks never producing anything that’s not
trivial, weak, and paltry in its drawing, character, drapery, and expression.
Anyone who’s neglected nature in favour of the antique will risk being cold,
lifeless, devoid of the hidden, secret truths which can only be perceived in
nature itself. It seems to me that one must study the antique to learn how to
look at nature. 17. Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723–92) on the role of the Royal
Academy and on the study of the Antique. Sir Joshua Reynolds, the foremost
portrait painter in England in the 18th century, served as first president of
the Royal Academy between 1768 and 1792. His fifteen Discourses on Art,
delivered to the students and members of the Academy between 1769 and 1790,
became widely popular in Britain and abroad. They represent a distillation of
the idealistic and academic art theory of the previous centuries in support of
the ‘Grand manner’, mixed with his personal views, such as Reynolds’ huge
admiration for Michelangelo. The Discourses range from didactic guidelines for
the Academy to more theoretical discussions, and references to the Antique can
be found throughout, especially in Discourse 10, devoted to sculpture. Excerpts
from Discourses of Art. Sir Joshua Reynolds, ed. by R. R. Wark, New Haven and
London, 1997. [P. 15] Discourse 1 (1769): The principal advantage of an Academy
is, that, besides furnishing able men to direct the student, it will be a
repository for the great examples of the Art. These are the materials on which
genius is to work, and without which the strongest intellect may be fruitlessly
or deviously employed. By studying these authentic models, that idea of
excellence which is the result of the accumulated experience of past ages may
be at once acquired; and the tardy and obstructed progress of our predecessors may
teach us a shorter and easier way. The student receives, at one glance, the
principles which many artists have spent their whole lives in ascertaining;
and, satisfied with their effect, is spared the painful investigation by which
they come to be known and fixed. [P. 106] Discourse 6 (1774): All the
inventions and thoughts of the Antients, whether conveyed to us in statues,
bas-reliefs, intaglios, cameos, or coins, are to be sought after and carefully
studied: The genius that hovers over these venerable reliques may be called the
father of modern art. From the remains of the works of the antients the modern
arts were revived, and it is by their means that they must be restored a second
time. However it may mortify our vanity, we must be forced to allow them our
masters; and we may venture to prophecy, that when they shall cease to be
studied, arts will no longer flourish, and we shall again relapse into
barbarism. [P. 177] Discourse 10 (1780): As a proof of the high value we set on
the mere excellence of form, we may produce the greatest part of the works of
Michael Angelo, both in painting and sculpture; as well as most of the antique
statues, which are justly esteemed in a very high degree . But, as a stronger instance that this
excellence alone inspires sentiment, what artist ever looked at the Torso
without feeling a warmth of enthusiasm, as from the highest efforts of poetry?
From whence does this proceed? What is there in this fragment that produces
this effect, but the perfec- tion of this science of abstract form? A MIND
elevated to the contemplation of excellence perceives in this [p. 178] defaced
and shattered fragment, disjecti membra poetae, the traces of superlative
genius, the reliques of a work on which succeeding ages can only gaze with inadequate
admiration. 18. The Encyclopédie by Denis Diderot (1713–84) and Jean-Baptiste
le Rond d’Alembert (1717–83) on the advantages for artists to go to Rome to
experience the Antique and modern works of art. The second edition of Diderot’s
and D’Alembert’s epochal Encyclopédie included an entry on the Académie de
France in Rome, in which the role and mission of the institution is celebrated
in superlative terms. A period in Rome was still considered, even by the
anti-academic Diderot, to be essential for young artists to round of their
education in the physical and spiritual presence of the Antique and the great
Renaissance masters. This apology and defence of the Roman Académie was also
perhaps intended to counter the opinion of those, such as the sculptor
Etienne-Maurice Falconet (1716–91), who judged the trip to Rome no longer
necessary, given the quantity of plaster casts available in France. Excerpt from D. Diderot and J.-B. le Rond D’Alembert, Encyclopédie ou
dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des metiers . . ., new ed.,
Geneva, 1, 1777, 238–39 (translation Barbara Lasic). The French Academy in Rome is a school of painting that King Louis XIV
established in 1666, et one of the most beautiful institu- tions of this great
monarch for the glory of the kingdom and the progress of the fine arts . It was one of the greatest causes for the
perfection of art in France ; thus Le
Brun thought that young Frenchmen who intended to study the fine arts should go
to Rome and spend some time there. This is where the works of Michelangelo,
Vignola, Domenichino, Raphael and those of the ancient Greeks give silent
lessons far superior to those that our great living masters could give . Italy has the uncontested advantage and
glory of having the richest mine of antique models that can serve as guides to
the modern artists, and enlighten them in the quest for ideal beauty; of having
revived in the world the arts that had been lost; of having produced excellent
artists of all types; and finally of having given lessons to other people to
whom it had previously given laws [p. 139]. Italy is for artists a true
classical land as an Englishman calls it. Everything there entices the eye of
the painter, everything instructs him, everything awakens his attention. Aside
from modern statues, how many of those antiques, which by their exact
proportions and the elegant variety of their forms, served as models to past
artists and must serve to those of all centuries, does not the superb Rome
contain amid its walls? Although there are in France some very fine statues
like the Cincinnatus and a few others, we can state, without fear of being
mistaken, that there are none of the first rate, or of those that the Italians
call preceptive and that can be put in parallel with the Apollo, the Antinoüs,
the Laocoon, the Hercules, the Gladiator, the Faun, the Venus and many more
that decorate the Belvedere, the Palazzo Farnese, the Borghese grounds and the
gallery of Florence. The gallery Giustiniani alone is perhaps richer in antique
statues than the entire French kingdom. 19. James Northcote (1746–1831) on the
decline of the Antique as a model and on the thirst for novelty in art. The
pungent and lively conversations between the writer and art critic William
Hazlitt (1778–1830), and the painter James Northcote, were published in various
articles in The New Monthly Magazine in 1826 and then collated in 1830, causing
scandal for their frankness among contemporaries. The passage selected is one
of the most revealing testimonies on the growing dissatisfaction with the
Antique and the widespread demand for new forms of art. Excerpts from William
Hazlitt, Conversations of James Northcote, Esq., R.A., London, 1830, 51–53.
‘Did you see Thorwaldsen’s things while you were there? A young artist brought
me all his designs the other day, as miracles that I was to wonder at and be
delighted with. But I could find nothing in [p. 52] them but repetitions of the
Antique, over and over, till I was surfeited.’ ‘He would be pleased at this.’
‘Why, no! that is not enough: it is easy to imitate the Antique: – if you want
to last, you must invent something. The other is only pouring liquors from one
vessel into another, that become staler and staler every time. We are tired of
the Antique; yet at any rate, it is better than the vapid imitation of it. The
world wants something new, and will have it. No matter whether it is better or
worse, if there is but an infusion of new life and spirit, it will go down to
posterity; otherwise, you are soon forgotten. Canova too, is nothing for the
same reason – he is only a feeble copy of the Antique; or a mixture of two
things the most incompatible, that and opera-dancing. But there is Bernini; he is
full of faults, he has too much of that florid, redundant, fluttering style,
that was objected to Rubens; but then he has given an appearance of flesh that
was never given before. The Antique always looks like marble, you never for a
moment can divest yourself of the idea; but go up to a statue of Bernini’s, and
it seems as if it must yield to your touch. This excellence [p. 53] he was the
first to give, and therefore it must always remain with him. It is true, it is
also in the Elgin marbles; but they were not known in his time; so that he
indisputably was a genius. Then there is Michael Angelo; how utterly different
from the Antique, and in some things how superior!’ 76 77. CATALOGUE. Notes to
the reader support. All drawings and prints are on paper. measurements:
Mesurements of all works, both exhibited and reproduced as comparative
illustrations, are given height before width, in millimeters for drawings and
prints and in centimeters for paintings and sculpture. inscriptions: Recto and
verso indications for inscriptions are given only for drawings. For prints it
is assumed they are on the recto. Abbreviations: u.l.: upper left; u.c.: upper
centre; u.r.: upper right; c.l.: centre left; c.r.: centre right; l.l.: lower
left; l.c.: lower centre; l.r.: lower right. The original spelling is always
respected. provenance: Provenance is given in chronological sequence, as
completely as possible. Collectors’ names are given as listed in Lugt
(abbreviated L., L. suppl.) literature/exhibitions: Prints are included in the
Exhibition references when the actual impression catalogued here was shown;
when another impression was exhibited, it is mentioned under Literature. For
exhibition catalogue entries included in the Literature and Exhibition
references, the author or authors are given only when their initials are
specified at the end of the entry. Otherwise it is assumed that the entry was
written by the compilers of the catalogue. If an object has been illustrated in
a publication, a figure or plate number is included. If the object has been
illustrated without a figure or plate number, ‘repr.’ is used. If nothing is
specified, the object was not illustrated. For exhibition catalogues, only the
catalogue number is provided, as it is assumed that it was reproduced. Otherwise,
‘not repr.’ is used. #1 Agostino dei Musi, called Agostino Veneziano
(Venice c. 1490–after 1536 Rome) After Baccio Bandinelli (Gaiole, near Chianti
1493–1560 Florence) The Academy of Baccio Bandinelli in Rome 1531 Engraving,
state II of III 274 × 299 mm (plate), 278 × 302 mm (sheet) Inscribed recto,
l.c., on front of table support: ‘ACADEMIA . DI BAC: / CHIO . . MDXXXI. /. A.
V.’ selected literature: Heinecken 1778–90, 2, 98; Bartsch 1803–21, 14, 314–15,
no. 418; Pevsner 1940, 38–42, 5; Ciardi Duprè 1966, 161; Wittkower 1969, 232, 70;
Oberhuber 1978, 314.418, repr.; Florence 1980, 264, no. 687; Roman 1984, 81–84,
62; Weil-Garris Brandt 1989, 497–98, 1; Landau and Parshall 1994, 286, 304;
Barkan 1999, 290–98, 5.12; Fiorentini 1999, 145–46, no. 29; Munich and Cologne
2002, 319, no. 110; Thomas 2005, 3–14, figs 1–3; Hegener 2008, 396–403 and
624–25, pl. 228; Antwerp 2013, 26, repr.; Florence 2014, 528–29, no. 77.
BRANDIN . provenance: Elizabeth Harvey-Lee, North Aston (Oxfordshire), from
whom acquired in 1995. IN . / ROMA . / IN LUOGO . DETTO / . BELVEDERE . /
exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. The Bellinger Collection, inv. no.
1995-047 This renowned print by Agostino Veneziano after a design by Baccio
Bandinelli, the Florentine sculptor and draughts- man, depicts Bandinelli’s
academy for artists in the Belvedere in Rome, where he was granted the use of
rooms by Pope Leo X (r. 1513–21) and Pope Clement VII (r. 1523–34).1 We are
informed of this by the prominent inscription below the table, which renders
this engraving a particularly appropri- ate work to begin this catalogue,
because as well as being the first known representation of artists copying from
statuettes modelled after antique prototypes, it is the first recorded use of
the word ‘accademia’ in conjunction with art and the training of artists.2 This
term had previously been used to describe informal gatherings of men to discuss
liberal or intellectual subjects, such as philosophy or literature.3 Though the
scene does not depict an art academy in the modern sense – the origins of which
are found some thirty years later in Vasari’s Accademia del Disegno4 –
Bandinelli made the association between art and intellectual endeavour very
clear. His design focuses on the fundamental elements of a young artist’s
training, namely, intensive study and copying of the antique sculptures in
miniature scattered around the room, replicated on the artists’ tablets. It is
there- fore evident that artistic academies were from the beginning conceived
of as humanistic educational institutions, reliant, among other things, on
ancient statues as sources of inspira- tion. There is a conspicuous absence
here of drawing from life, which would later become one of the central elements
of Italian and French academic practices.5 The scene also places emphasis on
disegno, a word that encompasses much more than its mere translation as
‘drawing’. It comprises the intellectual capacity to create any kind of art,
including painting and sculpture, as well as drawing itself.6 In Bandinelli’s
own words, his was an ‘Accademia par- ticolare del Disegno’.7 In the print
exhibited here, the almost claustrophobic room and closely bunched apprentices
imply that study was a collaborative endeavour in Bandinelli’s academy, with
discussion among the students encouraged in order that they might better
comprehend the objects of their study, and capture them more effectively on
paper. Bandinelli himself is seated on the right, wearing a fur-lined collar,
holding a statuette of a female nude for his students’ contem- plation. The
results of their efforts are drawn on paper placed on drawing boards, using
quills and ink pots; what appears to be a blotter rests on the near edge of the
table. The noctur- nal setting evokes an atmosphere of mystery and a sense that
the central candle, with its forcefully radiating light, has, as well as a
physical function, a symbolic one, to illuminate the secrets of art and
disegno. The theme of drawing at night recurs throughout this exhibition (cats
2, 23, 24, 34) and reflects a persistent belief that such a setting is
essential for stimulating the introspection necessary for artistic success. It
also implies diligence and commitment, the ability and will to continue working
through day and night, that is required from a master artist.8 For these
reasons, a candle or lamp often symbolises ‘Study’, as seen in Federico
Zuccaro’s allegorical drawing (see cat. 5, 5). It also reveals a didactic
reliance on artificial light as preferable to natural light to emphasise the
contours of the sculptures and the contrasts of their planes, thereby
facilitating the copying process, an idea earlier espoused by Leonardo da Vinci
(with whom the young Bandinelli had personal contact) and later by Benvenuto
Cellini (1500–71).9 There is a striking interplay of the shadows cast by the
candlelight on the back walls, with the heads of both statues 80 81 and
artists overlapping one another. This may refer to a well- known passage from
Pliny’s Natural History: ‘The question as to the origin of the art of painting
is uncertain but all agree that it began
with tracing an outline around a man’s shadow’.10 The central figure on the
rear shelf casts an improbable shadow, as the hand held perpendicular to the
body is reflected on the wall as upright and perpendicular to the ground. This
was corrected in a copy after the second state (British Museum, London), which
is slightly smaller.11 The design of this copy is more crudely executed than
the original, and there are a number of significant changes to the scene that
are unique to this plate, which suggests that it was created by someone other
than Bandinelli.12 This demonstrates the relative freedom of printmakers to
make adjustments to designs, and may help us to infer that this print was
especially popular; such changes would have necessitated a new plate, which
would imply that demand outstripped the supply, or that the original plate was
under especially tight control by a single owner.13 The male and female statues
on the table are the focus of the artists’ devotion, and are reminiscent of
Apollo and Venus, specifically of the Venus Pudica type.14 They are probably
inspired by the famous statues of the Apollo Belvedere (see 26, 18 and cat. 5, 1)
and Venus Felix (fig. 1), which stood in the Belvedere Court and were
constantly used by artists as ideal models.15 They would have been easily
acces- sible to Bandinelli while lodging at the Belvedere. The male figures may
alternatively be types after Hercules, a figure 1. Venus Felix and Cupid, c.
200 ad, marble, 214 cm (h), Museo Pio-Clementino, Vatican Museums, Rome, inv.
936 that is prevalent throughout Bandinelli’s work (see cat. 3). In fact, Maria
Grazia Ciardi Duprè identified the upper left male figure on the shelf as a
bronze statuette of Hercules Pomarius, now at the Victoria and Albert Museum,
London, and on that basis suggested the statuette be newly attributed to
Bandinelli.16 Many subsequent scholars have accepted this,17 but the
differences in the two figures’ poses leaves the present author unconvinced,
and it seems more likely that the figures in the print are generic, idealised
types. In an almost meta-narrative, the intense focus on antique statuary is
echoed even by the central male statuette, as he gazes at a miniature statuette
poised on his own outstretched palm, which twists back to face him, returning
his gaze (fig. 2). The three statues arrayed on the shelf along the back wall –
two male and one female – are all of the same type as those on the table, and
may be either copies or casts of them in wax or clay. The statuettes probably
represent objects sculpted by Bandinelli himself referencing the Antique;
Vasari tells us that while using the rooms at the Belvedere, Bandinelli made
‘many little figures [. . .] as of Hercules, Venus, Apollo, Leda, and other
fantasies of his own’.18 One of these survives in bronze, a Hercules Pomarius
at the Bargello, in Florence (fig. 3), and it resembles the figures in the
engraving.19 The produc- tion of small models in wax, clay or bronze –
many modelled on ancient prototypes – for young artists to practice drawing in
the workshop, was already common in the 15th century. Several were created, for
instance, by Lorenzo Ghiberti (c. 1381–1455) and Antonio Pollaiuolo (c.
1431–98).20 They 2. Detail of Veneziano’s engraving, statue gazing at an even
smaller statuette 3. Baccio Bandinelli, Hercules Pomarius, c. 1545, bronze,
33.5 cm (h), Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Florence, inv. 281 Bronzi served the
purpose of familiarising young artists with the forms and poses of antique
models, allowing them to learn how to draw the three-dimensional human figure
from different angles on a flat surface. The juxtaposition of the statuettes
with several antique-style pots and vessels in the engraving reinforces the
connection between Bandinelli’s ‘academy’ and the classical past, as does the
fragment of a foot on the book that serves as a plinth for the male figure on
the right. The statuettes are positioned so that each faces a slightly
different direction, enabling the viewer to observe them from all angles, just
as the artists are instructed to do. Our participation is further encouraged by
the figure on the far left and by Bandinelli: both gaze outward and seem to
acknowledge our presence. The viewer is thus accorded a role as a fellow
student among the apprentices learning from Bandinelli in his academy. This
link with the academy was less explicit in the original version of Bandinelli’s
design. Ben Thomas drew attention to the first state of the print (Ashmolean
Museum, Oxford),21 in which the inscription – so prominent below the table in
the print exhibited here – was presented only in an abbreviated form on the
tablet hanging on the wall at the far right, without the word ‘academia’, and
with only Veneziano’s monogram and the date 1530, a year earlier than the
present engraving. This tablet, deprived of the inscription in the later
states, became an awkwardly superfluous element of the composition. Also
missing in the first state are the drawings on the sheets of the artists gathered
around the table. In changing these elements in the second state, as
represented here,22 Bandinelli deliberately ensured there was no possibil- ity
of misinterpreting this as a literary, rather than artistic, endeavour; it also
serves as propaganda for the artist himself, as a dissemination of not only his
powers of design, but his role as a teacher and an innovator. This makes it all
the more surprising that on the current print, his name is inscribed as
‘Bacchio Brandin.’ rather than Bandinelli. He adopted the Bandinelli surname in
1529 to align himself with a noble family from Siena, thereby making himself
eligible for the Order of Santiago, which he was awarded by Emperor Charles V
in 1530.23 The inscription dates the print to 1531, after his adoption of this
new genealogy, and so must reflect an error on the part of the engraver,
Veneziano.24 In his self-portrait, seated at the table, Bandinelli also does
not wear the insignia of the Order of Santiago, as he does in his other
self-portraits (cats 2 and 3), and so the design for this print most likely
dates prior to the granting of this award in 1530. Tommaso Mozzati suggested a
date earlier than 1527, when the sack of Rome forced both artists to flee the
city, Veneziano to Mantua, Bandinelli first to Lucca and then Genoa.25 The
inscription itself tells us the design was made in Rome, depicting a room in
the Belvedere. If Veneziano engraved the design after the two artists went
their separate ways, it could explain how the mistake in nomenclature was
allowed to occur.26 Bandinelli’s relentless self-promotion and willingness to
rewrite his family tree to achieve noble status can be explained by his
upbringing. His father, Michelangelo di Viviano (1459–1528), was a prominent
goldsmith in Florence, but the family had lost much of its wealth and prestige
by the time his son was born in October 1493.27 As Bandinelli’s three siblings
left home or died young, he was essentially the only child, charged with
restoring the family’s social standing. His father encouraged his training as
an artist from an early age, as an apprentice within his own workshop.
Bandinelli also worked with the sculptor Gian Francesco Rustici (1474–1554),
learning from him the process of model- ling sculptures in wax and clay for
casting into bronze. This association no doubt provided the opportunity to meet
Rustici’s collaborator at the time on St John the Baptist Preaching (Florence
Cathedral, Baptistry), Leonardo da Vinci (1452– 1519). Bandinelli was a staunch
Medici supporter, even throughout the family’s exile, and this cemented his
financial success as soon as two Medici popes came to power (Giovanni de’
Medici as Leo X in 1513 and Giulio de’ Medici as Clement VII in 1523). However,
it also inspired rabid criticism from many Florentines, who were Republican by
nature. 82 83 Our view of him is also coloured by Vasari’s
biography, in which Bandinelli is treated as the villain to his heroic rival,
Michelangelo.28 Such a bias is perhaps not completely unwar- ranted, as all
three prints on display here by Bandinelli reflect his insistence not only on
publicising his own image, but in vaunting his abilities as both a teacher of
the next generation of artists, as well as having a special and privi- leged
relationship to the Antique. This betrays the arrogance 29 that is also evident
in his writings, and may well have contributed to the negative opinions of his
character that persist to this day. rh 1 Vasari tells us that Bandinelli was
given use of the Belvedere (Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 5, 246, 250) but he
never mentions an academy (Barkan 1999, 290). This engraving and cat. 2, as
well as Bandinelli’s own account in his autobiographical Memoriale (which
exists in a single manuscript in the Biblioteca Nazionale in Florence, Cod. Pal.
Bandinelli 12, and is transcribed in Colasanti 1905 and Barocchi 1971–77, 2, 1359–
1411) are the only evidence we have for the existence of Bandinelli’s academy.
2 A less explicit link between art and the term ‘accademia’ is found on
engravings after Leonardo da Vinci’s designs of knot work, which are inscribed
‘Academia Leonardi Vinci’ (see Pevsner 1940, 25; Roman 1984, 81; and Goldstein
1996, 10 and frontispiece). For Bandinelli as the first to use this word in
conjunction with art training, see Pevsner 1940, 39; Barkan 1999, 290; Munich
and Cologne 2002, 319 under no. 110; Thomas 2005, 8; Hegener 2008, 401 and 403.
3 Visual arts were regarded as applied disciplines rather than liberal arts and
thus unsuitable for intellectual discussion (Pevsner 1940, 30–31; Goldstein
1996, 147; Cologne and Munich 2002, 319 under no. 110; Thomas 2005, 8–9). 4
Although Vasari was the instigator and organiser of the Accademia, officially
it was opened in 1563 by Cosimo de Medici (Pevsner 1940, 42). For more about
the Accademia see Goldstein 1975; Waz ́bin ́ski 1987; Barzman 1989; Barzman
2000. 5 Goldstein 1996, chap. 8; Barkan 1999, 292; Costamagna 2005. 6 Goldstein
1996, 14. 7 Barocchi 1971–77, 2, 1384–85. 8 Roman 1984, 83; Munich and Cologne
2002, 319; Thomas 2005, pp.6–7. 9 Weil-Garris 1981, 246–47, note 39; Barkan
1999, 292; Hegener 2008, 401. 10 ‘De picturae initiis incerta quaestio est omnes
umbra hominis lineis circumducta, itaque primam talem’: Pliny the Elder, Nat.
Hist., 35.5. See Pliny 1999, 270–71. 11 The British Museum print’s inventory
number is V,2.136. 12 Some changes are: the removal of Veneziano’s monogram,
the underlining of ‘Belvedere’ in the inscription and the figure sketches on
the artists’ sheets (Thomas 2005, 12). 13 Thomas 2005, 12. 14 For other statues
of the Venus Pudica type known in the early Renaissance, see Tolomeo Speranza
1988. 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 Hegener 2008, 401. For Venus
Felix, see Spinola 1996–2004, 1, 97, PN 23 and 14 on 98. Ciardi Duprè 1966, 161.
The inventory number of the statuette is A.76-1910. Or they have at least
restated Ciardi Duprè’s thesis without contestation. This includes Fiorentini
1999, 145; Thomas 2005, 11, note 21; and Hegener 2008, 403. Paul Joannides
disagrees and attributes the statuette in the Victoria and Albert Museum to
Michelangelo, saying that it in turn inspired Bandinelli to create his own
version of Hercules Pomarius, now in the Bargello, in Florence (fig. 3), which
is widely accepted as by Bandinelli (Joannides 1997, 16–20). Volker Krahn also
expressed doubt that it is by Bandinelli (Florence 2014, 374). ‘Fece molte
figurine come Ercoli, Venere, Apollini, Lede, ed altre
sue fantasie’ (Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 5, 251). See Florence 2014, 372–75, no. 32. Fusco 1982; Ames-Lewis 2000b, 52–55.
See also Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 22–23. Thomas 2005, 11. The
print’s inventory number is WA1863.1759. There is also a third state owned by
the Davison Arts Center of Wesleyan University, CT, in which the publisher
Antonio Salamanca’s name is added at the bottom right (Thomas 2005, 12).
Bartsch noted only one state (the second), but was also aware of the copy of
the second state discussed here (Bartsch 1803–21, 314–15, no. 418). The sheet
exhibited here may repre- sent a later impression of the second state, as the
underlining of ‘Belvedere’ has become so worn that it is only visible below the
first ‘el’ and the ‘r’. There is some debate as to when Bandinelli received
this honour. Scholars usually agree on 1529, but in his autobiography,
Bandinelli said it occurred in the same year as the emperor’s coronation, which
was in February 1530. According to Weil-Garris Brandt, the confusion arose
because the Florentine year ended in March (Weil-Garris Brandt 1989, 501, note
26). Ben Thomas agrees with her and says the emperor sent news of the honour to
Bandinelli from Innsbruck, after departing from Bologna on 22 March 1530
(Thomas 2005, 9 and note 12). This is perhaps not the only print to exhibit
such a mistake, as Bandinelli, in his Memoriale, bemoaned a similar error that
had to be corrected on a print of his Martyrdom of St Lawrence (Barocchi
1971–77, 2, 1396). However, this complaint itself is inaccurate, as the inscription
of ‘Baccius Brandin. Inven.’ on the St Lawrence print would have been a correct
appella- tion at the time of its execution in 1524, well before Bandinelli’s
adoption of his new name. Such an anachronism has prompted speculation that the
Memoriale is not actually by Bandinelli, but rather a forgery by one of his
descendants (Thomas 2005, 10); nevertheless, it represents a familial
dissatisfaction with the dissemination of Bandinelli’s designs once removed
from his control. Minonzio 1990, 686 and Florence 2014, 528 under no. 77.
However, by 1530, the date on the first state of this print, both Veneziano and
Bandinelli had returned to Rome (Thomas 2005, 11). This does not preclude
Veneziano from having engraved the design during their separa- tion. It is
unlikely that the design was executed at this later date because of the absence
of the insignia of the Order of Santiago; even if the image were retrospective,
it seems unlikely that Bandinelli would miss an opportunity for
self-aggrandisement. For Bandinelli’s biography, see Bandinelli’s own Memoriale
(see note 1), Vasari’s account in Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 5, 239–76,
and more concise surveys in Weil-Garris 1981, 224–42 and Waldman 2004, xv–xxviii.
Weil-Garris 1981, 224. Pevsner 1940, 42. 2. Enea Vico ( Parma 1523–1567
Ferrara) After Baccio Bandinelli (Gaiole, near Chianti 1493–1560 Florence) The
Academy of Baccio Bandinelli c. 1545/50 Engraving, state II of III 314 × 486 mm
(sheet) Inscribed recto, u.r., on left page of open book: ‘Baccius / Bandi: /
nellus / invent’; on right page: ‘Enea vi: / go Par: / megiano / sculpsit.’
Inscribed verso, l. c., on additional paper fragment, now attached, in pencil:
‘Eneas Vico ca 1520 – ca 1570 / Nagler XXII/515 bl 49 / Ein Hauptblatt’; and
below, in pencil, ‘B. Vol 15 B 305 No. 49’; l.l. in pencil: ‘£ 3013 60’ [the
rest illegible] provenance: Venator et Hanstein, Cologne, 3 November 1998, lot
2722, from whom acquired. selected literature: Heinecken 1778–90, 2, 98–99;
Bartsch 1803–21, 15, 305–06, no. 49; Passavant 1860–64, 6, 122, no. 49; Pevsner
1940, 40–42, 6; Ciardi Duprè 1966, 163–64, 26; Goldstein 1975, 147, 1;
Weil-Garris 1981, 235–36, 14; Roman 1984, 84–87, 66; Spike 1985, 305.49-I and
305.49-II, repr.; Landau and Parshall 1994, 286, 303; Barkan 1999, 290–98, 5.13;
Fiorentini 1999, 146–47, no. 30; Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 86–88, no. 21;
Thomas 2005, 12–14, 5; Hegener 2008, 404–12 and 625–26, pl. 232; Compton Verney
and Norwich 2009–10, 18, 15; Florence 2014, 530–31, no. 78. 84 85 exhibitions:
Not previously exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 1998-039 This
print by Enea Vico after a design by Baccio Bandinelli depicts a scene similar
to that in his earlier self-styled acad- emy (cat. 1), but it has been expanded
and amplified: the table which occupies all of the space in Agostino
Veneziano’s engraving has been moved to the right side of Vico’s print, and the
perspective is widened to allow a larger room to come into view. The number of
apprentices has grown from six to twelve, the books from one to six and the
antique sculptures from five to ten. The style of the print, as well as Vico’s
chronology, suggest that it is not the Belvedere acad- emy that is depicted
here, but a second academy, established by Bandinelli some twenty years later
after his return to Florence in 1540.1 As in the earlier print, the classical
figu- rines appear to be generalised interpretations of antique statuary rather
than exact copies of specific models, although they have been diversified here
by the addition of a horse’s head and a bust of a Roman emperor on the shelf.
Added to the fragments strewn about the room are skeletons and skulls, which
are now given a status equal to classical sources as inspiration for artists.
These refer to the growing tendency to study the anatomy of the human body in
Italian work- shops around the mid-16th century, mainly through skele- tons, a
practice that was codified by Benvenuto Cellini (1500–71) some twenty years
later in his Sopra i Principi e l’ Modo d’Imparare l’Arte del Disegno, in which
he advised artists to copy anatomical parts in order to attain skill as
draughts- men.2 While Bandinelli’s representation is one of the first to
document the spread of anatomical study among young artists, the practice was
formalised in the second half of the 16th century in the curricula of the first
academies, where sophisticated anatomy lectures were given and dissections were
performed.3 Both antique sculptures and skeletons became common elements in
subsequent representations of artists’ workshops, studios and academies, as
seen in Stradanus’ studio image and Cort’s engraving after it (cat. 4). This is
also reflected in an etching by Pierfrancesco Alberti of a painter’s studio or
academy (fig. 1), which shows a more structured curriculum of studies involving
anatomical dissection, geometry, the Antique and architectural drawing, closely
reflecting the disciplines taught in the earliest Italian academies,
particularly the Roman Accademia di San Luca.4 The light source is another difference
between the two prints after Bandinelli. The single candle in Veneziano’s
engraving has become three forcefully radiating fires, with the candle on the
table now partially dissolving the face of the student standing to its right.
The importance of studying at night, and the diligence and introspection this
implies, is again a primary theme. Another engraving after a Bandinelli design,
The Combat of Cupid and Apollo,5 also places impor- tance on fire as a source
of not only visual illumination, but as a symbol of philosophical and spiritual
revelation. The recurrence of this motif has been regarded as indicative of
Bandinelli’s neo-Platonic leanings; the flame symbolises divine Reason and its
power to defeat the darker, profane vices of the human condition, allowing man
to perceive true, celestial beauty, even while bound to the terrestrial realm.6
Indeed, the very concept of an academy is closely inter- twined with
Neo-Platonism, as it was widely considered that the first academy founded since
the end of classical times was that of Marsilio Ficino (1433–99) in Florence,
which was specifically based on the philosophy and teachings espoused by
Plato.7 Bandinelli himself is again represented, but he now stands at the
far right, instructing the two students who face him. He also now wears the
cross of St James, as befits a knight of the Order of Santiago, which he was
awarded in 1530, and which is seen in his other self-portrait (cat. 3). The
same insignia is placed prominently above the fireplace between the two cupids.
Bandinelli’s design therefore takes on a more propagandistic role, and has been
described by some scholars as a ‘manifesto’ for his academy.8 The staging here
stresses Bandinelli’s nobility, humanism and sophistication, while the
importance of copying from antique sculpture is rather downplayed, with the
casts relegated to the margins of the scene. None of the artists is now looking
at the casts; their focus is instead inward, as best exemplified by the figure
who sits at the centre of the composition, with his head in his hand. Only one
of the students’ drawings is visible, on the tablet of the standing apprentice
at the centre of the scene, and the female nude emerging from his stylus is
unrelated to any of the sculptures surrounding him, although clearly referring
to a model all’antica. She must therefore be a product of his mind, and so the
emphasis here is on the artist’s memory and imagination; the skeletons and
antique sculptures were essential for building his graphic vocabulary of the human
form, but they have been discarded now that he has successfully internalised
them and no longer needs to copy them directly.9 The exercise of memory was one
of the central principles of the pedagogical practices of the Italian
Renaissance, going back as far as Leon Battista Alberti (1404– 72) and Leonardo
(1452–1519).10 Giorgio Vasari (1511–74), in his Vite explicitly recommended
that ‘the best thing is to draw men and women from the nude and thus fix in the
memory by constant exercise the muscles of the torso, back, legs, arms and
knees, with the bones underneath. Then one may be sure that, through much
study, attitudes in any position can be drawn by help of the imagination
without one having the living forms in the view’.11 The importance of memory was
also stressed by Cellini in his treatise.12 There are three states of this
print, differentiated by the inscriptions.13 In the first state, the
inscription identifying Bandinelli as the designer on the left page of the book
on the upper right is included, as is the address of the Roman pub- lisher,
Pietro Palumbo, below the sleeping dog in the lower centre (not seen here). In
the second state, Enea Vico’s name is added on the right-hand page of the same
book, in a differ- ent script. In the final state, the name of Palumbo’s
successor as the publisher of this print, Gaspar Alberto, is added below the
skulls in the lower centre. Nicole Hegener believed there was an additional
state between the first and second, repre- sented by a version at Yale in which
Agostino’s Veneziano’s name was inscribed on the right-hand page of the book
before it was replaced by Vico’s.14 However, it was noted in 2005 that this was
added by hand in pen-and-ink, and was therefore just a modification of the
first state of the print.15 The print exhibited here was also believed to be a
unique 86 87 1. Pierfrancesco Alberti, Painters’ Academy, c.
1603–48, etching, 412 × 522 mm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, RP-P-1952-373
example of a state between the first and second, as both Bandinelli’s and
Vico’s names are present on the book, but Palumbo’s is missing.16 However,
close examination of the verso reveals extensive abrasion over the area where
Palumbo’s address would have been. The inscription was therefore erased from
this sheet, and does not reflect any changes to the original plate. It must,
therefore, be an example of the second state, which was subsequently altered
for an unknown reason. Palumbo’s name on the first state also makes the dating
of this print difficult. On stylistic grounds, most scholars date it to c.
1545/50,17 but Palumbo was not active 1731: Cellini 1731, 155–62 (on the study
of the bones and muscles, 157–62). See Olmstead Tonelli 1984, esp. 101. See
also Schultz 1985; Ottawa, Vancouver and elsewhere 1996–97; London, Warwick and
elsewhere 1997–98; Carlino 2008–09. Roman 1984, 91. See Appendix, no. 7 for the
statutes of the Accademia di San Luca. Repr. in Panofsky 1962, 107. Panofsky
1962, 148–51. Goldstein 1996, 14. For the neo-Platonic movement during the
Renais- sance, see Panofsky 1962, chap. 5. Compton Verney and Norwich 2009–10, 18;
Florence 2014, 520. Thomas 2005, 13–14; Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 87. Alberti
1972, 96–99 (book 3.55); Leonardo 1956, 1, 47, chap. 65–66. See also Aymonino’s
essay in this catalogue, 33. Brown 1907, 210; Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 1,
114–15. Cellini 1731, 157. Bartsch mistakenly conflated the second and third
states and therefore only listed two states (Bartsch 1803–21, 15, 305–06). He
was corrected by Passavant (1860–64, 6, 122, no. 49) and this is accepted by
subsequent scholarship (i.e. Thomas 2005, 13). Hegener 2008, 405. Houston and
Ithaca 2005–06, 88, note 1. See also Florence 2014, 530. Venator et Hanstein
sale, Cologne, 3 November 1998, lot 2722. Pevsner remarks on the characteristic
‘Mid-Cinquecento Mannerism’ of Vico’s print in contrast to Veneziano’s style,
which is reminiscent of Raimondi (Pevsner 1940, 40). The following agree on the
approximate dates c. 1545/50: Weil-Garris 1981, 235; Thomas 2005, 13; Houston
and Ithaca 2005–06, 86; Florence 2014, 530. Fiorentini suggested c. 1550
because after that date Vico used ‘sculptere’ on his works, rather than
‘sculpsit’ as here (Fiorentini 1999, 147). However, the form of Vico’s
inscription as ‘Enea Vigo’ on this print is completely unique, as his other
extant works are signed either ‘E.V.’, ‘Enea Vico’ or variations on ‘AENEAS
VICUS’ (Thomas 2005, 13). Therefore we must be very cautious in making any
assumptions based on this particular inscription. London 2001–02, 230. He
continued working until c. 1586. Florence 2014, 531. 3. Anonymous, 16th-century
Italian Artist After Niccolò della Casa (Lorraine fl. 1543–48) After Baccio
Bandinelli (Gaiole, near Chianti 1493–1560 Florence) Self-Portrait of Baccio
Bandinelli, Seated 1548 Engraving, 416 × 306 mm
Datedl.c.:‘1548’;inscribedl.r:‘A.S.Excudebat.’;inscribedl.c.inpencil:‘No
7.’andbelowtor.inpencil:‘No 7’. With the initials of the publisher, probably
Antonio Salamanca (1478–1562). provenance: Léon Millet, Paris (his stamp, not in
Lugt, in blue ink on the verso: ‘Léon Millet / 13 rue des Abbesses’ and below,
printed in black ink: ‘12 Mars 1897’);1 Bassenge, Berlin, 3 December 2003, lot
5155, from whom acquired. selected literature: Heinecken 1778–90, 2, 90;
Bartsch 1854–76, 15, 279–80; Nagler 1966, 1, 542, under no. 1266; Le Blanc
1854-88, 3, 414, 1–2; Steinmann 1913, 96-97, note 8; Florence 1980, 264, 266,
no. 690; Los Angeles, Toledo and elsewhere 1988–89, 76–77, no. 20; Fiorentini
1999, 153–54, no. 34, 34 (see also 150–53, under no. 33); Fiorentini and
Rosenberg 2002, 37, 20, 38, 42, 44; Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 32–34, no. 1
(J. Clifton); Hegener 2008, 391–96, version II, 57, 617–18, no. 16 (see also 380–91,
under version I); Florence 2014, 526–27, no. 76 (T. Mozzati). before c. 1562 at
Sant’ Agostino in Rome, Bandinelli’s death. Tommaso Mozzati speculated that
Bandinelli transferred his design to Vico before 1546, when the engraver left
Florence for Rome, and that the publication may have been delayed by a
deteriorating relationship between the two artists.19 If Vico intentionally
withheld the design until after Bandinelli’s death, it might explain how
Palumbo became its first publisher more than a decade later. 1 2 Pevsner 1940, 40–41;
Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 86. This engrav- ing, cat. 1 and Bandinelli’s own
writings in his Memoriale are the only evidence we have for the existence of
his academies (see cat. 1, note 1). Weil-Garris 1981, 246–47, note 39.
Cellini’s fragmentary treatise was probably written during the last two decades
of his life but published only 88 89 which post-dates rh exhibitions: Not
previously exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 2003-020 This
engraving reproduces, in reverse and with variations in detail, an unfinished
engraving by Niccolò della Casa, based on a lost drawing by Bandinelli.2 It is
unclear why the Della Casa engraving, which is known in only a few impressions,
was never finished. The present engraving is smaller than its model, resulting
in a few compositional differences. It was attributed to Nicolas Beatrizet (c.
1507/15–1573) by Erna Fiorentini and Raphael Rosenberg and while this was
accepted by James Clifton, it was rejected by Nicole Hegener and Tommaso
Mozzati.3 Until further information comes to light, it is perhaps safer to
attribute it to an unidentified Italian engraver working in Rome in the
mid-16th century. Hegener identified a further state with the added inscription
at centre right, ‘effigies / Bacci Bandinelli sculp / florentini’ and Karl
Heinrich von Heinecken mentioned yet another without inscriptions (untraced).4
If Bandinelli’s self-portrait inserted among his students in his academies
(cats 1–2) emphasises his role as teacher and mentor, this image speaks of a
solitary and relentless self-promoter.5 By 1548, the engraving’s date,
Bandinelli had achieved great success. He had served two Popes, Leo X (Giovanni
de’ Medici) and Clement VII (Giulio de’ Medici), for whom he had carried out
several important commissions including the classicising Orpheus and Cerberus
(Palazzo Medici Riccardi, Florence, c. 1519) modelled after the Apollo
Belvedere, the monumental Hercules and Cacus (Piazza della Signoria, Florence,
1523–34) and the papal tombs in Santa Maria sopra Minerva (1536–41).6 He was
currently serving the Grand Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici. And yet, it was Baccio’s
close alliance with the Medici, coupled with his on- going rivalry with
Michelangelo, a staunch anti-Medicean Republican, and others, like Benvenuto
Cellini (1500–71) that denied him the full respect and admiration of his
Florentine contemporaries. His intense competitiveness and difficult character
only exacerbated his contemporaries’ widespread dislike of him.7 Projecting
strength, power and authority, this arresting image, clearly intended for circulation,
was no doubt Baccio’s attempt to right those perceived wrongs.8 By fusing
motifs from his own work with motifs from antique sculpture – absorbed and
recast – Bandinelli sought to elevate his status and rank and to assert his
position while defending his work by associating it with the art of Greece and
Rome.9 The multi-layered and intertexual combination of themes and references
that resulted contributes to the engraving’s enigmatic allure and demands
careful interpretation. Significantly, it is the first image in the exhibition
to demon- strate how Antique imagery could be used by an artist to promote his
own art and his own achievements. The engraving shows us a man of great
physical presence, seated as though enthroned. His elevation is enhanced by a
rich costume – the luxurious fur-lined cloak nonchalantly slides off one
shoulder – more typical of an aristocrat than an artist. Emblazoned on his
chest is the cross of St James, the emblem of the prestigious 12th-century
Spanish military Order of Santiago, conferred on Bandinelli in 1530 by the Holy
Roman Emperor Charles V who over- ruled protests that it was unmerited.
Bandinelli took great pride in the honour, justifiably, since he was the only
artist to be awarded the cross of St James, which he included in other
self-portraits (see cat. 2).10 Immediately below the sharp lower point of the
cross his prominent codpiece protrudes through the folds of his tunic, an
unsubtle reference to his virility. His ‘progeny’ – a selection of his small
models and statu- ettes – are seen throughout. Proprietorially and prominently
cradled, and elevated on its own column base, is the figure of Hercules, the
son of Zeus, who heroically carried out the Twelve Labours. Hercules played a
central role in Bandinelli’s work.11 His near obsession with the demi-god, the
embodi- ment of strength in the face of adversity, is demonstrated in Hercules’
constant appearance – in bronze, marble, stucco and drawing – throughout
Bandinelli’s career.12 And since Hercules was the mythical founder of Florence
and an exemplum much favoured by the Medici, in linking his own image so
closely to the hero, Bandinelli was also referencing his association with his
native city and its ruling house.13 Hercules was the perfect foil to David, another
protector of Florence, and to represent the hero gave Baccio the opportu- nity
to display his mastery of the muscular male nude in heroic and often violent
action. Bandinelli also holds a rather different figure of Hercules in the
della Casa engraving, c. 1544 and in his grand painted self-portrait of c. 1550
(Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston) he proudly displays a preparatory
drawing for the Hercules and Cacus his most spectacular and ambitious
sculpture.14 This colossal group, – a pendant to Michelangelo’s David – and a
commission that he had taken away from Michelangelo, brought him considerable
fame despite the unfavourable reception that it received on its unveiling in
1534.15 In effect, Hercules was Bandinelli’s calling card and his prominence in
his self-portraits is unsurprising.16 Small-scale, classicising models made in
wax and terra- cotta such as those seen here and in his other prints (cats
1–2), were central to Bandinelli’s work as tools for teaching, and as
preparation for large-scale sculpture; many were translated into bronze, as
independent statuettes.17 Here, for example, the pose of the male nude seen
from behind standing in contrapposto at the right anticipates that of Adam in
Baccio’s Adam and Eve group of 1551 (Bargello, Florence).18 Perhaps because
Bandinelli was still working out the pose or perhaps to give the figure the
aura of a damaged antique, the left arm is missing below the elbow; several of
the other figurines in the engraving derive from the Antique but have been, as
it were, naturalised into Bandinelli’s own idiom. On equal footing with the
statuette of Hercules that he holds are the two standing female nudes on the
left, also elevated on a column shaft. They derive from the Cnidian Venus of
the 4th century bc, among the most famous works of the Greek sculptor,
Praxiteles, which was probably known 1. Baccio Bandinelli, A Standing
Female Figure, c. 1515, red chalk, 410 × 242 mm, private collection,
Switzerland 2. Giulio Bonasone, Saturn Seated on a Cloud Devouring a Statue, c.
1555–70, etching and engraving, 254 × 154 mm, The British Museum, Department of
Prints and Drawings, London, H,5.137 3. Anonymous, Ferrarese School, Fortitude,
playing card, c. 1465, engraving, 179 × 100 mm, The British Museum, Department
of Prints and Drawings, London, 1895,0915.36 90 91 4. Amico Aspertini, Lion Attacking a Horse,
pen and light brown ink, 107 × 146 mm, Staatliche Museen, Kupferstichtkabinett,
Berlin, KdZ 25020 to Bandinelli through a Roman copy.19 Intent on demonstrat-
ing his full knowledge of the statue Baccio presents one woman frontally, while
the other, headless, is seen from behind.20 Slim and regularly proportioned,
the Cnidian Venus was Bandinelli’s preferred female type and examples abound in
his sculpted and graphic work.21 A highly finished red chalk drawing (private
collection Switzerland, 1) compares well with the engraved nude on the left.22
The foreground is occupied with further statuettes: another Hercules stands on
a pedestal on the left and five male torsos are scattered on the ground at his
feet. While they loosely evoke the Antique – the two on the lower left, for
example, recall the Belvedere Torso (p. 26, 23), they have become
generalised.23 Headless and limbless, like antique fragments, they suggest once
more that Bandinelli was equating his work with that of the ancients. The lion
has been interpreted diversely and Bandinelli may well have intended
multi-layered interpretation. It has widely been seen as a heraldic Medici lion
(marzocco) and, as such, a reference to Bandinelli’s favoured position with the
Medici as well as his loyalty to their regime.24 Interpreted as devour- 25 ing
a lower thigh and knee, the lion has also been seen as a symbol of the artist’s
prowess in sculpture. A more complex explanation suggests a link with Saturn
devouring a boulder, a subject illustrated in a print by Giulio Bonasone (fig.
2), which is accompanied by the motto, ‘in pulverem reverteris’ (‘unto dust
shalt thou return’).26 As such, Bandinelli is not merely subjugating a wild
animal but also triumphing over Time.27 More simply, the lion may also refer to
Bandinelli’s favourite hero, Hercules, who conquered the Nemean lion, or evoke
Fortitude whose traditional attributes were a lion and a broken column, here
transformed into a plinth (fig. 3).28 Finally, it may be that Bandinelli was
again referencing the Antique: the Lion Attacking a Horse – part of a colossal
Hellenistic group (Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome) – in Bandinelli’s day, a
limbless fragment on the The fragment was considered ‘of such excellence that
Michelangelo judged it to be most marvellous’.31 There has been much
speculation about Bandinelli’s pose in the engraving. It might, in fact, refer
to the Belvedere Torso,32 as ‘restored’ in an engraving by Giovanni Antonio da
Brescia (1485–1525) of c. 1515 (fig. 5).33 The arrangement of his legs is also
close, in reverse to that of Laocoön, (p. 26, 19), a direct copy of which, in
marble (c. 1520–25, Florence, Uffizi) com- missioned by Leo X, was one of
Baccio’s greatest successes.34 His preparatory drawing for the sculpture also
in the Uffizi (fig. 6) shows him seated in a comparable pose as seen here.35
Once again, therefore, we see the sculptor referencing and promoting his own
work, employing the associative authority of Antique imagery. In sum,
Bandinelli presents himself here not only with the strength and fortitude of a
modern Hercules who successfully vanquished his adversaries but also as the
greatest, most recognisable hero- martyr and father from antiquity, Laocoön,
with his sculpted ‘offspring’ triumphant. Weil-Garris 1981, 236–37. For the
painting, see O. Tostmann, in Florence 2014, 510–13, no. 69, repr.; Mozzati
2014, 458–63. For a full discussion of the statue, see Vossilla 2014, 156–67,
repr.; Florence 2014, 573, no. VII. For Herculean imagery in the engraving, see
Hegener 2008, 382–86, 389–91, 395–96. Barkan 1999, 304; Krahn 2014, 324–31. As
first observed by Bruce Davis in Los Angeles, Toledo and elsewhere 1988–89, 77.
For the sculpture, see D. Heikamp, in Florence 2014, 314–15, no. 22, repr. He
also appears, in adapted form, in other works by the sculptor (Fiorentini 1999,
152). First noted by B. Davis, in Los Angeles, Toledo and elsewhere 1988–89, 77;
Barkan 1999, 308–09, 5.19. One half expects to see to a third figure to
complete the ‘Three Graces’. On the use of this double-view and his drawings
that may relate to these figures, see Fiorentini 1999, 151–52. Barkan 1999, 309–12;
V. Krahn, in Florence 2014, 356–59, no. 28. B. Davis in Los Angeles, Toledo and
elsewhere 1988–89, 77. The drawing was formerly with Yvonne Tan Bunzl (Bunzl
1987, no. 5, repr.; see also V. Krahn, in Florence 2014, 356, 1). Other copies
by Bandinelli after the same statue, one in red chalk, the other, in pen and
ink, are on a double- sided sheet in in the Biblioteca Reale, Turin (Bertini
1958, 17, no. 37; Barkan 1999, 311, figs. 5.21, 5.22). The same Cnidian Venus
type occurs at left in his drawing, Four Female Nudes, in the Art Gallery of
Toronto, 2006/432 (repr. in Aldega and Gordon 2003, 8, no. 1). A woman very
similar to that engraved at left both in pose, body type and hairstyle, appears
on a sheet in the Louvre, formerly classed as Bandinelli and now given to
Giovanni Bandini (1540–1599), Viatte 2011, 246–47, R2, repr. Houston and Ithaca
2005–06, 34. Of course, they could also be a further Herculean reference, as
the Torso was in the Renaissance believed to be that of Hercules (Haskell and
Penny 1981, 313). Fiorentini 1999, 150, followed by Hegener 2008, 388,
considered one of the torsos, the second from the left, to be based on the
torso of a satyr now in the Villa Barbarini, Castel Gandolfo, Rome, which was
in the Ciampolini collection in the Renaissance (Liverani 1989, 92, no. 34,
94–95, figs. 34.1–4). Given the differences in pose, the present author cannot
accept this view. Bandinelli adapted the pose of the Torso Belvedere for his
red chalk drawing, A Nude Man, Seated on a Grassy Bank in the Courtauld
Gallery, as noted by Ruth Rubinstein (Cambridge 1988, 26–27, no. 8, repr.); see
also Barkan 1999, 308–09, fig 5.17. Hegener 2008, 383. Houston and Ithaca
2005–06, 34. T. Mozzati, in Florence 2014, 527, who reports that this view is
shared by Mino Gabriele. That author notes (repeating Massari 1983, 125) that
the concept is paralleled in a passage from Ovid’s Metamorphosis (15.236–38).
However, it is also part of a famous passage from Genesis 3:19: ‘In the sweat
of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of
it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’ For
the print, see Massari 1983, 1, 125, no. 223, repr. T. Mozzati, in Florence
2014, 527, who also considers that Bandinelli holds a complete statuette, not a
fragment like the others in the print, as a modern manifestation of classicism.
Zucker 1980, 185, no. 53-A (136), repr.; Zucker 2000, 47, .036a. See also
Ripa’s illustrated edition of 1603 (Buscaroli 1992, 142–44, repr.). Fiorentini
1999, 151; Hegener 2008, 383. For the statue: Haskell and Penny 1981, 250–51,
no. 54, 128; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 236–37, no. 185. Faietti and Kelescian
1995, 220–21, no. 4; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 237, 185a. Aldrovandi 1556, 270,
cited and translated by Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 236. As proposed by Hegener
(2008, 380, 382, 389–90) who considered his arms to be based on those of Christ
in Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. Zucker 1980, 78, no. 5 (100), repr.; Zucker
1984, 350–51, .028, repr. The pose also anticipates Bandinelli’s God the Father
sculpture of the 1550s in S. Croce, Florence (Florence 2014, 595–98, no. XVIII,
repr.). Although intended as a gift for François I, it never reached its
intended recipient and remained with the next Pope Clement VII, in Florence.
Bober and Rubinstein 2010,pp. 165–66, no. 122b. Capecchi (2014, 129–55)
provides a thorough account of the project. D. Cordellier, in Paris 2000–01, 237–40,
no. 74, repr. 29 Aspertini (1472–1552) (fig.4; Kupferstichtkabinett, Berlin).
avl Rhea Blok has noted (e-mail, 12 August 2014) that the same collector’s mark
is found on Henri Mauperché’s etching, L’Ange conseillant Tobie, with A. et D.
Martinez (Paris 2003, 5, no. 20) and a print by Vincenzo Mazzi (Stage Set from
the Caprici Teatrali, Bologna, 1776) in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New
York, 66.500.27. It also appears on the reverse of the drawing by Hubert
Clerget, La Maison de Boucher, rue Carnot à la Ferte-Bernard, with C. J.
Goodfriend, New York, in 2014. Fiorentini 1999, 150–53, no. 33;
Fiorentini and Rosenberg 2002, 36, 19; Hegener 2008, 380–91, version I, 221, 617,
no. 15. J. Clifton in Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 32–34, no.
1; Hegener 2008, 391; Mozzati in Florence 2014, 526–27, no. 76. Erna Fiorentini
previously attributed it to Casa with a query (1999, 153). Hegener 2008 618,
no. 17, 226; Heinecken (1778–90, 2, 90). For his portraiture and use of it for
self-promotion, see Weil-Garris 1981, 237–38; Weil-Garris Brandt 1989; Mozzati
2014, 452–63. Florence 2014, 568, no. III; 573, no. VII; 576–81, nos
IX.-X. (R. Schallert). The Orpheus and his copy of the
Laocoön (ibid., 571, no. V) earned his reputation as ‘a great young talent who
can export the Belvedere’. (Barkan, 1999, 279). His personality is revealed in
his letters and the lengthy account in Vasari’s Lives (Bettarini and Barocchi
1966–87, 5, 238–76). See also Weil-Garris 1981, 223–24; Weil-Garris Brandt
1989, 497. Along with the date, 1548, the engraving bears the initials and
inscription, ‘A.S.Excudebat.’, presumably Antonio Salamanca, the leading
publisher of prints in Rome in the mid-16th century (Fiorentini and Rosenberg
2002, 38). Many of the prints he published were of Roman antiquities. See
London 2001–02, 233; Pagani 2000; Witcombe 2008, 67–105. Weil-Garris 1981, 231;
Weil-Garris Brandt 1989, 497. For a fundamental discussion of Bandinelli and
the Antique, see Barkan 1999, 271–408. Weil-Garris Brandt 1989, 497, 499–500.
Weil-Garris 1981, 237. See V. Krahn, in Florence 2014, 372–75, cat no. 32 who
further notes the similarity between the Hercules appearing in outline leaning
on his club at right in the unfinished print by Niccolò della Casa (Fiorentini
and Rosenberg 2002, 36, 19), and Bandinelli’s Hercules with the Apple of the
Hesperides, c. 1545, in the Bargello in Florence (372–75, cat. no. 32, repr.).
There are many other engraved representations of Hercules subjects by or based
on Bandinelli, who evidently planned a series, as noted by Roger Ward (in
Cambridge 1988, 74, under cat. no. 42). See also M. Zurla, in Florence 2014, 388–93,
cat. nos 37–39. Weil-Garris 1981, 237; Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 34.
Campidoglio – freely interpreted by artists like Amico 92 93 5.
Giovanni Antonio da Brescia (fl. 1490–1519), The Belvedere Torso with Legs and
Feet, as Hercules, c. 1500–20, engraving, 166 × 103 mm, The British Museum,
Department of Prints and Drawings, London, 1845,0825.258 6. Baccio Bandinelli,
Laocoön, pen and brown ink, 1520s, 417 × 265 mm, Uizi, Florence, inv. 14785 F
(recto) 4a. Jan van der Straet, called Johannes Stradanus (Bruges
1523–1605 Florence) The Practice of the Visual Arts 1573 Pen and brown ink with
brown wash and white heightening with touches of grey, incised for transfer 436
× 293 mm Inscribed recto, l.c., in pen and brown ink, in reverse sense: ‘io
stradensis flandrvs in 1573 cornelie cort excv’ provenance: Sir H. Sloane
bequest, 1753. literature: Hind and Popham 1915–32, 5, 182, no. 1; Ameisenowa
1963, 58; Wolf-Heiddeger and Cetto 1967, 171, no. 73, repr. on 431; Heikamp
1972, 300 and 1 on 302; Heidelberg 1982, 29, no. 52, pl. 1 on 17; Sellink 1992,
46; Rotterdam 1994, 195–99 (in Dutch), 200–05 (in English), a on 204; Baroni
Vannucci 1997, 63–64, 247, no. 313, repr. on 246. exhibitions: Florence 1980, 213,
no. 523, not repr. (G. G. Bertelà); London 1986, no. 144, repr. on 193 (N.
Turner); Ottawa, Vancouver and elsewhere 1996–97, 148–49, no. 39 (M. Kornell);
London, Warwick, and elsewhere 1997–98, 19, 25, 119, no. 142 (D. Petherbridge
and L. Jordanova); London 2001–02, 21, no. 4 (M. Bury); Bruges 2008–09, 227–28,
no. 20 (A. Baroni). The British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings,
London, SL,5214.2 exhibited in london only 4b. Cornelis Cort (Hoorn 1533–before
1578 Rome) After Jan van der Straet, called Johannes Stradanus (Bruges
1523–1605 Florence) The Practice of the Visual Arts 1578 Engraving State I of
II1 432 × 295 mm Inscribed recto, l.c., on wooden box: ‘Cornelius Cort fecit. /
1578’; along bottom: ‘Illmo et Exmo Dn ́o Iacobo Boncompagno Arcis Praefecto,
ingenior, ac industriae fautori, Artiú nobiliú praxim, á Io, Stradési Belga artifiosè
expressá, Laureti’ Vaccarius D.D. Romae Anno 1578.’; u.r.: ‘PICTVRA’; c.l. on
table in background: ‘FVSORIA’; u.c. below statue: ‘STATV ARIA’; l.l. on table:
‘ANATOMIA’; below statue of horse: ‘SCVLPTVRA’; c.r. on book on table:
‘ARCHITECTVRA’; r. on paper on table: ‘Typorum eneorum / INCISORIA’; l.c. on
stool: ‘Tyrones pi / cture’. provenance: possibly entered Rijksmuseum
collection late 19th century (L.2228)2 literature: Hind and Popham 1915–32, 5, 182;
Bierens de Haan 1948, 199, no. 218, 53; Hollstein 1949–2001, 5, 58, no. 218,
repr.; Ameisenowa 1963, 58; Wolf-Heiddeger and Cetto 1967, 171–72, no. 74,
repr. on 431; Heikamp 1972, 300, 2 on 302; Strauss 1977, 1, 278–79, repr.;
Florence 1980, 213; Parker 1983, 76–77, repr. (as state II); Roman 1984, 88–91,
69; Strauss and Shimura 1986, 249, 218.199; Liedtke 1989, 190, no. 53, repr. on
191; Sellink 1992, 46, 18 on 47; Rotterdam 1994, 195–99 (in Dutch), 200–205 (in
English), no. 69; Ottawa, Vancouver and elsewhere 1996–97, 148–51, no. 40;
Baroni Vannucci 1997, 63–64, 436, no. 772; Sellink and Leeflang 2000, part 3, 118–19,
no. 210; London 2001–02, 18–21, no. 3; Munich and Cologne 2002, 321–22, no.
112; Wiebel and Wiedau 2002, 154, repr. on 155; Perry Chapman 2005, 116, 4.7 on
117. exhibitions: Vienna 1987, 320, no. VII.25 (M. Boeckl); Amsterdam 2007, no.
5 (C. Smid and A. White); Bruges 2008–09, no. 21 (A. Baroni); Compton Verney
and Norwich 2009–10, 18–19, no. 16. their careers in Italy. Jan van der Straet
was born in Bruges in 1523, but we know very little of his life before he
arrived in Italy around 1545.4 He settled in Florence but worked in both Rome
and Naples, and became a close collaborator of Giorgio Vasari (1511–74),
assisting him in the decoration of the Palazzo Vecchio and at Poggio a Caiano.
Like Vasari, Van der Straet was immensely versatile, working on paintings and
portraits, making cartoons for tapestries and creating hundreds of designs for
prints. He died in Florence in 1605, and is better known to posterity by the
Italianised version of his name, Johannes Stradanus. He nevertheless maintained
his Flemish identity by signing his works with variations of ‘FLANDRUS’, as
seen in the exhibited drawing; however, it is difficult to decipher, because
Stradanus wrote the inscrip- tion in reverse. This is clear evidence that the
drawing was intended as a design for a print. All the figures use their left
hands, which is further proof, as are the clear indentation lines made to
transfer the design to the plate. Stradanus’ inscription is dated 1573, and
includes the name of the Dutch- man Cornelis Cort, who would engrave the
drawing five years later, in 1578.5 Cort is first documented working in the
printing house of Hieronymous Cock (c. 1510–70) in Antwerp, around 1553, before
he travelled to Italy in 1565.6 At first he worked in Venice, where he formed a
famous partnership with Titian (c. 1488–1576), but he later moved to central
Italy. Cort probably met Stradanus in 1569 in Florence, where the Medicis had
requested his presence to engrave their family tree.7 In the engraving, Cort
moved his own name to the block at the centre foreground, where he also
inscribed the date 1578. Stradanus’ inscription was replaced by one from the
publisher, Lorenzo Vaccari (active 1575–87), dedicating the work to Giacomo
Boncampagni, Prefect of the Castel Sant’Angelo and son of the newly appointed
Pope Gregory XIII (r. 1572–85).8 Cort made several further changes to
Stradanus’ design, the most obvious of which are the inscriptions added to
clarify the various activities being conducted around the room. Thus we can
identify the three arts of disegno taking place in one institution, with
painting (‘PICTVRA’) on the wall, sculpture (‘STATVARIA’ and ‘SCVLPTVRA’) on
the plinths in the centre, and architecture (‘ARCHITECTVRA’), which is given
short shrift, repre- sented only by the man seated at the table before the
Venus, holding a pair of dividers. The architect is in fact overshad- owed by
the unusual addition beside him of a seated engraver, whose burin rests on the corner
of the table next to the more prominent inscription ‘Typorum eneorum
INCISORIA’. Michael Bury thought this focus on engraving was added at Cort’s
urging,9 but Stradanus, as the inventor of more than 560 designs for prints,
may himself have decided to place unprecedented emphasis on the graphic arts.10
Of the three genres of painting – landscape, portraiture and history paint- ing
– the latter was considered the most admirable, and so it is appropriate that
the painting on the wall depicts an ancient battle scene. Sculpture is depicted
hierarchically, with prom- inence given to the grand marble sculptures atop the
plinth, distinguished from the lesser arts of wax modelling and bronze casting,
embodied by the rearing horse below. While the older bearded masters are at
work within their individual disciplines, their true purpose is to guide the
next generation of artists – the young, clean-shaven students scattered around
the room. The foreground is therefore occupied with training exercises, as the
pupils learn to draw after the Antique and the human body before attempting the
loftier projects of sculpture and painting, exemplified in the upper back
registers of the scene. The role of the Antique is actually more prominent in
the print than in the drawing, as the statuette of Venus – which, like the
statuettes in Bandinelli’s academies (cats 1 and 2), is probably all’antica
rather than an antique original – meets the gaze of a young pupil, whose quill
is poised to draw her. This same youth in Stradanus’ design has already filled
his sheet with repeated sketches of eyes. This reflects a different practice,
referred to as the ‘alphabet of drawing’, in which students were encouraged to
start with the smallest part of the human body, usually the eyes, gradually building
up a repertoire of the individual parts before assembling them into more
complex configurations. In the same way, a writer must first learn the alphabet
and how to form indi- vidual letters into words before being able to construct
sentences. Benvenuto Cellini (1500–71) described this as a common practice:
‘The teachers would put a human eye in front of those poor and most tender
youths as their first step in imitating and portraying; this is what happened
to me in my childhood, and probably happened to others as well’ . 1 1 His
statement is corroborated not only by Stradanus’ drawing, but by a similar
youth in Pierfrancesco Alberti’s (1584–1638) etching of a studio (cat. 2, 1)
and by a sheet of eyes from Odoardo Fialetti’s (1573–1638) drawing-book (p. 34,
37). Stradanus repeated the youth and his drawing of eyes in another design for
a print, which appeared in a series called Nova Reperta, published by Philips
Galle (1537– 1612) in the 1590s (fig. 1). This ‘A B C ’ technique of drawing,
as well as the important role of the Antique, were codified in Federico
Zuccaro’s (c. 1540–1609) first statutes for the Accademia di San Luca,
‘re-founded’ in Rome in 1593.12 The idea of progressing from simple elements to
a complex whole originated with Leon Battista Alberti (1404–72), and he
recommended a similar method for the study of human anatomy, starting with the
bones before adding muscles and Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, RP-P-BI-6381 exhibited
in haarlem only This crowded, idealised vision of a workshop for training
artists is the natural successor to the earlier academies depicted by Baccio
Bandinelli (cats 1 and 2). The Antique still plays a prominent role, seen in
the large marble statues in the centre depicting Rome personified next to the
river god Tiber, both based on the well-known sculptures in the Capitoline,3
and by the statuette of a Venus Pudica type with her back to us standing on the
table in the foreground. Equal importance, however, is accorded to the study of
anatomy, 94 and the young pupils in the foreground focus their attention on the
skeleton and cadaver suspended from ropes and pulleys. This reflects the later
16th-century emphasis on the study of anatomy as an integral part of the
artist’s education, a tendency that was already evident in the skeletons added
to Bandinelli’s second academy print (cat. 2), and which is fully realised in
this scene. The drawing and print catalogued here were produced in close
collaboration by two Northern artists who both made 95 96 97
finally flesh.13 The students in Stradanus’ drawing are dili- gently following
these instructions by examining the bones of a skeleton, while a bespectacled
tutor flays the arm of a corpse to grant them a view of the musculature.
Regardless of which object they are studying, all the pupils are engaged in
drawing, considered to be the essential element in their education. Stradanus’
design is therefore an allegory of the ideal academy, in which all of the arts
are improbably combined under one roof to offer the most well-rounded and comprehensive
instruction to the next generation of artists. Detlef Heikamp, however,
believed it to represent a specific academy, the Accademia di San Luca in Rome,
and to be the pendant to another drawing by Stradanus, now in Heidelberg,
depicting the Accademia del Disegno in Florence (fig. 2).14 Most other scholars
disagree, however, as the Accademia di San Luca was not officially founded
until 1593, exactly 20 years after the drawing was made.15 The drawing also
predates a Breve issued by Pope Gregory XIII in 1577, urging the foundation of
such an academy.16 Heikamp was correct, however, in pointing out the Roman
symbolism of this drawing, evident in the grand statue of Rome personified,
based iconographically on Minerva, flanked by the river god Tiber and the
she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus. The Heidelberg drawing, by contrast, is
decidedly Florentine, showing Brunelleschi’s dome, the river god of the Arno
and the Florentine lion, the Marzocco. However, the two drawings are very
different 2. Johannes Stradanus, Allegory of the Florentine Academy of Art, c.
1569–70, pen and brown ink, brown wash and white heightening, 465 × 363 mm,
Kurpfälzisches Museum der Stadt Heidelberg, Inv. Nr. Z 5425 in size,17 and the
consensus of opinion is that they are not a pair, representing separate
allegorical, idealised Roman and Florentine teaching traditions.18 Stradanus
himself was a founding member of the Accademia del Disegno, which opened in
1563 in Florence. The study of anatomy was a central precept of the Acca- demia,
and, while acting as a consul in the winter of 1563, Stradanus was responsible
for organising a dissection for the students.19 His experience guiding and
shaping young Florentine artists must have informed his designs. Perhaps
Stradanus was compelled to portray such an academy in which the three arts of
disegno are exalted and glorified in order to allay growing concerns about the
status of art and artists.20 Alessandra Baroni made the radical proposal that
Cort was the driving force behind the project, and that it was conceived around
1569 when he and Stradanus were both working in Florence.21 The Medicis
commissioned Cort to engrave their family tree, and while he was in Florence he
created a series of prints with Florentine and Medici themes, including
engravings of tombs in the Medici Chapel. Cort may have undertaken these
projects on his own initiative, and the Heidelberg drawing would have made a
fitting addition to the series. An engraving of it, however, was never
executed, perhaps because a receptive audience could not be found, but in Rome
four years later, Cort may have found a more conducive atmosphere and convinced
Stradanus to resume the endeavour. Whatever the motiva- tion, the design proved
very popular, as evidenced by the existence of two early copies of the
engraving, the first of 22 which was published in Venice around 1580. Clearly,
Italian audiences were fascinated by the subject of art and the requisite
training necessary for its creation, in which the Antique played a pivotal role.
The second state was printed 200 years later, when the plate came into the
possession of Carlo Losi, who changed the date on it to 1773 (Bruges 2008–09, 229).
I am grateful to Erik Hinterding, Curator of Prints at the Rijksmuseum, for his
correspondence regarding this provenance. Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 89–90, no.
42 and 113–14, no. 66. Janssens 2012, 9–10. Karel van Mander’s biography of Van
der Straet is very brief (Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 326–29). A better source is
Borghini 1584, 579–89. There is an excellent chronology of his life, including
lists of the related archival documents, in Baroni Vannucci 1997, 446–51. The
inscription ‘CORNELIS CORT EXCV’ suggests that Cort had intended to publish the
print himself. He may have struggled to do so, explaining the five-year gap
between the date of the drawing and the pub- lication of the print, and it was
published by another man, Lorenzo Vaccari (Bruges 2008–09, 228–29). It may even
have been published post- humously, as Cort died in 1578 (Sellink and Leeflang
2000, part 3, 119). For Cort’s biography, see Thieme-Becker 1907–50, 12, 475–77.
Cock was also the first publisher with whom Stradanus worked, in 1567, and they
had a long partnership (Baroni 2012, 91). Bruges 2008–09, 228. Boncompagni was
appointed to this post in 1572, and in April 1573 was promoted to Governor
General of the Church. It is strange that the inscrip- tion added to the print
in 1578 refers to Boncompagni by the lesser title of Prefect, which Michael
Bury took as proof that the print was more likely to have been executed in
1573, the same year as the drawing. He thought it possible that the ‘3’ had
simply been changed to an ‘8’ in the date 1578 on the stool; however there are
no extant 1573 versions of the print (London 2001–02, 18, 21). London 2001–02, 18.
Leesberg 2012a, 161. Amornpichetkul 1984, 117 and Cellini 1731, 141. Cellini
went on to say he considered this a ‘poor method’ but he agreed on the means of
building up the bones of a skeleton in order to draw a successful nude. See
also Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 33–34. Appendix, no. 7. Alberti 1972, 75
(book 2, chap. 36) and 97 (book 3, chap. 55). Heikamp 1972, 300. It is true
that for decades the idea for such an institution had been simmer- ing,
especially at the behest of Federico Zuccaro, a founding member of the
Accademia del Disegno in Florence. He was unhappy with its tenets and sought
reforms, eventually simply founding the Accademia di San Luca instead (Pevsner
1940, 59–60). Heikamp’s theory has been rejected in London 2001–02, 21 and
Bruges 2008–09, 226. The Pope decried the level of decadence in contemporary
art and blamed it on defective training of young artists, arguing that if they
had been properly instructed in both art and religion, they would not sink to
such lows (Pevsner 1940, 57). The Heidelberg drawing is much larger and
measures 465 × 363 mm. The figures in the Heidelberg drawing also all use their
left hands, so it must have been intended for a print; however, no such print
has come to light (London 2001–02, 21). Ottawa, Vancouver and elsewhere
1996–97, 148. Rotterdam 1994, 200. Bruges 2008–09, 226–27. Bruges 2008–09, 229.
For a list of the copies, see Sellink and Leeflang 2000, part 3, 119. For the
practice of copying after Stradanus’ prints, see Leesberg 2012a. 98
99 1. Published by Philips Galle after a design by Johannes Stradanus, Color
Olivi, plate 14 in Nova Reperta series, c. 1580–1600, engraving, 201 × 271 mm,
private collection 5. Federico Zuccaro (Urbino c. 1541–1609 Rome) Taddeo
in the Belvedere Court in the Vatican Drawing the Laocoön c. 1595 Pen and brown
ink, brush with brown wash, over black chalk and touches of red chalk, 175 ×
425 mm Inscribed recto in brown pen and ink by the artist on the building in
the background: ‘le camore di Rafaello’; on the figure’s tunic in capital
lettering, ‘THADDEO ZUCCHARO’; numbered u.r. in brown ink: ‘17’. provenance:
Gilbert Paignon Dijonval (1708–92); Charles-Gilbert, Vicomte Morel de Vindé
(1759–1842), see L. 2520; Samuel Woodburn (1786–1853), 1816; Thomas Dimsdale
(1758–1823), see L. 2426; Samuel Woodburn, 1823; Sir Thomas Lawrence
(1769–1830), L. 2445; Samuel Woodburn, 1830; Sold Christie’s, London, 4 June
1860, part of lot 1074; bought by Sir Thomas Phillipps (1792–1872); Thomas
Fitzroy Fenwick (1856–1938); Dr A. S. W. Rosenbach (1876–1952), 1930; Philip H.
and A. S. W. Rosenbach Foundation until 1978; The British Rail Pension Fund,
1978; Their sale, Sotheby’s, New York, 11 January 1990, lot 17; Finacor, Paris;
Their sale, Christie’s, London, 28 January 1999, part of lot 35 (no. 17), from
whom acquired. selected literature:1 Rossi 1997, 64; Acidini Luchinat ; Paul
2000, 5–6, 1; Paris 2000–01, 379–80, under no. 185 (C. Scailliérez); Silver
2007–08, 86; Lukehart 2007–08, 105; Cavazzini 2008, 50, 26; Tronzo 2009, 49, 6,
52–54; Deswarte-Rosa 2011, 27–28, 31, 4; Pierguidi 2011, 29–30, 3; Luchterhandt
2013–14, 38–39, 11. exhibitions: London 1836, 11, no. 17, not repr.; Los
Angeles 1999 (no catalogue); Rome 2006–07, 159–60, no. 51 (M. Serlupi Crescenzi);
Los Angeles 2007–08, 24, 33–34, no. 17 (see also, 7, 40, 70, 86, 127). 1.
Apollo Belvedere, Roman copy of the Hadrianic period (117–138 ad) from a Greek
original of the 4th century bc, marble, 224 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome inv.
1015 2. Laocoön, possibly a Roman copy of the 1st century ad after a Greek
original of the 2nd century bc, marble, 242 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv.
1064 The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, 99.GA.6.17 exhibited in
london only Look here, O Judgment, how he observes the antique and Polidoro’s
style as well as Raphael’s work he studies. (Ecco qui, o Giuditio, osservando
Va de l’antico, e Polidoro il fare E l’opre insiem di Rafael studiando)2 The
series of twenty drawings by Federico Zuccaro of his older brother, Taddeo
(1529–66), is a unique treasure of Renaissance drawing.3 With cinematic realism
and narrative flair, the drawings tell the story of Taddeo’s travails and even-
tual success as a young artist in Rome in the 1540s. It begins with his
heart-rending departure at fourteen from the family home in S. Angelo in Vado,
a provincial town in the Marches, and his arrival in the Eternal City. There
Taddeo sets about following the prescribed course of study typical for any
aspir- ing painter of the period. First, he apprentices with a local painter,
performing menial tasks – preparing pigments and household chores – and finding
time to draw, mostly only at night. After being mistreated by the painter’s
wife, he escapes to discover Rome for himself. He assiduously copies statues
and reliefs from classical antiquity and the work of contem- porary masters
including the frescoes in the Logge and the Stanze of the Vatican by Raphael,
the Last Judgment by Michelangelo and façade paintings by Polidoro da
Caravaggio. After much focused and disciplined study, he triumphs victoriously
with his first major success: the painted façade of Palazzo Mattei (1548). And
this is where the story ends (Taddeo would die prematurely of illness at the
age of thirty-seven). In this drawing, number seventeen, we enter the story in
medias res. Here Taddeo, affectionately identified by name on his tunic, is at
Vatican Belvedere Statue Court studying the most iconic antique sculptures of
the day: the Apollo Belvedere on the left (fig. 1; see also 25–26), the Nile
and Tiber in the centre and the object of his attention, possibly the most
famous work in the collection, the Laocoön on the right (fig. 2; see also 25–26).4
With his back turned, we peer voyeuristi- cally over his shoulder as he draws intently.
He has settled in for a day of intense study; his meagre sustenance, a small
loaf of bread and flask of wine on the ground next to him, has remained
untouched. The notion of the artist drawing inces- santly with little to eat or
drink anticipates the vivid descrip- tion of the young Gian Lorenzo Bernini
(1598–1680) who as a boy spent dawn to dusk at the statue court making copies.5
Significantly, this is the earliest known image of an artist at work at the
Belvedere, the most important and certainly the most influential collection of
classical antiquities assem- bled in the Renaissance.6 Given its unique
accessibility – unlike the collections housed in private aristocratic palaces –
it provided a sanctuary for the unencumbered study of antique statuary, which
also included recently excavated works. Thus, it served a key role in providing
an artistic instruction not just direct but exhilaratingly au courant. It also
meant that the sculptures displayed there would become famous as their images
were disseminated through prints and drawings. When Taddeo visited the
sculpture court in the 1540s, it had undergone a major renovation.7 In 1485,
under Pope Innocent VIII (r. 1484–92), a private villa was built on the hill
behind the old Vatican place, named the Belvedere (‘fair view’), for its
position. In 1503, Pope Julius II (r. 1503–13) commis- sioned the architect,
Donato Bramante (1444–1514), to incor- porate the house with the Vatican
complex thereby creating an enclosed rectangular garden courtyard, the Cortile
del Belvedere, to display his expanding antiquities collection. Wishing it to
be accessible to the public, the Pope had Bramante construct a spiral staircase
that enabled visitors to arrive at the courtyard directly, without having to
enter the palace proper.8 The courtyard was an enchanted world filled with
orange trees, fountains, an elegant loggia, and displayed in the centre of the
court, the colossal marble statues of the Nile and Tiber mounted as fountains.9
Statues including the celebrated Apollo Belvedere and the Laocoön were
displayed in especially created niches.10 Maarten van Heemskerck’s drawing in
the British Museum, c. 1532–33 (fig. 3), the earliest known view of the
Cortile, gives a sense of the space and the disposition of the sculpture
displayed there.11 Immediately evident is that Federico’s al fresco evocation
bears little resemblance to Heemskerck’s and to other con- temporary
descriptions of the courtyard. The setting is now a sun-drenched rise with a
vista, no t an enclosed garden, and the statues are freed from the
confines of their niches. And yet in other ways Federico has gone to lengths to
convince us of the time period – 1540s – as we will see. In fact, so well-known
was this space that Federico needed only to refer to it in short-hand. The
statues depicted would have been instantly recognisable to any viewer and
Taddeo’s location in the Belvedere understood. Since its discovery in January
of 1506 in the ground of a private vineyard on the Esquiline near the remains
of the so-called Baths of Titus, the Laocoön group, comprising the ill-fated
Trojan priest and his two sons violently struggling to free themselves from two
serpents who devour them, was immediately venerated.12 While still in the
ground, the architect and antiquarian, Giuliano di Sangallo, sent to inspect it
by Pope Julius II, identified it as the famous statue singled out by Pliny the
Elder as ‘of all paintings and sculptures the most worthy of admiration’
(Natural History 36.37–38).13 It was installed in the Belvedere in a
chapel-like recess.14 The sculpture’s fame was instant and far-reaching.
Entranced by it, Michelangelo proclaimed it an inimitable miracle.15 Collectors
eagerly sought copies, commissioning Jacopo Sansovino (1486–1570), Baccio
Bandinelli (see cat. 3) and others to make replicas of various sizes in bronze,
marble, wax, terracotta, even gold.16 For artists, its effect was manifold. It
provided an anatomical model for the male nude that was strong, forceful and
capable of dynamic movement. The range of ages and emotions conveyed and
symbolised – fear, agony, heroism in death – also inspired emulation. 3.
Maarten van Heemskerck (1498–1574), View of the Belvedere Sculpture Court, c.
1532–36/37, pen and brown ink, brush with brown wash, 231 × 360 mm, Department
of Print and Drawings, British Museum, London, 1946,0713.639 100
101 102 103 Epitomising human suffering, the statue became a
model for portraying martyrs from Christendom, especially in the
Counter-Reformation.17 For centuries that followed artists would imitate and
infuse this muscular body type and expres- sions in their work (cat. 16). The
group’s influence endured well into the 19th century.18 When the Laocoön was
first discovered, his right arm and that of his youngest son on the left were
missing, as were among other losses the fingers of the eldest son’s right hand.
By the 1530s, the missing appendages were restored including a terracotta arm
by the sculptor, Giovanni Antonio Montorsoli (1507–63).19 Federico’s drawn
version is something of an enigma. In some respects it appears pre-restoration:
the fingers of the eldest son on the right are still missing. But he has
included part of the previously absent right arm of the son on the left but
made him hand-less. Laocoön is shown with his right arm restored but it is out
of view so the angle cannot be determined. In any case, it seems that Federico
has attempted to represent the sculpture as he thought Taddeo and others of his
generation might have first seen it, undoubt- edly to create an air of
authenticity. It is possible that he consulted print sources such as Marco
Dente da Ravenna’s ( f l . 1515–27) Laocoön of c. 1520–23, which makes a
compelling comparison.20 The perfect foil for the Laocoön is the commanding
figure of the Apollo Belvedere anchoring the composition on the left.21 So
instantly recognisable was he that Federico needed only to indicate his lower
half. Discovered at S. Lorenzo in Panisperna in 1489, the statue was acquired
by Giuliano della Rovere, Cardinal of S. Pietro in Vincoli, the future Pope
Julius II, who displayed it in the garden of his palace next to SS. Apostoli.22
After he became Pope, it was brought to the Vatican in 1508 and installed in a
niche in the Belvedere cortile in 1511. Based on a lost Greek bronze original,
it became one of the most famous statues to survive from antiquity and was
copied by innumerable artists (see cats 6, 25, 26).23 If the Laocoön
exemplified the powerful male nude body in action, the Apollo encapsulated the
qualities of its counterpart, the perfect male youth: elegant, graceful,
confident and restrained; in repose yet poised for action. As the god Apollo he
was thought to have just discharged his arrow at the python of Delphi (see cat.
6) or else, to be on the verge of killing the sons of Niobe with his arrows, as
punishment for her boasting.24 Praised by Vasari for its instructive
importance, every aspiring artist visited the Apollo in the Belvedere.25 The
statue retained immense popularity in the centuries that followed.26 Federico’s
abbreviated description of the Belvedere Courtyard is a clever device as it
allows him to combine several episodes of Taddeo’s self-education in the same
104 drawing and a highly sophisticated continuous narration.27 All show Taddeo
studying the Antique in various forms – free- standing statues, narrative
reliefs and contemporary works in an all’antica style. So while the most
prominent Taddeo is at work copying the Belvedere statues, a second Taddeo is
visible in the distance, perched on a window ledge copying Raphael’s celebrated
Stanze frescoes in the papal apartments in the Vatican.28 At the far left is
Trajan’s Column of 113 ad under which are figures, including an artist
sketching the famous reliefs carved on the column shaft, presumably Taddeo
again. These monuments were very distant from one other and yet, countering
this artificial structure, Federico has striven for local historical accuracy.
For example, he shows the column as it would have appeared in Taddeo’s day,
omitting the bronze statue of St Peter at the top that was added by Sixtus V in
1588.29 Lightly sketched in the left distance is the dome of the Pantheon and
on the far right, what appears to be the Mausoleum of Augustus of 28 bc
identifiable by the trees on the summit.30 Another drawing from the series
(fig. 4) further demon- strates the importance Federico attributed to copying
after the Antique, one of the pillars of artistic education.31 It shows Taddeo
studying a relief – perhaps the right-hand front section of a Muse sarcophagus of
a type similar to an example now in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna (p.
20, 5).32 Having already sketched the figures – possibly a Muse holding a mask
and Apollo – in black chalk, he is about to go over the contours with pen and
ink. Resting on the relief is the armless body of a male youth similar in type
to the Torso of Apollon Sauroktonos, the so-called Casa Sassi Torso now in the
Museo Archeologico Nazionale in Naples.33 In the back- ground, in another
example of continuous narration, Taddeo copies façade paintings by Polidoro da
Caravaggio, who, specialising in monochrome frescoes imitating marble or bronze
reliefs, represented another type of contemporary all’antica style, one which
would exert an enormous influence on Taddeo’s own approach to painting.34 It is
significant that Federico executed the Taddeo series in the mid-1590s, around
the time that he established a reformed Accademia di San Luca of which he was
elected president in 1593. Learning to draw by copying the work of others – the
Antique, Michelangelo, Raphael and Polidoro da Caravaggio – was already a key
phenomenon of Renaissance workshop practice. Federico codified this practice
further by making such a disciplined approach to drawing central to the
curricu- lum.35 Successful learning also required virtue and hard work – fatica
– both physical and intellectual, and such quali- ties are extolled in
Federico’s drawings of Taddeo.36 According to the guidelines Federico wrote for
the academy, students were required to ‘go out during the week drawing after
the antique’ (see Appendix, no. 7).37 It is significant that in the final image
of the series (fig. 5), an allegorical personification of Study – represented
by a young man diligently copying an antique male torso with other sculptures –
flanks the left side of the Zuccaro family emblem.38 He is joined by
Intelligence on the right. Along with training, Federico was also concerned
with the welfare of young artists and proposed reforms to the artists’ academy
in Florence, the Accademia del Disegno.39 At his death in 1609, he intended the
family palace, the Palazzo Zuccari (now the Bibliotheca Hertziana, Max Planck
Institute for Art History) to house young, struggling artists in Rome, so that
they would not suffer as Taddeo had.40 Appropriate in subject matter, the
drawings may well have prepared a complex arrangement of paintings for the
walls of the palace’s Sala del Disegno.41 This might account for the present
drawing’s unusual dumbbell format.42 Regardless of its intended purpose, the Early
Life of Taddeo series, a touching tribute to one brother from another, sends a
clear message. Drawing, especially after the Antique in all its various forms,
was the cornerstone of artistic education in 16th-century Italy and was to
become a canonical activity throughout Europe in the centuries that followed.
As one of the first great illustrations of this phenomenon in practice, the
present drawing is an ideal visual representation of this exhibition’s theme.
avl 4. Federico Zuccaro, Taddeo Drawing after the Antique; in the
Background Copying a Façade by Polidoro, c. 1595, pen and brown ink, brush with
brown wash, over black chalk and touches of red chalk, 423 × 175 mm, The J.
Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, 99.GA.6.12 5. Federico Zuccaro, Allegories of
Study and Intelligence Flanking the Zuccaro Emblem, c. 1595, pen and brown ink,
brush with brown wash, over black chalk and touches of red chalk, 176 × 425 mm,
The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, 99.GA.6.20 105 1 Additional
bibliography for the drawings in the series up to 1999 is given in the
catalogue of the Christie’s sale, London, 28 January 1999, 70, lot 35. 2 This
poem written by Federico Zuccaro to accompany this drawing appears on the back
of another sheet in the series (Los Angeles 2007–08, 34, no. 18, 40).
Translation by J. Brooks (ibid., 33–34). 3 The Early Life of Taddeo series,
acquired by the J. Paul Getty Museum in 1999, was the subject of an exhibition
and in-depth catalogue by J. Brooks (Los Angeles 2007–08). 4 For the Tiber and
the Nile see Haskell and Penny 1981, 272–73, no. 65 and 310–11, no. 79;
Klementa 1993, 9–51, nos A1–A39, pls 1–18; 52–71, nos B1–B15, pls 19–23. 5 See
Appendix, no. 9. 6 For essential reading on the Cortile and its history, see
Ackerman 1954; Brummer 1970; Coffin 1979, 69–87; Haskell and Penny 1981, 7–11;
Nesselrath 1994, 52–55; Nesselrath 1998a, 1–16. 7 See Coffin 1979, 69–87;
Haskell and Penny 1981, 7. 8 Coffin 1979, 82. 9 For the two Rivers, see above,
note 4. 10 For statues in their niches, see Haskell and Penny 1981, 11, 4, and
Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 122c. 11 First published as Heemskerck in Winner and
Nesselrath 1987, 867; see also M. Serlupi Crescenzi, in Rome 2006–07, 148–49,
no. 37. For a sense of the atmosphere, see the painting by Hendrik III van
Cleve (1524–89), 1550, in the Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts de Belgique,
Brussels (M. Serlupi Crescenzi, in Rome 2006–07, 146–47, no. 34), see
Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 26, 21. 12 For the group, see Haskell and
Penny 1981, 243–47, no. 52; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 164–68, no. 122,
Pasquier 2000–01b and the exhibition catalogue devoted to it, Rome 2006–07. 13
Haskell and Penny 1981, 243; M. Buranelli, in Rome 2006–07, 127–28, no. 13. 14
Coffin 1979, 82; Haskell and Penny 1981, 243. 15 Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 165,
see also Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 28. 16 Haskell and Penny 1981, 244
and Settis 1998, 129–60. 17 Ettlinger 1961, 121–26; Brummer 1970, 117–18; Bober
and Rubinstein 2010, 166. 18 For the statue’s critical reception, see Bieber 1967;
Brilliant 2000; Décultot 2003 and Rome 2006–07. 19 Haskell and Penny 1981, 246–47;
Nesselrath 1998b, 165–74; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 165. Montorsoli’s
additions were removed in 1540 when Primaticcio made a mould of the group
unrestored to prepare a cast in bronze for Francis I (Rome 2006-07, 150–51, no.
40). The additions were then put back. 20 Oberhuber 1978, 50, no. 353 (268); T.
Schtrauch, in Rome 2006–07, 152–53, no. 42. 21 For their juxtaposition, see
Tronzo 2009, 49–55. 22 According to a document published by Fusco and Corti
2006 (Appendix I, 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 309,
doc. 112; see also 52–56). For the statue, see Haskell and Penny 1981, 148–51,
no. 8; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 76–77, no. 28. In 1532–33 Montorsoli replaced
the existing right arm and restored the hands (Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 77).
Federico presents it in its restored state with bow. Haskell and Penny 1981, 150.
Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 76; Vasari’s preface to Part III of the Lives, 1568
ed. (Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 4, 7). See Roettgen 1998, 253–74. He
employs the same device in other drawings in the series (Los Angeles 2007–08, 7).
Federico indicates the location on the drawing itself with the inscription, le
camore di Rafaello (the rooms of Raphael). Another drawing in the series shows
him copying the frescoes in the loggia of the Villa Farnesina, see Los Angeles
2007–08, 20, 32, no. 13. For the column, its reliefs and history, see Bober and
Rubinstein 2010, 208–10, no. 159. Francesco Soderini purchased the Mausoleum in
1546 in order to transform the tomb into a garden museum with antique statuary.
See Riccomini 1995, especially 267, 91 (Etienne Du Pérac’s engraving, 1575) and
271, 95 (Alò Giovannoli’s engaving, 1619) and Riccomini 1996. Los Angeles
2007–08, 19, 31–32, no. 12. For essential reading on Taddeo, Federico and the
antique and the absorption of it in their work, see Silver 2007–08, 86–91.
Wegner 1966, 88–89, no. 228, plates 11–12. Los Angeles 2007–08, 31. In Taddeo’s
time the torso (CensusID 159347 and Ruesch 1911, 158, no. 491) was in the
courtyard of the Sassi family palace displayed in a niche as seen in
Heemskerck’s famous view reproduced in etching (Paris 2000–01, 360–62, no. 169,
entry by C. Scailliérez). For Polidoro and the Zuccari, see Los Angeles
2007–08, 71–77. Armenini had already advised artists to copy Polidoro’s
frescoes (1587, 58, book 1, chap. 7). Alberti 1604, 7. See also Armenini, 1587,
52–59 (book 1, chap. 7). See also Aymonino’s essay in this
catalogue, 32–33 Rossi 1997, 66–68. Alberti 1604, 8 (‘e chi andarà frà la
settimana dissegnando all’antico’), cited and translated in Silver 2007-08, 86).
Los Angeles 2007–08, 27, 35, no. 20. Ibid., 2. Ibid.
For previous arguments on the topic and a fascinating hypothetical recon-
struction of the Sala del Disegno, see Strunck 2007–08, 113–25. The shape is
adapted slightly in a version of the present drawing in the Uffizi, Florence,
of similar dimensions (Paris 2000–01, 379–80, no. 185 (entry by C. Scailliérez),
believed by Gere to be autograph (1990, under no. 17) but by Brooks as unlikely
to be and the present author agrees. See Los Angeles 2007– 08, 45, note 48,
where two other copies are also noted: Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid 7656 and the
other sold Phillips, London, 9 July 2001, lot 148. 6. Hendrick Goltzius
(Bracht-am-Niederrhein 1558–1617 Haarlem) a. The Apollo Belvedere 1591 Black
and white chalk on blue paper indented for transfer; 388 × 244 mm provenance:
Queen Christina of Sweden (1626–89)1; Cardinal Decio Azzolini (1623–89);
Marchese Pompeo Azzolini (1654–1706); Don Livio Odescalchi (1658–1713);
purchased from the Odescalchi family by the Teylers Foundation, 1790. selected
literature: Reznicek 1961, 1, 326, no. 208, 2, 170; Van Regteren Altena 1964, 19,
101–02, no. 32; Miedema 1969, 76–77; Brummer 1970, 70–71, repr.; Stolzenburg
2000, 426–27, repr., 439, no. 173; Brandt 2001, 148; Hamburg 2002, 114, repr.
under no. 33; Amsterdam, New York and elsewhere 2003–04, 269, repr.; Bober and
Rubinstein 2010, 77, under no. 28; Leesberg 2012b, 2, 370 under no. 380;
Göttingen 2013–14, 22–23, 6; Nichols 2013a, 56, 84, 54; Veldman 2013–14, 105.
exhibitions: Münster 1976, 138, no. 111, 140, repr. Teylers Museum, Haarlem,
inv. no. K III 23 exhibited in haarlem only b. Apollo Belvedere 1592 Engraving,
412 × 300 mm State II of II Inscribed on the base of the statue: ‘HG sculp.
APOLLO PYTHIUS Cum privil. Sa. Cæ. M.’. With the address of the printer at
right ‘Herman Adolfz excud. Haerlemens.’. Inscribed with two lines in the lower
margin, at centre: ‘Statua antiqua Romae in palatio Pontificis belle vider /
opus posthumum HGoltzij iam primum divulgat. Ano. M.D.C.X.VII.’.2 Two Latin
distichs by Theodorus Schrevelius in margin l.l. and l.r.: ‘Vix natus armis Delius
Vulcaniis / Donatus infans, sacra Parnassi iuga’ / ‘Petii. draconem matris
hostem spiculis / Pythona fixi: nomen inde Pythii. Schrevel’.3 Numbered in l.l.
corner: ‘3’. Published by Herman Adolfsz. (fl. 1607) in 1617 provenance: et D.
Colnaghi Co., London, from whom acquired in 1854. literature: Bartsch 1854–76, 3,
45, no. 145; Hirschmann 1921, 60–61, no. 147; Hollstein 1949–2001, 8, 33, no.
147.II, repr.; Strauss 1977, 2, 566–67, no. 314, repr.; Leesberg 2012b, 2, 370,
no. 380, 373–74, repr. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. The British
Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London, 1854,0513.106 106 107 It was
undoubtedly at the urging of Karel van Mander (1548– 1606), his friend and
fellow Haarlem artist, that Hendrick Goltzius left for Rome in 1590 in order to
study the remnants of classical antiquity and the works of modern Italian
masters.4 He was already thirty-two years old. Northern artists usually went
south when they were much younger, sometimes even half that age. The tradition
of artists travel- ling from Northern Europe to Italy, eager to learn, had
begun almost a century earlier with Jan Gossaert, called Mabuse (c. 1472–1532).
Other well-known Dutch artists who had derived inspiration from antique remains
in Rome and who had produced drawings after them, were Jan van Scorel
(1495–1562) and above all, Maarten van Heemskerck (1498– 1574), also a native
of Haarlem.5 Like these artists Goltzius travelled to Rome as a mature
draughtsman, eager to deepen his knowledge and see with his own eyes the works
of art of which he had heard so much. It was probably family obligations and
his flourishing print workshop that had delayed his Italian trip for so long.
Finally in 1590–91, hoping for relief from the consumptive state of his health,
Goltzius made the long anticipated journey.6 We know from Van Mander that on
arriving in Rome, Goltzius concentrated almost exclusively on drawing the most
important classical sculptures carefully and industri- ously.7 Goltzius was now
a celebrity, for his prints had spread his fame throughout Europe, but he
travelled largely incognito. In Rome, for example, he donned rustic garb in
order to blend in with pupils and amateurs drawing from the Antique. According
to Van Mander, they looked at him pityingly until they saw what he was capable
of, whereupon they started asking him for advice.8 Although this story may be a
topos – art-loving Italy values a gifted outsider – it is not hard to imagine
such an encounter when one considers Goltzius’ Roman drawings.9 Forty-three of
Goltzius’ drawings after thirty different classical statues survive, plus one
after Michelangelo’s Moses; all are preserved in the Teylers Museum in
Haarlem.10 In the short time at Goltzius’ disposal – he was only in Rome for
seven months – he managed to copy all the most impor- tant sculptures, in both
public and semi-public locations 108 109 such as churches
and papal palaces, and in some private collections.11 He must have prepared
thoroughly for his drawing expedition and have studied travel books and prints
before his departure. Certainly at his disposal would have been Maarten van
Heemskerck’s Roman sketchbook, now in the Berlin Kupferstichkabinett, but then
owned by his fellow Haarlem artist, Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem (1562–1638)
(see 35, figs 39–43 and cat. no. 8).12 Strikingly Goltzius’ selection more or
less corresponded with the antique statues described in travel literature.13
Evidently, a canon of the most outstanding classical statues in Rome had
already been established and disseminated to the North and although this canon
would later be expanded, most of the statues drawn by Goltzius in 1591
continued to remain popular models for artists in subsequent centuries (see
cat. nos 14–16, 21, 25–27 and 31). Goltzius did not make his drawings merely as
an exercise. The artist and printshop owner was well aware of the importance of
those statues for their reproductive potential. He must have envisaged a series
of engravings from the very outset and that is why he went to such lengths to
select the most celebrated and, by then, canonical sculptures. The series he
had in mind would have rivalled existing print series of antique sculptures in
Rome, such as Antoine Lafréry’s Speculum Romanae Magnificentiae, published
between 1545 and 1577 (fig. 1), or Giovanni Battista de’ Cavalieri’s Antiquarum
Statuarum Urbis Romae, published between the 1560s and the 1590s.14 Cavalieri’s
reproductions were printed on small plates, without backgrounds, and
incorporated little information about the sculptures in their locations; the
lighting is not consistent and there is a lack of naturalism in the statues’
rendering. While the differences between Lafréry’s reproductions and what
Goltzius planned to create are less striking, the burin technique is more
refined in Goltzius’ works, his rendering of the statues more realistic and his
prints fractionally larger; moreover, he generally represented the statues from
closer vantage points, thereby creating more engaging compositions.15 What
audience did Goltzius have in mind when he produced his drawings and his
prints? While Cavalieri and Lafréry’s publications were mainly intended for
antiquaries and art lovers, Goltzius seems to have aimed at a broader audience
encompassing artists as well as amateurs. This is supported by his
emphasis on anatomical precision and the sculptures’ three-dimensional
character, rather than accu- racy of reproduction – he sometimes omitted
inscriptions, for example (see cat. 8); the presence of the draughtsman in the
print displayed is also significant in this connection. Goltzius’ project was
timely for around this period a market seems to have been developing for prints
after 110 publication, but found himself overwhelmed with other projects. In
most of his drawings after antique sculpture, Goltzius began with a sketch in
black and white chalk on bluish-grey paper, like this drawing of Apollo
Belvedere. The trial-and- error lines by the figure’s legs and waist suggest
that he had difficulty deciding on a vantage point. He would then have used a
stylus to indent the contours of that sketch onto a second sheet of paper, on
which he subsequently produced an extremely precise drawing of the statue. That
second version in red chalk, unfortunately now lost, would have served as the
model for the engraver. Teylers Museum has both drawings for the Farnese
Hercules Seen from Behind (see cat. 7a and 2) but at some point Goltzius’
second version of the Apollo Belvedere was separated from the group that ended
in the Teylers Museum,20 for in the early 18th century it belonged to the
famous collector Valerius Röver (1686– 1739) of Delft,21 and was listed in his
inventory: ‘The Apollo, with red chalk, transferred to the copper by Goltzius,
which print is herewith attached, fl. 3:10’.22 The engraving is in the same
direction as the black chalk drawing, and the size of the statue is identical
in both.23 The most striking difference between them is the rendering of
volume. The statue appears a little flat in the drawing, while in the print it
is highly sculptural, with a keenly observed interplay between light and shade
across the form lending relief and depth to the engraving. As noted above,
Goltzius would have developed these features in the lost red chalk version of
the subject. It may be that this lost drawing also incorporated the draughtsman
seen in the lower right corner of the print, and the large cast shadow on the
left, accessories and details that Goltzius tended to vary from work to work.
In any event, these added elements reinforce the sense of depth; the
draughtsman also conveys an idea of the scale of the statue (see cat. 7). But
perhaps Goltzius added the young draughtsman for yet another reason. His
rendering of this figure is so direct, so true to life, that it appears to be a
portrait. The two small figures in his reproduction of the Farnese Hercules are
also represented in a fashion which suggests that these too are portraits (cat.
7, 4). It seems that in Rome Goltzius asked a local artist, Gaspare Celio
(1571–1640), to draw copies of both classical and modern artworks for him and
they may have drawn some works together.24 Could this figure be Celio? Pure
speculation, of course, for remarkably little is known about this mysterious
individual.25 At any rate the figure of the draughtsman is seated exactly as
Goltzius must have positioned himself, although at a different angle, employing
the same technique (n.b. the porte-crayon), the same format paper and probably
the same travel board. And this may point to another reason for Goltzius’ introduction
of the young draughtsman: to emphasise the didactic inten- tion of the series
and to convey the message that these prints allowed artists to draw the finest
Roman sculptures, just like the draughtsman in the image, without having to go
to Rome. Whatever the reason for this figure’s inclusion, his presence
demonstrates – as does Van Mander’s story of Goltzius amidst younger artists –
that during this period the copying of antique sculptures in Rome was very
widespread. The Apollo Belvedere is a Roman copy of a Greek original by
Leochares from c. 330–320 bc. The copy probably dates from the reign of Hadrian
(117–138 bc). In the late 15th cen- tury the Apollo was in the collection of
Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, who, as Pope Julius II, placed it in the
Belvedere, where it was displayed in the small Cortile delle Statue (see 26, 21
and cat. 5). The Apollo Belvedere soon became one of the most famous sculptures
in the collection and was drawn by many artists. Prints of the sculpture by
Agostino Veneziano (c. 1518–20, see 28, 29), Marcantonio Raimondi (c. 1530) and
Goltzius himself (c. 1617), among others, ensured that its fame spread
throughout Europe. However, the Apollo’s prestige began to fade in the 19th
century and nowadays the sculpture, while well-known to art historians is less
appreciated by the general public.26 1. Anonymous engraver after
Marcantonio Raimondi, published by Antoine Lafréry, Apollo Belvedere, 1552,
engraving, 323 × 228 mm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, RP-P-H-232 antique statues for
artists to employ as models. Between 1599 and 1616 Goltzius’ stepson Jacob
Matham published the first known printed sketchbook after the Antique,
Verscheijden Cierage,16 intended, according to its title page, for an interna-
tional public of artists and amateurs.17 And it seems likely that Goltzius
envisaged the same international audience for his projected series, perhaps
particularly young students in Northern Europe – and no doubt his own pupils –
who were not able to undertake the trip to Rome but could use his engravings as
models.18 It was probably in 1592, soon after his return from Italy, that
Goltzius embarked on the print series, engraving after his own drawings three
of the statues: the Farnese Hercules Seen from Behind (cat. 7), Hercules and
Telephus and this Apollo Belvedere. It is unlikely that Goltzius was
disappointed with the results but he progressed no further with the project and
never officially printed the plates which were published posthumously in 1617,
bearing the address of the Haarlem publisher Herman Adolfsz.19 We do not know
why Goltzius did not publish these prints in his lifetime but it may have been
the result of excessive ambition. He probably hoped to market a much longer
series of prints in a single mp I. M.
Veldman revealed the Rudolf II provenance for Goltzius’ Roman portfolio to be a
myth. A more logical provenance might be, as Veldman suggests, through Jacob
Matham (1571–1631), Theodor Matham (1605/06– 76), Joachim von Sandrart
(1606–88) and/or Pieter Spiering (1594/97–1652): Veldman 2013–14, 109–13. ‘An
antique statue in Rome, in the Pope’s Belvedere Palace; a work by H. Goltzius
that is now being published posthumously for the first time, in the year 1617’.
‘Barely born, I, Apollo of the island of Delos, received arms from Vulcan; I
sought the sacred heights of Parnassus; with my arrows I pierced the dragon
Python, my mother Leto’s enemy; thus it is that I bear the name “Pythian”’. I
wish to thank Professor Ilja Veldman, who generously put at my disposal her
Goltzius entries for the forthcoming catalogue of the 16th-century
Netherlandish drawings in the Teylers Museum, which she is preparing with
Yvonne Bleyerveld. For the early tradition of Northern European artists going
to Rome (includ- ing Gossaert, Van Scorel and Van Heemskerck), see Brussels and
Rome 1995. Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 388–89 (fol. 282 verso). Ibid., 390–91
(fol. 283 recto). Ibid. Luijten 2003–04, 123. Reznicek 1961, 1, 89–94, 319–46,
nos 200–38; 245–48. From the 1689–90 inventory of Goltzius drawings owned by Queen
Christina of Sweden it is known that Goltzius also produced (now lost) drawings
of two famous antique figures, the Spinario (now in the Capitoline Museums,
Rome, see 23, 15) and the Farnese Bull (now in the Museo Archeologico
Nazionale, Naples); see Stolzenburg 2000, 437, 140–41, 440, no. 180 and Veldman
2013–14, 101. Veldman 2012, 11–23. Reznicek 1961, 90; Brandt 2001, 136. Haskell
and Penny 1981, 18; Brandt 2001, 136. Brandt 2001, 143–46. Fuhring 1992, 57–84.
111 17 Ibid., 64–65, 76, pl. 1. 18 It is tempting at this point to think
of the ‘Haarlem Academy’, of which Goltzius was a member before his departure
for Italy as a true academy, where artists could draw from life and presumably
also after sculptures. However, in all probability this ‘academy’ comprised no
more than three artists: Karel van Mander, Cornelis Cornelisz. and Goltzius.
See also cat. 8. 19 Leesberg 2012b, 2, 368–75, nos 378–80; Luijten 2003–04, 119–20.
20 For the provenance of the drawings see Stolzenburg 2000 and Veldman 2013–14.
21 Van Regteren Altena 1964, 101–02, under no. 32. 22 ‘De Apollo, met
rootaarde, door Goltzius int koper gebragt, welke print hierbij gevoegt is, f
3:10.’ See the manuscript catalogue by Valerius Röver in the Amsterdam
University Library, inv.no. II A 18: Catalogus van boeken, schilderijen,
teekeningen, printen, beelden, rariteiten [1730], portefeuille 2, no. 3. 23 In
view of the incomplete right hand and the missing left hand it seems likely
that the sheet has been trimmed on the right and left, and possibly at the top
as well. 24 Baglione 1642, 377. 25 26 All we really know is that Celio must
have drawn a copy of Raphael’s fresco, The prophet Isaiah in the San Agostino
in Rome for Goltzius (see Luijten 2003, 118). Goltzius used this copy for his
engraving; see Leesberg 2012b, 2, 292–93, no. 333, repr. For a recently
published drawing by Celio in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, with a parade
carriage of his own design incorporating pyrotechnic features, see Stemerding
2012, 13–17. For the history and the fortuna critica of the Apollo Belvedere:
Haskell and Penny 1981, 148–51, no. 8; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 76–77, no.
28. Regarding the sculpture’s reputation today, which some describe as
bordering on total neglect, Kenneth Clark observed in 1969: ‘. . . for four
hundred years after it was discovered the Apollo was the most admired piece of
sculpture in the world. It was Napoleon’s greatest boast to have looted it from
the Vatican. Now it is completely forgotten except by the guides of coach
parties, who have become the only surviving transmitters of traditional
culture.’ Clark 1969a, 2. 7. Hendrick Goltzius (Bracht-am-Niederrhein 1558–1617
Haarlem) a. The Farnese Hercules Seen from Behind 1591 Red chalk, indented for
transfer, 390 × 215 mm. Verso: Design lightly traced in black chalk from recto.
The upper corners cut. literature: Scholten 1904, 40, cat. N 19; Hirschmann
1921, 59; Reznicek 1961, 1, 337, cat. K 227, 2, 179; Miedema 1969, 76–77, repr.
(recto and verso); Schapelhouman 1979, 67, note 3; Amsterdam 1993–94, 361–62,
under no. 24 (B. Cornelis); Stolzenburg 2000, 439, no. 164; Brandt 2001, 139,
144, 132, 148; Hamburg 2002, 116, under no. 34 (A. Stolzenburg) ; Leeflang
2012, 24–25, 5; Leesberg 2012b, 2, 368–69, under no. 378; Göttingen 2013–14, 210;
Veldman 2013–14, 102–05. exhibitions: New York 1988, 58–60, no. 12; Brussels
and Rome 1995, 204, no. 101; Luijten 2003–04, 132–36, no. 42.2. Teylers Museum,
Haarlem, inv. N 19 exhibited in haarlem only b. The Farnese Hercules, 1592
(published 1617) Engraving Only state 416 × 300 mm Lettered on the base of the
statue: ‘HERCULES VICTOR’. Lettered in l.l. corner: ‘HGoltzius sculpt. Cum
privilig. / Sa. Cæ. M.’ and ‘Herman Adolfz / excud. Haerlemen’. Inscribed with
two lines in the lower margin, at centre: ‘Statua antiqua Romae in palatio
Cardinalis Fernesij / opus posthumum H Goltzij iam primum divulgata Ano
M.D.CXVII.2 Two Latin distichs by Theodorus Schrevelius in margin l.l. and
l.r.: ‘Domito triformi rege Lusitaniae / Raptisque malis, quae Hesperi sub
cardine / Servarat hortis aureis vigil draco, / Fessus quievi terror orbis
Hercules.’3 Numbered in l.l. corner: ‘1’. provenance: Bequest of Carel Godfried
Voorhelm Schneevoogt (1802–77), Haarlem. literature: Bartsch 1803–21, 3, 44–45,
no. 143; Hirschmann 1921, 58–59, no. 145; Hollstein 1949–2001, 8, 33, no. 145,
repr.; Strauss 1977, 2, 562–63, no. 312, repr., 569; Leesberg 2012b, 2, 368–69,
no. 378, repr. 112 113 1 Odescalchi (1658–1713); purchased from the Odescalchi
family by the Teylers Foundation, 1790. provenance: Queen Christina of Sweden
(1626–89); Cardinal Decio Azzolini (1623–89); Marchese Pompeo Azzolini
(1654–1706); Don Livio exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Teylers Museum,
Haarlem, inv. KG 02263 The Farnese Hercules, which bears a Greek inscription
naming ‘Glykon of Athens’, a sculptor unknown in classical litera- ture, was
one of the most famous statues in Rome from the time of its discovery until the
end of the 19th century (fig. 1).4 The first certain mention of it dates from
1556, when it stood in Palazzo Farnese.5 The fragments, unearthed at different
times, must have been reassembled shortly before. The head was found in a well
in Trastevere, probably around 1540. The torso was discovered six years later
in the Baths of Caracalla, followed by the legs.6 However, the legs emerged too
late to be incorporated in the statue because it had already been ‘restored’
and given new ones by Guglielmo della Porta (1500/10–1577). Oddly enough,
Michelangelo allegedly appealed to the Farnese family to leave the new legs in
place and not replace them with the originals, ‘in order to show that works of
modern sculpture can stand in compari- son with those of the ancients’.7 The
statue recovered its original legs only in the 18th century. In addition to the
Palazzo Farnese, Goltzius drew studies on the Capitol, the Quirinal and in the
Belvedere statue court (see cats 6, 8). He had an ambitious plan for his
drawings: they were to prepare a series of high-quality and accurate engravings
of the most important classical statues, on a scale not previ- ously
attempted.8 The importance he attached to the project is evident from the care
he lavished on many of his drawings. In preparation for this one, which is in
red chalk, he first made an equally large, slightly freer and more loosely
drawn black chalk version on blue paper (fig. 2; see cat. 6a). He then indented
the contours through onto the white sheet on which he made the present drawing.
The contours are conse- quently razor-sharp. He then exercised phenomenal skill
in depicting the statue’s volume and the smooth texture of the marble with a
subtle interplay of light and shade. He achieved this by leaving reserves of
white paper, by alternating pressure on the chalk and by stumping it here and
there so that individual strokes are no longer visible.9 114
115 1. The Farnese Hercules, back view, Roman copy of the
3rd century ad of a Greek original of the 4th century bc, 317 cm (h), Museo
Archeologico Nazionale, Naples, inv. 6001 2. Hendrick Goltzius, The Farnese
Hercules seen from Behind, 1591, black and white chalk on blue paper indented
for transfer, 360 × 210 mm, Teylers Museum, Haarlem, inv. K III 30 3. Hendrick
Goltzius, The Farnese Hercules, black and white chalk on blue paper, indented
for transfer, 382 × 189 mm, Teylers Museum, Haarlem, inv. N 20 4. Hendrick
Goltzius, Two Male Heads: Jan Matthijsz Ban and Philips van Winghen (?),
metalpoint on an ivory-coloured prepared tablet, 92 × 117 mm, Amsterdam Museum,
inv. A 10180 demonstrate that he had seen the sculpture in the round, making
this clear by depicting the figure’s ‘alien’ back as well as its usual front.
His choice was probably inspired by a combination of these factors. The
Amsterdam Museum houses Goltzius’ preparatory drawing (fig. 4) of the two men
whose admiring, upturned gazes provide such a fine connection between the front
and back of the Farnese Hercules.16 In the engraving they are repre- sented in
mirror image and have been exchanged for each other. They have portrait-like
features and their identities have been a subject for speculation. The most
serious suggestion made so far, dating from the end of the 19th century, is
that they were Goltzius’ temporary travelling companions: Jan Matthijsz Ban on
the left and Philips van Winghen (d. 1592) on the right; they may even have
witnessed him drawing this statue.17 It is difficult to verify this sugges-
tion, but it is certainly interesting and plausible. Goltzius had produced,
albeit on a larger scale, several portraits of his circle of acquaintances in
Rome and elsewhere such as Giambologna (1529–1608), Dirck de Vries ( fl.
1590–92) and Jan van der Straet, also called Stradanus (1523–1605; see cat.
4).18 Most of his sitters, like Ban and Van Winghen, were northern artists
active in Italy. Ban was a silversmith, and Van Winghen is described by Karel
van Mander as ‘a learned young nobleman from Brussels [ . . . ] who was a great
archaeologist’.19 According to Van Mander the three of them made an excursion
from Rome to Naples in the spring of 1591.20 Van Winghen died unexpectedly in
1592,21 and it was maybe as a tribute to his friend that Goltzius included him
in the plate that he cut that same year. mp
See footnote 1 in cat. 6. ‘An antique statue in Rome, in the palace of
Cardinal Farnese; a work by H. Goltzius that is now being published
posthumously for the first time, in the year 1617’. ‘Now that I have vanquished
the King of Spain with his three bodies [Geryon] and have stolen the apples
that were guarded by a vigilant dragon under the western heaven in the golden
garden, I, Hercules, the terror of the world, rest from my labours’. I wish to
thank Professor Ilja Veldman, who generously put at my disposal her Goltzius
entries for the forthcoming catalogue of the sixteenth- century Netherlandish
drawings in the Teylers Museum, which she is preparing with Yvonne Bleyerveld. U.
Aldrovandi, ‘Delle statue antiche, che per tutta Roma ... si veggono’, in Mauro
1556, 157–58. The Hercules, today in the Museo Archeologico
Nazionale in Naples, is regarded as an enlarged copy of the 3rd century ad
after an original by Lysippos or someone from his school of the 4th century bc.
For its history and fortuna critica see Haskell and Penny 1981, 229–32, no. 46;
Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 17–20, no. 1. Haskell and Penny 1981, 229. Baglione 1642
(facsimile edition, Rome 1935), 151: ‘. . . per mostrare con quel rifarcimento
si degno al mondo, che le opere della scultura moderna potevano stare al
paragone de’lavori antichi’. Reznicek 1961, 2, 89–94; Brandt 2001, passim;
Luijten 2003–04, 117–25. For both drawings see Luijten 2003–04, 132–36.
Göttingen 2013–14, 210–11. For the prints by Bos and Ghisi see Göttingen
2013–14, 205–07, no. II. 18 (Ghisi) and 285–86, no. IV.09 (Bos). Brandt 2001, 143–46.
It has been suggested that Goltzius was prompted to make his unorthodox choice
by a description in Pliny of a painting by Apelles of Hercules with Face
Averted, whose features could nevertheless be guessed. Goltzius may have known
the related engraving by G. J. Caraglio after Rosso Fiorentino: see Luijten
2003–04, 134 (with previous literature). For the dating of the three prints see
Reznicek 1961, 419; Boston and St. Louis 1981–82, 12, under no. 6. See the
painting Rest by Nicolaes Berchem the Elder (1620–83) dated 1644 in the
Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and the painting The Return from the
Hunt, also by Berchem, from c. 1670 in The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles,
both of which include a male figure whose attitude is clearly based on that of
the Farnese Hercules (Amsterdam and Washington D.C. 1981–82, 67, 2; Haarlem,
Zurich and elsewhere 2006–07, 85, cat. 45, repr.). A drawing by Berchem,
Standing Herdsman from the Back in the Rijksmuseum, prepares the figure of the
standing herdsman in the New York painting (see Amsterdam and Washington D.C.,
1981–82, 67, 1). Schapelhouman 1979, 67 (with earlier literature); Luijten
2003–04, 135–36. Hymans 1884–85, 187, note 1. Schapelhouman (1979, 67) does not
believe this, while Luijten (2003–04, 135–36) considers it plausible. It is
curious that Goltzius altered the preparatory drawing of the two men’s heads in
the engraving (fig. 3): in addition to representing them in mirror image and
swopping them over, he depicted them in the same scale as well. Ban (if it is
indeed Ban) is now somewhat taller than Van Winghen, which would reflect
reality for Van Mander reports that Ban was a sizeable man (Van Mander 1994–99,
1, 392–93, fol. 283v). Schapelhouman 2003–04, 147–58. Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 392–93
(fol. 283v). Ibid. Between 1592 and 1597 Jacob Matham engraved a portrait of
Philips van Winghen after another (unknown) drawing by Goltzius; see Widerkehr
and Leeflang 2007, 2, 256, no. 263. However beautiful the two drawings in black
and red chalk may be, it is only in Goltzius’ engraving that we really see what
he intended. The backlit effect of the Farnese Hercules is seen to best
advantage in the print, in which the added clouds have a functional role by
creating a sense of depth and atmosphere. It is enhanced by the two observers,
also only introduced in the print stage, who help to convey the statue’s scale.
As we view Hercules from behind, the two admirers are gazing upon the sunlit
front. The resulting interaction between front and back, between seeing and
imagining, gives the print an agreeable tension that is missing in the
drawings.10 Goltzius was probably familiar with the Farnese Hercules even
before he went to Italy from descriptions in travel guides to Rome, through
prints of 1562 and around 1575 by Jacobus Bos (c. 1520–c. 1580) and Giorgio
Ghisi (1520–82)11 and possibly also from the larger print series by Giovanni
Battista de’ Cavalieri (1570–84) and Antoine Lafréry (c. 1575).12 All showed
the Hercules from the front, but Goltzius drew it from both sides (fig. 3). He
seems to have been the first artist to appreciate its beauty from the back, or,
at least, the first to record it on paper. He must have been very pleased with
the 116 unorthodox view13 because he chose this viewpoint in 1592 when he
issued the engraving, one of the only three that he engraved from his series of
drawings (see also cat. 6b).14 It was thanks to Goltzius’ engraving that the
back view of the statue became as popular as the front (see cats 16 and 21).
Something of this popularity is revealed by the fact that by the mid-17th
century the Hercules Farnese seen from the rear, bending slightly forwards with
his arm on his back, had permeated Dutch genre painting.15 The question arises:
why did Goltzius choose to adopt this angle? Could it be that he had a didactic
purpose in mind when he produced the first rendering in a print series of the
back of a muscular male body at rest? With Goltzius’ magnificent print in hand,
young artists could now study the anatomy of a ‘hero’s’ back and use this in
their own work. Goltzius’ print of the Apollo Belvedere (cat. 6b) offered a
similar aid with the anatomy of an elegant youth. Goltzius also drew other
figures, such as the Belvedere Torso (cat. 8), from several angles, but in
these he was probably experi- menting with different points of view rather than
having a didactic aim in mind. Goltzius might also have chosen to represent
both sides of the Farnese Hercules expressly to 117 8. Hendrick Goltzius
(Bracht-am-Niederrhein 1558–1617 Haarlem) The Belvedere Torso 1591 Red chalk,
255 × 166 mm provenance: Queen Christina of Sweden (1626–89)1; Cardinal Decio
Azzolini (1623–89); Marchese Pompeo Azzolini (1654–1706); Don Livio Odescalchi
(1658–1713); purchased from the Odescalchi family by the Teylers Foundation,
1790. literature: Scholten 1904, 42, no. N 31; Reznicek, 1961, 2, 321–22, no.
201, 2, 156; Miedema 1969, 76–77; Brummer 1970, 146, note 27, 148, repr.; Van
Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 109; Stolzenburg 2000, 437, no. 143; Brandt 2001, 148;
Goddard 2001–02, 39 (erroneously as a drawing in black chalk); Florence 2008, 62,
under no. 33 (M. Schapelhouman); Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 183, under no. 132;
Nichols 2013a, 56, 146, under no. A-37, 31. exhibitions: Recklinghausen 1964,
no. 87 [unpaginated]; Munich and Rome 1998–99, 44, 43, 160, no. 49; Luijten
2003–04, 130–31, no. 41.1. Teylers Museum, Haarlem, inv. no. N 31 From
the High Renaissance onwards the Belvedere Torso was one of the most celebrated
of ancient statues, despite its fragmentary state.2 In the past it was
identified as the torso of Hercules because of the anatomy and the lion’s skin
on which it is seated. However, in the late 19th century doubts were raised as
to whether the skin really was that of a lion, making the Hercules
identification uncertain.3 Although the Torso is comprehensively signed
‘Apollonius, son of Nestor, of Athens’, his name is not found in classical
literature. It is assumed that he lived in the 1st century bc and that the
Torso is a repetition or paraphrase of an earlier model. Although the statue
was known from the 1430s, it was only when it was in the collection of the
sculptor Andrea Bregno in the later 15th century that it began to arouse
interest; in the early 16th century the sculpture entered the papal collections
and was placed in the Belvedere (see 26, 23). Direct correspondences with many
of Michelangelo’s painted and drawn nude figures demonstrate the importance of
the Belvedere Torso for the great Italian artist and shortly after
Michelangelo’s death a number of stories emerged connecting him with the
Torso.4 According to such one tale, he had been surprised by a cardinal
kneeling before the statue (though only in order to examine it as closely as
possible).5 In 1590 Giovanni Paggi wrote from Florence to his brother Girolamo:
‘Michelangelo called himself a pupil of the Belvedere Torso, which he said he
had studied greatly, and indeed that he speaks the truth of this is to be seen
in his works.’6 Describing the statue as ‘the school of Michelangelo’ took this
association a step further.7 And yet the Renaissance artist appears to have
spoken only once about the Torso, albeit in highly positive language: Ulisse
Aldrovandi (1522– 1605) noted, in 1556 when the artist was still alive, that
the Torso was ‘singularmente lodato da Michel’Angelo’.8 Not surprisingly the
statue acquired great status both north and south of the Alps. This status
probably preserved it from the restoration suffered by many antique sculptures
in later centuries. Goltzius also seems to have felt the mysterious beauty of
the Torso, for he drew it no less than four times. All four drawings were
together in the collection of Queen Christina of Sweden (1626–89).9 But while
two are now in the Teylers Museum (fig. 1) the other two have been lost.
Goltzius undoubtedly knew the Torso even before he arrived in Italy, for
reduced copies after the sculpture circulated throughout Europe in the 16th
century; thus Goltzius’ friend and fellow Haarlem artist, Cornelis Cornelisz.
van Haarlem (1562–1638), had used the Torso as the model for a nude figure in a
painting 1. Hendrick Goltzius, The Belvedere Torso, c. 1591, black chalk, 253 ×
175 mm, Teylers Museum, Haarlem, inv. no. K I 30 118 119 of the
late 1580s.10 It is reasonable to suppose that the Torso would have been
discussed at meetings of the ‘Haarlem Academy’,11 which Karel van Mander,
Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem and Goltzius had set up in the mid-1580s. One
of the purposes of their ‘academy’ was to allow them to ‘study from life’ (om
nae ‘t leven te studeeren), which meant they drew from nude models and probably
from sculpture, plaster casts or other three-dimensional specimens as well.12
We may assume that during these drawing sessions they discussed human anatomy
and the exemplary way classical artists had depicted it. All three were able to
quote directly from the antique with the aid of Maarten van Heemskerck’s Roman
sketchbook (now Kupferstichkabinett, Berlin), which was then owned by Cornelis
Cornelisz. van Haarlem13 and which contained two views of the Torso.14 It is
noteworthy that Goltzius, who was generally meticulously faithful in his
depiction of classical sculptures, was not always so precise in his treatment
of the inscrip- tions on their pedestals.15 In his red chalk drawing of the
Belvedere Torso from the front he has omitted the signature, which would have
been clearly visible on the base. Even more curious is the fact that he
completely ignored the wear suffered by the statue, the result of decades spent
outdoors. Instead his drawings give the sculpture a freshness that makes it
seem alive. This emphasis on the statue’s lifelikeness and beauty can probably
be explained by Goltzius’ intention that these drawings should serve as
preparations for prints with an educational purpose: the study of anatomy based
on ideal models. The muscles of Goltzius’ Torso appear to be tensed, the skin
lifelike and infused with warmth. The muscles’ extreme exaggeration and
restless tension clearly display a Mannerist emphasis.16 Once in Rome,
surrounded by the clear, classic, ideal vocabulary of ancient statuary,
Goltzius would reject Mannerist exaggeration so the fact that he did not decide
to do so here may indicate that these two studies after the Torso were among
the first drawings he produced after his arrival in Rome. It is interesting to
note that Goltzius clearly used the Belvedere Torso in his fine Back of an
Athletic Man, now in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence (fig. 2).17 This drawing is
one of his Federkunststücke, or virtuoso drawings in pen, whose linear execution
often imitates engravings, with lines that swell and taper. Curiously, the
backbone in this drawing curves slightly to the left, while that of the
sculpture curves to the right. Is this a conscious change by Goltzius or did he
recall the statue in mirror image? The suggestion has sometimes been made that
Goltzius produced this great drawing in Italy to display his virtuosity with
the pen;18 however, we know that Goltzius travelled incognito to avoid admirers
(see cat. 6), 120 9. Peter Paul Rubens (Siegen 1577–1640 Antwerp) Two Studies
of a Boy Model Posed as the ‘Spinario’ c. 1600–02 Red chalk with touches of
white chalk, 201 × 362 mm Inscribed recto, l.r., in pen and brown ink by a late
17th- or early 18th-century hand: ‘Rubens’ provenance: Gabriel Huquier
(1695–1772); William Fawkener; his bequest to Museum, 1769. literature: Hind
and Popham 1915–32, 2, 22, no. 52; Burchard and D’Hulst 1963, 1, 34–35, no. 16
and 2, pl. 16; Stechow 1968, 53–55, 43; Held 1986, 82, no. 39, pl. 23 on 172;
New York 1988, 77, under no. 18, 18-I; Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 80; Paris
2000–01, 419, under no. 222, 222a. exhibitions: London 1977, 28–29, no. 14 (J.
Rowlands); London 2009–10 (no catalogue). Department of Prints and Drawings,
The British Museum, London, inv. T,14.1 2. Hendrick Goltzius, Back of an
Athletic Man, pen and brown ink, 150 × 165 mm, Uizi, Florence, inv. no. 2365 F
so he is unlikely to have felt a need to demonstrate his virtuoso skills.
Perhaps Goltzius created this virtuoso draw- ing after his Italian trip, or
even before he went to Italy as he was already producing pen work of this
quality in the 1580s.19 The son of a wealthy Antwerp family, Rubens was born in
the German city of Siegen in 1577 but in 1589 returned with his family to
Antwerp where he received a humanistic education at the Latin School run by
Rumoldus Verdonck (1541–1620) and an artistic one with the painters Tobias
Verhaeght (1561–1631), Adam van Noort (1561–1641) and Otto van Veen (c.
1556–1629). After entering the Guild of St Luke as an established painter in
1598, Rubens set out for Italy in May 1600. This fundamental step in Rubens’
training had been carefully prepared not only by the study of engravings of
classical statues and Renaissance masters by Marcantonio Raimondi (c. 1480–1527/34)
and his pupils assembled by van Veen in his workshop, but also by eager reading
of Roman texts such as Suetonius, Tacitus and Pliny the Elder.1 The impact of
classical antiquity on Rubens’ art and theory of art was immense. Before
arriving in Rome in 1601, Rubens spent time in Venice, then Mantua, in the
service of the Duke Vincenzo I Gonzaga (r. 1587–1612) as a painter and a
curator of his collections, and also in Florence. Although based in Mantua,
Rubens spent two extended periods in Rome, first from July 1601 until April
1602 and again from late 1605 (or early 1606) until October 1608.2 During this
second period he shared a house with his scholarly elder brother Philip
(1574–1611), a pupil of the Flemish philologist and humanist Justus Lipsius
(1547–1606). In Rome Philip Rubens worked on the Electorum Libri duo published
in Antwerp in 1608, an influential study of the customs, morals and dress of
the ancients. Peter Paul assisted Philip in making drawings from ancient
monuments in prepara- tion for the plates, and he also contributed to their
explanatory notes. Rubens’ commitment to the systematic study of classical
antiquities, and in particular of sculpture in the round, is testified to by
the large number of sketches and drawings he made during his Italian period,
but also by those he executed after his return to Antwerp in 1608.3 In Rome
Rubens visited the Belvedere Courtyard and some of the most important private
aristocratic collections, such as the Borghese, the Medici, the Farnese, the Mattei
and the Giustiniani. His drawings after the Antique are among the most
extraordi- nary ever produced, most of them in red or black chalk; they show
Rubens’ great virtuosity in handling the medium and, at the same time, his deep
understanding of the formal principles of the antique statues. He obsessively
sketched some of the most ‘muscular’ masterpieces of classical statuary, such
as the Laocoön (see 26, 19) and the Farnese Hercules (see 30, 32), from all
sides, many angles and in great detail, in order to assimilate thoroughly the
anatomical structure and the mathematical proportions of the human body as part
of his search for the rules of perfection achieved by ancient artists.4
Returning to Antwerp in 1608, Rubens established his own studio in an Italianate
villa in the centre of the city – today the Rubenshuis. His drawings after the
Antique, bound in several books, remained in his studio and continued to serve
not only as an important reference and source of inspiration for Rubens
himself, but probably also as teaching tools for his pupils. The purchase in
1618 by Rubens of the collection of ancient sculptures owned by the English
diplomat and collector Sir Dudley Carleton (1573–1632) represented the first
step towards the formation of one of the most important – but short-lived –
collections of antiqui- ties in Northern Europe, which Rubens sold on to the
1st Duke of Buckingham in 1626.5 The pre-eminent figure of the Flemish Baroque,
a universal genius, Rubens also had an active diplomatic career which in the
1620s led him to travel between the courts of Spain and England. His last
decade, the 1630s, was mostly spent in Antwerp, where he devoted himself
entirely to painting. Rubens’ theory on both the usefulness and dangers of
copying after the Antique are effectively expressed in his essay De Imitatione
Statuarum, a short treatise on the imitation of sculpture that remained in
manuscript in Rubens’ lifetime mp See footnote 1 in cat. 6. Haskell and Penny
1981, 311–14, no. 80, 165; Munich and Rome 1998–99; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 181–84,
no. 132. Wünsche 1998–99, 67. Michelangelo did indeed use the Torso directly as
a model; see Wünsche 1998–99, 31–37; Haarlem and London 2005–06, 116–17.
Haskell and Penny 1981, 312. Guhl 1880, 2, 42; Schwinn 1973, 36–37. Wright
1730, 1, 268; Haskell and Penny 1981, 312–13; Schwinn 1973, 172; Montreal 1992,
76–77. ‘...
un torso grande di Hercole ignudo, assiso sopra un tronco del medisimo marmo:
non ha testa, ne braccia, ne gambe. È stato questo busto singularmente lodato
da Michel’Angelo’. U. Aldrovandi, ‘Delle statue antiche, che per tutta Roma ...
si veggono’, in Mauro 1556, 115. For Aldrovandi’s complete text ‘nel giardino
di Belvedere, sopra il Palagio del Papa’, see Brummer 1970, 268–69. Stolzenburg 2000, 437, nos 142–44, 439, no. 161. Van Thiel 1999, 79,
294, no. 7, pl. 34. According to an anonymous biographer, shortly after
arriving in Haarlem, around 1583, Karel van Mander entered into a collaboration
with Goltzius and Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem, described as follows: ‘the
three of them maintained and made an Academy, for studying from life’, see Van
Mander 1994–1999, 1, 26–27 (fol. S2 recto), 2, 70–72; Van Thiel 1999, 59–90. It
should be stressed that this academy was in no way an institution for advanced
professional training: such institutions came into being only in the 18th
century (see Van Mander 1994–99, 2, 70). It is unclear how and for what length
of time this ‘Haarlem Academy’ exactly functioned (see also Leeflang 2003–04a, 16;
Leeflang 2003–04b, 252. Veldman 2012, 11–23. Hülsen and Egger 1913–16, 1, 34
(fol. 63), 40 (fol. 73). See also Brummer 1970, 144–45, figs 125–26. Brandt
2001, 143. Reznicek 1961, 1, 321–22, no. K 201; Luijten 2003–04, 131. Reznicek
1961, vol 1, 452, no. 431, 2, 132; Florence 2008, 61–62, no. 33 (M.
Schapelhouman). Reznicek 1961, 1, 452. Schapelhouman (in Florence 2008, 62) has
previously questioned the Italian dating for Back of an Athletic Man; for pen
works by Goltzius from the 1580s see: Amsterdam, New York and elsewhere
2003–04, 238–39, figs 93–94, 242–46, nos 84–85. 121 but was published by
the art theorist Roger de Piles in his Cours de peinture par principles of 1708
(see Appendix, no. 8).6 While emphasising the importance for an artist of
becoming deeply familiar with the perfection embodied in ancient models, Rubens
warned that ‘[the imitation of antique statues] must be judiciously applied,
and so that it may not in the least smell of stone’.7 The warning against the
risk of hardening one’s style by copying ancient sculptures, thus creating
paintings that looked ‘dry’ and eccentric, had already been pointed out by
several 16th-century artists and theore- ticians, such as Giorgio Vasari
(1511–74), Ludovico Dolce (1508–68) and Giovanni Battista Armenini (1530–1609).8
Later in the 17th century the pernicious effect on painting of too-slavish
imitation of antique statuary would be summa- rised by the Bolognese art
theorist Carlo Cesare Malvasia (1616–93) with the specific neologism ‘statuino’
or ‘statue- like’.9 As stressed by Rubens in the De Imitatione, young artists
needed to learn how to transform marble into flesh instead of depicting figures
as ‘coloured marble’. The two studies on one sheet presented here perfectly
express Rubens’ views: they are in fact an example of a practice – setting live
models in the poses of famous ancient statues – already diffused from the Early
Renaissance (see 23, 14) and common practice within the curricula of the French
and Italian academies.10 Through this exercise Rubens could concentrate on the
classical pose and disre- gard the ‘matter’, something that he repeated in
modified form several times, in studies of live models in poses remi- niscent
of the Belvedere Torso, the Laocoön and other canonical statues.11 In the
present drawing, the young model is seen from his left side in the pose of one
of the most celebrated bronzes in Rome, the Spinario (‘Thorn-puller’), recorded
in the city as early as the 12th century among the antiquities at the Lateran
Palace and donated by Pope Sixtus IV (r. 1471– 84) to the Palazzo dei
Conservatori in 1471 (fig. 1, see also 23, 15).12 Interpreted in the
Renaissance as the personifi- cation of the month of March or a shepherd, the
Spinario has been recently recognised as the young Ascanius, the son of Aeneas
and founder of the gens Iulia.13 The right-hand drawing faithfully imitates the
pose of the statue, with the head looking down towards the gesture of
extracting a thorn from the foot; the left-hand drawing, in contrast, modifies
the original by turning the head towards the spectator and altering the action
so that the youth no longer withdraws a thorn from his foot, but dries it with
a towel. Two similar studies, presumably after the same young model, are
preserved in the Musée des Beaux-Arts, Dijon (fig. 2) and in London (private
collection): the former, in red chalk, shows the model from his back and his
right;14 the latter, in black chalk, from his left.15 The three drawings were
probably done in the same session and they have been dated to one of Rubens’
two Roman periods, probably the first one (1600–02).16 As long ago noted by
Wolfgang Stechow,17 the pose of 122 123 1. (left) Spinario
(Thorn-Puller), 1st century bc, bronze, 73 cm (h), Capitoline Museums, Sala dei
Trionfi, Rome, inv. 1186 2. (above) Peter Paul Rubens, Two Studies of a Young
Model Posing as the Spinario, red chalk with touches of black chalk, 246 × 382
mm, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Dijon, inv. sup. 49D the Spinario was employed
by Rubens for a young man drying his feet in the Baptism of Christ, painted for
the Jesuit church of Santa Trinità in Mantua in 1605 and now in the Royal
Museum of Fine Arts in Antwerp, a preparatory drawing for which is in the
Louvre,18 as well as for Susanna in Susanna and the Elders, a painting executed
in Rome about 1606–08, 19 ed 1 For Rubens’ early years see Muller 2004, 13–15.
2 On Rubens in Rome and his approach to the Antique see esp. Stechow 1968;
Jaffé 1977, 79–84; Muller 1982; Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 41–81; Muller 2004, 18–28.
3 On Rubens’ drawings after the Antique see the fundamental catalogue in Van
der Meulen 1994–95, 2. 4 See Ayomonino’s essay in this catalogue, 46–52. 5 See
Muller 1989, passim; Muller 2004, 35–56. On the collection of antiquities see
in particular Muller 1989, 82–87; Antwerp 2004, 260–63 (F. Healy). On the sale
to the 1st Duke of Buckingham see Muller 2004, 62–63. 6 On the De Imitatione
see Muller 1982; Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, esp. note 11, 77–78, note 44;
Antwerp 2004, 298–99; Jaffé and Bradley 2005–06; Jaffé 2010. Transcribed in
Appendix, no. 8, from De Piles 1743, 87–88. For Vasari see Bettarini Barocchi
1966–87, for instance 3, 549–50 and 5, 495–61. For Dolce see Appendix, no. 4.
See Armenini 1587, esp. 59–60 (book I, chap. 8), 86–89 (book II, chap. 3). The
concept was repeated later also by Bernini during his visit to Paris in 1665:
see Appendix, no. 9. See also Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 77–78. Malvasia 1678, 1,
359, 365, 484. On the 17th-century neologism ‘statuino’ see Pericolo,
forthcoming. See Aymonino’s essay in this volume, 50–52. Van der Meulen
1994–95, 1, 80–81. The statue is traditionally considered to be an eclectic
work of the 1st century bc: see Stuart Jones 1926, 43–47, no. 2; Haskell and
Penny 1981, 308–10, no. 78; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 254, no. 203. Recent
analysis has proved that the classicistic head, dating to the 5th century bc,
was added to the Hellenistic body and given a Roman subject presumably in the
1st century bc, see Rome forthcoming. Rome forthcoming. Held 1986, 82; Paris
2000–01, 417–18, no. 222. Held 1986, 82; Paris 2000–01, 418, 222b. Held 1986, 82.
Stechow 1968, 54–55. See also Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 80–81. Lugt 1949, 12–13,
no. 1009, pl. XIV; Antwerp 1977, 129, no. 121. Coliva 1994, 170, no.
88. 10. Odoardo Fialetti (Bologna 1573–c. 1638 Venice) Artist’s Studio c. 1608
Etching in Odoardo Fialetti, Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar tutte le
parti et membra del corpo humano, Venice, Justus Sadeler, 1608 110 × 152 mm
(plate); 194 × 238 mm (sheet) Inscribed l.l. with Fialetti’s monogram and ‘A 2’
and ‘No 208’. provenance: Elmar Seibel, Boston, from whom acquired. literature:
Rosand 1970, 12–22, 10; Buffa 1983, 315–37, nos 198 (295) – 243 (301), repr. (for the Artist’s Studio, 321, no. 210 (298), repr.); Amornpichetkul
1984, 108–09, 83; Bolten 1985, 240–43, 245 and 248; Boston, Cleveland and
elsewhere 1989, 248–49, no. 130 (D. Becker); London 2001–02, 198–200, no. 143;
Houston and Ithaca 2005–06, 94–96, no. 24 ( J. Clifford); Walters 2009, 1, 68–79,
2, 254–76, figs. 3.9–3.53; Walters 2014, 62–63, 59; Whistler 2015
(forthcoming). and now in the Borghese Gallery. 124 125 exhibitions: Not
previously exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, London, 2002–013 A prolific
artist whose large and diverse body of work comprises some fifty-five paintings
and about 450 prints, Fialetti was born in Bologna in 1573 but moved to Venice
where he was apprenticed to Jacopo Tintoretto (1519–94) and where he later
collaborated with Palma Giovane (c. 1548– 1628).1 By 1596 he was listed as a
printmaker and, from 1604 to 1612, a member of the Venetian painters’ guild,
the Arte dei Pittori; he joined the Scuola Grande di San Teodoro between 1620
and 1622.2 His wide-ranging graphic oeuvre comprises religious, mythological,
and literary subjects as well as landscapes, portraits, depictions of sport
(fencing and hunt- ing), ornamental motifs and anatomical studies, and appears
in different formats and genres, from single or series of prints to complete
illustrations for books.3 His etchings remained influential for decades after
his death not only in Venice and northern Italy, but even in France and
England.4 Without doubt Fialetti’s most admired and influential works were his
two volumes of etchings: Il vero modo et ordine per dissegnar tutte le parte et
membra del corpo humano (‘The true means and method to draw all the parts of
the human body’) and Tutte le parti del corpo humano diviso in piu pezzi . . .
(‘all the parts of the human body divided into multiple pieces’). The first was
published in Venice in 1608 by Justus Sadeler (Flanders 1583–1620), and the
second, which is undated, presumably appeared in Venice shortly thereafter. The
two books are varied in their plates and paginations and exist in different
compilations, sometimes confusingly, combining elements of both as in the
example shown here.5 The first of their kind to be published in Italy, these
books served as portable instruction manuals in drawing for beginners and
amateurs. They provided techniques for the correct construction of the human
face and body and they also illustrate the crucial role of copying plaster
casts in work- shop practice at the end of the 16th and beginning of the 17th
centuries. The Bellinger volume includes a frontispiece dedication to Cesare
d’Este, the Duke of Modena and Reggio (1561–1628), a leaf with a further
dedication to Giovanni Grimani (the Venetian patrician and collector of
antiquities, 1506–93), six pages with step-by-step instructions on draw- ing
eyes, ears and faces, another title page, Tutte le parti . . . and thirty
leaves of further faces, various parts of the body – arms, legs, torsos –
grotesque heads and portraits.6 The volume concludes with two religious
etchings by Palma Giovane.7 Unusual for manuals of the period is the scene depicted
on the first plate following the dedications: a lively and infor- mal artists’
workshop, sometimes thought to be Tintoretto’s.8 In the foreground, young
students seated on low wooden benches draw diligently before models and
assorted plaster casts of body parts arranged on and below a table, while two
older artists are painting at large easels in the background.9 At the far left,
an apprentice grinds pigments. Scattered on the ground are various artists’
tools including compasses, an inkwell and feather quill pen. Boy draughtsmen
representing three different ages – roughly from six to sixteen – diligently
record a cast of the young Marcus Aurelius, similar in type to the marble of
161– 180 ad now in the Capitoline Museum in Rome (fig. 1).10 Behind them, two
slightly older boys enthusiastically discuss a completed copy. The torso next
to the bust, although reminiscent of the Belvedere Torso, (p. 26, 23), appears
to be based on a different antique sculpture, which seems to be the subject of
a drawing of seven male torsos in various positions in a sketchbook by an
unidentified Northern artist working in Rome in the mid- to late 16th century
(Trinity College Library, Cambridge, 2).11 The torso seen in Fialetti’s etching
is comparable to the one with the upraised right arm placed at the lower centre
of the Trinity page;12 it was evidently a favourite of Fialetti’s as it
reappears later in his book. The cast of the armless female torso on the
floor on the right in the etching also derives from an antique prototype. She
is probably based on a now-lost version of Venus Tying her Sandal, a
Hellenistic type well known in the Renaissance and one that inspired many
adaptations,13 such as that in an anonymous Italian drawing in the Fitzwilliam
Museum, Cambridge (fig.). The male torso depicted in that drawing is also very
similar to that in the etching. Fialetti would have had ample opportunity to
study Antique statuary first-hand during a trip to Rome, made before he settled
in Venice, though plaster casts were an integral part of Venetian workshop
practice from the 16th century onwards.14 They were in wide use in Tintoretto’s
studio where Fialetti trained. According to his biographer, Carlo Ridolfi,
Tintoretto collected plaster casts of ancient and Renaissance marbles avidly
and at great expense: ‘Nor did he cease his continuous study of whatever hand
or torso he had collected’.15 From the chalk drawings he produced, ‘thus did he
learn the forms requisite for his art’.16 The casts remained in the Tintoretto
family workshop when Domenico, his son, took it over and are 1. Portrait of
Marcus Aurelius as a Boy, 161–180 ad, marble, 74 cm (h), Capitoline Museums,
Palazzo Nuovo, Albani Collection, Rome, MC 279 2. Anonymous artist working in
Rome, Studies of Male Torsos, mid to late 16th c., pen and brown ink, 280 × 450
mm, folio 47v from the Cambridge Sketchbook, Trinity College Library,
Cambridge, R. 17.3 recorded in his will of 1630.17 The younger Tintoretto for a
period considered bequeathing to painters his house and studio with its
contents – reliefs, drawings and models – so that an academy could be
established to train future generations of Venetian artists, although nothing
came of this scheme.18 Whether the Artist’s Studio seen here is actually
Tintoretto’s or simply a generalised venue, Fialetti asserted the centrality of
drawing, especially for young artists.19 This also recorded his own experience:
when as a boy, he asked what he should do in order to make progress, he was
advised by Tintoretto that he ‘must draw and again draw’.20 By the early 17th
century, repeated and systematic study from studio drawings, plaster casts,
sculpture, as well as anatomy and the live model was deemed essential
preparation for the accurate portrayal of the human figure.21 But in order to
depict the body as a whole, students first had to master its individual parts,
a tenet of Central Italian working practice that was perpetuated throughout the
16th century by artists and writers like Giovan Battista Armenini (1525–1609)
and Federico Zuccaro (c. 1541–1609), who instructed pupils to draw parts of the
body, an ‘alphabet of drawing’.22 Similar principles were espoused by the
Carracci Academy in Bologna, of which Fialetti was no doubt aware.23 While
precedents for instructional drawing books are found in 15th-century model and
pattern books containing motifs that artists could copy into their compositions
(p. 20, figs 3–4),24 Fialetti’s were the first aimed at students and amateurs
as well as art lovers and collectors.25 They also seem to be the first of their
kind to be printed in Venice.26 Other publications modelled after them soon
followed in the Veneto and elsewhere in Italy, notably De excellentia et
nobilitate delineationis libri duo, published 126 127 by
Giacomo Franco in 1611 based on designs by Palma Giovane and prints by Battista
Franco (c. 1510–1561) as well as Gasparo Colombina’s Paduan publication of
1623.27 Like Fialetti’s compendia, Giacomo Franco’s treatise featured several
plates incorporating antique motifs: busts of the Laocoön (p. 26, 19), the
Emperors Vitellius (p. 40, 52) and Galba were inserted among the etched
portraits on plates 18 and 20 while plates 14 and 25 showed torsos of a female
Venus Tying her Sandal type much like that seen in Fialetti’s etching.28 In the
decades that followed, the Antique would assume a greater role in drawing
manuals.29 Several published at the end of the 17th century, like Gérard
Audran’s Les Proportions du corps humain mesurées sur les plus belles figures
de l’antiquité,1683 (p. 48, figs 72–73) and Jan de Bisschop’s Icones, 1668/69
(see cat. 13) and into the 18th century, such as Giovanni Volpato and Raffaello
Morghen’s Principi del disegno, 1786 (p. 49, 76), would focus on antiquities
exclusively. The influence of Fialetti’s books was far-reaching and persisted
long after his death. Plates from them were copied and adapted for publications
appearing both in Italy and elsewhere:30 for example Johannes Gellee copied the
Artist’s Studio and other etchings in his Tyrocinia artis pictoriae caelatoriae
published in Amsterdam in 1639.31 Fialetti’s vol- umes also influenced a great
many other books published in the Netherlands, paving the way for Abraham
Bloemaert’s Tekenboek of 1740 (cat. no. 11).32 Furthermore, Fialetti’s manuals
catered to a new demo- graphic – the connoisseur, gentleman scholar and mature
artist – and would inspire similar books printed in England.33 With the growing
market for Venetian art in England during the first decades of the 17th century
and accelerated interest in drawing, Fialetti’s work was esteemed not just by
Venetians but by aristocratic collectors visiting Venice like Sir Henry 3.
Odoardo Fialetti, Two Male Torsos Seen from Behind, c. 1608, etching, 103 × 142
mm, plate 30 from Il vero modo...1608, Katrin Bellinger collection 4.
Anonymous, Roman School, Studies after Antique Statuary (Fragments), c. 1550,
pen and brown ink and brown wash, black chalk, heightened with white on
blue-green paper, 294 × 212 mm, Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, inv. 2978. The
Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge Wotton (1568–1639) and Thomas Howard, the 2nd
Earl of Arundel (1585–1646), among others, who undoubtedly admired his facile
draughtsmanship.34 Interestingly, Fialetti’s biographer, Malvasia, who praised
his versatility, mentioned that as well as giving drawing lessons to Venetians,
he also instructed Alethea Talbot, the Earl of Arundel’s wife, whose grandson
owned one of Fialetti’s books.35 Through connections like these, Fialetti
attracted the attention of English-based artists and architects including
Edward Norgate (c. 1580–1650), Inigo Jones (1573–1652) and Anthony Van Dyck
(1599–1641).36 Copied and emulated, Fialetti’s plates would play a key role in
the development of the drawing book in England.37 Treatises by Norgate
(1627–28, 1st ed.; 1648–49, 2nd ed.), Isaac Fuller (1654), Alexander Brown
(1660), and others helped to further the principles set forth in Fialetti’s
books, which were copied well into the 19th century.38 avl For a full appraisal of his life and work on
which this biographical account is based, see Walters 2009 and Walters 2014, 57–67.
Walters 2009, 1, 6–7; Walters 2014, 58. Walters 2014, 57. Walters 2009, 1, vi.
Beginning with Bartsch, there has been considerable confusion over the size and
content of the two editions. See Walters 2009, 1, 68–70, particularly note 40
and Walters 2014, 66–67, note 23; Greist 2014, 14–15. Alexandra Greist (ibid., 12–18)
published a little-known instruc- tional text by Fialetti dictating how he
wished the manual to be used, printed on the versi of nine prints bound
together with early editions of both books (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam,
C/RM0024.ASC/552*1, Shelfmark 325G6). Among the plates not included in the
present volume is the painter’s studio showing artists measuring human
proportions: Buffa 1983, 321, no. 211 (298). The Holy Family and Christ
Preaching. Boston, Cleveland and elsewhere 1989, 248; Nichols 2013b, 195, 236,
note 134. The standing painter in profile is believed by some scholars to be
Tintoretto (Ilchman and Saywell 2007, 392; Nichols 2013b, 236, note 134).
Nichols points to the similarity with the painter as seen in Francesco Pianta
the Younger’s wood-carving, Tintoretto as ‘Painting’, in the Scuola Grande di
San Rocco, Venice (Nichols 1999, 238, 212). His elongated body, unlike the
others in the etching, and his energetic pose and outstretched right arm,
recall Tintoretto’s studies of single figures. Alternatively, Catherine
Whistler (2015, forthcoming) has suggested that the studio may evoke Palma
Giovane ‘given that there is something of his panache in the figure of the
painter at work and in the costume of the seated artist’. She further noted
their similarities to his self-portrait in the Brera (Mason Rinaldi 1984, 92–93,
213, 117). Fittschen and Zanker 1985, 1, 67–68, no. 61, 2, pls 69, 70, 72.
CensusID: 46328. Michaelis 1892, 99, no. 60v; Dhanens 1963, 185, no. 52v, fig.
30; Fileri 1985, 39–40, no. 48, repr. Given in the 19th c. to a Flemish artist
working in Rome around 1583 (Michaelis 1892), more recently the sketchbook has
been associated with the sculptor, Giambologna (1529– 1608), and his Roman trip
of 1550 (Dhanens 1963 and Fileri 1985). As pointed out by Eloisa Dodero
(personal communication). Künzl 1970; Bober and Rubinstein. 2010, 69, no. 20;
CensusID: 58121. Walters 2014, 57. Ridolfi 1984, 16. Ridolfi 1914, 2, 14;
Whitaker 1997. Ridolfi 1914, 2, 14; Ridolfi Tozzi 1933, 316. Ridolfi 1914, 2, 262–63. Rosand 1970; Walters 2009, 1, 73. Because
‘drawing was what gave to painting its grace and perfection’, Ridolfi added
(Ridolfi 1914, 2, 65; Ridolfi 1984, 16). Muller 1984; Bolten 1985; Walters
2009, 1, 73. Armenini 1587, 52–59 (book 1, chap. 7); Alberti 1604, 5 (quoting
Federico Zuccaro); Amornpichetkul 1984; Bleeke-Byrne 1984; Roman 1984, 91;
Greist 2014, 15. Gombrich 1960, 161–62; Rosand 1970, 7, 14–15; Bolten 1985, 245;
Boston, Cleveland and elsewhere 1989, 248 (D. Becker); Houston and Ithaca
2005–06, 95 (J. Clifford); Walters 2009, 1, 74; Walters 2014, 62, 66, note 6.
On the Carracci’s influence on model books, see Amornpichetkul 1984, 113–16.
For model books, see Gombrich 1960, 156–72; Rosand 1970, 5; Ames- Lewis 2000a, 63–69;
Nottingham and London 1983, 94–101; Amornpichetkul 1984, 109. D. Becker, in
Boston, Cleveland and elsewhere 1989, 248; J. Clifford, in Houston and Ithaca
2005–06, 95. Catherine Whistler has argued persua- sively that the book was
aimed at a growing market of virtuosi, art lovers and collectors, who placed a
social value on the knowledge of drawings (Whistler 2015, forthcoming). Walters
2009, 1, 69; Walters 2014, 62. For the growing interest in publishing prints at
this time in Venice, see Van der Sman 2000, 235–47. Rosand 1970, 17–19;
Amornpichetkul 1984, 110–12; Walters 2009, 1,p.74. Rosand 1970, 15, 27. Amornpichetkul
1984, 115. Ibid., 112; D. Becker in Boston, Cleveland and elsewhere 1989, 248
(D. Becker); Walters 2009, 1, 75–79. Bolten 1985, 132–39. Ibid., 119, 131,
133–34, 141, 143, 153, 157, 188–207, 243–56; Walters 2009, 1, 79. Whistler 2015
(forthcoming). For a fundamental discussion of Fialetti and his impact in
England, see Walters 2009, 1, Chapter 5, 152–197. See also Walters 2014, 64–65.
Malvasia 1678, 2, 312; Greist 2014, 12. Walters 2009, 1, 152; Walters 2014, 64–65
Amornpichetkul 1984, 112; Walters 2009, 1, 78, 152. Walters 2009, 1, 78,
180–97; Greist 2014, 14. 128 129 11. Frederick Bloemaert
(Utrecht c. 1616–90 Utrecht) after Abraham Bloemaert (Gorinchem 1566–1651
Utrecht) A Student Draughtsman, Drawing Plaster Casts 1740 Engraving and
chiaroscuro woodcut with two-tone blocks (brown and sepia), titlepage from Het
Tekenboek (‘The Drawing Book’), Amsterdam, Reinier and Josua Ottens, 1740 303 ×
222 mm (image); 378 × 286 mm (sheet) provenance: Elmar Seibel, Boston, from
whom acquired. literature: Strauss 1973, 348, no. 1 64, repr.;
Lehmann-Haupt 1977, 155–57, 125; Amsterdam and Washington D.C. 1981–82, 16–17;
Bolten 1985, 49, repr., 57–67; Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 395, 2, T1a;
Bolten 2007, 1, 362, 366, under no. 1150. exhibitions: Not previously
exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 1995-071 Abraham Bloemaert, a
prolific artist by whose hand over two hundred paintings and sixteen hundred
drawings are known, was born in Gorinchem in 1566.1 From the age of 15 or 16,
he spent three years in Paris from 1581–83, studying for six weeks with the
otherwise unknown Jehan Bassot and then for two and a half years with the
similarly obscure ‘Maistre Herry’. His third teacher in Paris was his fellow
countryman Hieronymus Francken I (1540–1610).2 In 1611, along with Paulus
Moreelse and several colleagues, Bloemaert founded the new painters’ guild in
Utrecht, the Guild of St Luke, and became its deacon in 1618.3 Shortly after
the guild’s foundation, around 1612, some form of drawing academy must have
been established in Utrecht, again with Bloemaert’s involvement. We learn about
this from a letter to the Utrecht antiquarian Arnout van Buchell and in Van ’t Light der Teken en Schilder konst
(‘About the Light of the Art of Drawing and Painting’) of 1643–44, by Crispijn
de Passe the Younger (c. 1597– c. 1670).4 In the introduction to his book De
Passe recalls how he learned his art together with the son of Paulus Moreelse
‘in a famous drawing school which was, at that time organized by the most
eminent masters’.5 The well-known print Modeltekenen (‘Model Drawing’) from De
Passe’s book is thought to repre- sent this school (fig. 1) and it has even
been suggested that one of the two tutors looking over the students’ work is
Abraham Bloemaert himself.6 We do not know how long this ‘Academy’ existed.
Bloemaert had a large studio of his own with many pupils, including his four
sons and many well-known Dutch artists, such as the Italianate painters
Cornelis van Poelenburgh (1594/95–1667), Jan Both (c. 1618–52) and Jan Baptist
Weenix (1621–60/61), as well as the Caravaggists Gerrit van Honthorst
(1590–1656) and Hendrick ter Brugghen (1588–1629).7 A development can be traced
in Bloemaert’s work from a robust Mannerism, influenced by artists such as
Joachim van Wtewael (c. 1566–1638), towards a more classicist style which he
presumably derived from Hendrick Goltzius (1558–1617) and his Haarlem
colleagues. Caravaggism made a brief appearance in Bloemaert’s work during the
early 1620s, when his first pupils returned from Italy – which, inciden- tally,
he never visited himself. At the end of Bloemaert’s life his style grew
smoother and more even. In teaching, Bloemaert undoubtedly used his own
drawings as examples for his many pupils to copy.8 He found this approach so
productive – and perhaps commercially attractive – that towards the end of his
life he joined forces with his son Frederick (c. 1616–90) in the publication of
the Tekenboek or ‘Drawing Book’, a compilation of specimen drawings.9 The
prints in the Tekenboek, which were cut by Frederick after drawings by his
father, were published in instalments from c. 1650.10 Abraham’s reversed
preparatory drawings, which he probably began around 1645 and some of which
reproduce earlier work, are preserved en groupe in the Fitzwilliam Museum in
Cambridge,11 including that for 1. Crispijn de Passe, Model Drawing, from: Van
’t Light der Teken en Schilder konst (‘About the Light of the Art of Drawing
and Painting’), 1643, engraving, 330 × 390 mm, Rijksmuseum Research Library,
Amsterdam, inv. no. 330B13 130 131 2. Abraham Bloemaert, A Student
Draughtsman, Drawing Plaster Casts, pen and brown ink, 397 × 301, Fitzwilliam
Museum, Cambridge, Inv. PD 166–1963.5. The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge the
title page displayed here (fig. 2). The title page of Bloemaert’s Tekenboek,
catalogued here in the most popular 18th-century edition (1740), shows an
artist seated on the floor of an imaginary studio, drawing 13 artist has again
created the suggestion of antique pieces. Images of artists drawing in a studio
combined with assem- blages of plaster casts are highly appropriate subjects
for drawing books. In earlier Italian and Netherlandish examples we encounter
similar images, such as Modeltekenen (‘Model Drawing’) by De Passe from 1643
(fig. 1), by Petrus Feddes (1586–c. 1634) from around 1615, and especially by
Odoardo Fialetti (1573–c. 1638), in his highly influential Il vero modo et
ordine per dissegnar tutte le parte et membra del corpo humano (‘The true means
and method to draw all the parts of the human body’) and Tutte le parti del
corpo humano diviso in piu pezzi . . . (‘all the parts of the human body
divided into multiple pieces’) of c. 1608 (also featured here as cat.
10).18 For apprentices the copying of two-dimensional works, such as
prints and drawings – and also paintings – was followed by drawing from plaster
casts, a crucial activity in the work- shop practice. Ideal examples were
employed to prepare the student for drawing from life, from the real world and
especially from clothed and nude models.14 Such plaster casts invariably
included copies of well-known classical statues, plus copies of more modern
works and casts of limbs and body parts taken from live models, such as those
seen here hanging on the wall behind the draughtsman. In this image the casts
do not include any firmly identifiable antique statues, although a number are
clearly intended to suggest them, such as the female head at lower right with
the short, rounded hairstyle and the male torso beside it, which resembles the
Belvedere Torso (p. 26, 23); the pose of the reclining man is reminiscent of an
antique River God. In this image Bloemaert made clear his allegiance to
classical tradition, and the importance of antique works as the Bloemaert’s
Tekenboek, which only contains specimens 3. Frederick Bloemaert after Abraham
Bloemaert, A Draughtsman Sitting at a Table, Drawing after Plaster Casts,
engraving, 280 × 165 mm, Katrin Bellinger collection, London from the plaster
figure of an elderly, reclining man. foundation for the learning of art.15
Midway through the Tekenboek, Bloemaert reiterates this 132 133 sentiment
regarding the importance of antique works by incorporating a similar title
page, A Draughtsman Sitting at a Table, Drawing after Plaster Casts (fig. 3),
in the section on ‘Mannelijke en Vrouwelijke Academie Figuren’ (‘Male and
Female Academy Figures’).16 This features the same or a similar draughtsman,
now seated at a table in a more realistic setting and drawing from a plaster
model of a nude male torso. Around him lie other casts: a male head, a foot and
a further torso seen from the back. As in the first title page, no recognisable
antique sculptures can be seen, although the 17 of heads, faces, body parts and
figures, is a product of direct studio practice. It is thus different in
approach from the other important mid-17th century Netherlandish drawing book,
mentioned above, Van ’t Light der Teken en Schilder konst (‘About the Light of
the Art of Drawing and Painting’; 1643), by De Passe the Younger. De Passe
primarily focuses on the structure, proportion and anatomy of the human body;19
examples of models and ways to learn to draw them are of secondary importance.
Bloemaert’s Tekenboek is actually closer in character in its approach and
images to the two volumes of etchings produced by Fialetti, which were probably
known to the Bloemaerts in one of the Dutch editions.20 The Bloemaerts’
publication might well be described as the Northern counterpart to Fialetti’s
books.21 And as in those the emphasis in the Tekenboek is on providing many
practical examples of heads, faces and limbs to draw. Like Fialetti’s works it
may be regarded as a portable instruction manual for drawing. Bloemaert’s
Tekenboek was exceptionally popular from the time of its publication around
1650 to the end of the 18th century.22 Many editions followed the first (very
rare) editio princeps, which probably contained 100 plates arranged in five
parts.23 After his father’s death in 1651, Frederick must have published one or
more sub-editions with 120 plates in six parts and around 1685 Nicolaes II
Visscher (1649–1702) another with 160 plates. Several decades later, in 1723,
an edition by Louis Renard (dates unknown) appeared (of which only one copy is
known), with 166 plates in eight parts arranged by Bernard Picart
(1673–1733).24 The same arrangement was retained in the best-known edition of
Bloemaert’s work, published by Reinier and Josua Ottens, the magnificent 1740
volume displayed here. At that time the title was changed to Oorspronkelyk en
vermaard konstryk tekenboek van Abraham Bloemaert (‘Original and famous artful
drawing book of Abraham Bloemaert’). Bloemaert’s popula- rity was certainly not
restricted to the Dutch Republic: artists such as François Boucher (1703–70)
and Balthasar Denner (1685–1749) also took the Utrecht master as a model for
their own work.Teekenschool/die op dien tijt van de voornaamste meesters wiert
gehouden heb gedaan’. Schatborn suggests that this drawing school might have
been in France where Van de Passe spent a long period, 1617–30 (see Amsterdam
and Washington D.C. 1981–82, 21). Veldman emphasises that De Passe’s book is a
tribute to the city of Utrecht, thanking the city for spiritual nourishment
including the Utrecht Drawing School (Veldman 2001, 337–38). Suggestion by Bok
in Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 571. Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 645–51.
Such a group of drawings (mixed with prints) occurs for example in the estate
of the painter Gaspar Netscher (1639–84): ‘In the brown portfolio [ ] are 327
both prints and drawings [ ] serving for disciples to copy’; see Amsterdam and
Washington D. C. 1981–82, 17; Plomp 2001, 37. For artists’ practical education
in the Netherlands and Italy in the 16th and 17th centuries see Bleeke-Byrne
1984, 28–39. Bloemaert’s Tekenboek was published with the Latin title: Artis
Apellae, liber hic, studiosa juventus, / Aptata ingenio fert rudimenta tuo ...
(This book, studious youths, brings to your minds the appropriate rudiments of
the art of Apelles ...); see Bolten 1985, 51; Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 395
[translation]). It is possible that Abraham Bloemaert conceived the idea of
producing such a Tekenboek much earlier in his career: the Giroux album,
containing many figure studies, may well constitute Bloemaert’s initial
selection for such a didactic project; see Bolten 1993, 9, note 6; Bolten 2007,
1, 350–61. For the publication in instalments see: Bolten 2007, 1, 362. Bolten
1985, 66; Bolten 2007, 1, 362–97, 1150–1311. For doubts regarding Bloemaert’s
authorship of the drawings in Cambridge see Bolten 1985, 48 (‘A. or F.
Bloemaert’); Roethlisberger 1992, 30, note 41; Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 391;
Bolten 1993, 6–8. Bolten 2007, 1, 363, no. 1150, 2, 1150. The scene was
engraved, then supplemented with a chiaroscuro woodcut with two-tone blocks
(brown and sepia). This technique and the dimen- sions (303 × 222 mm [image])
are the same in the editio princeps from c. 1650 and the 1740 edition displayed
here (see Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 395). See Aymonino’s essay in the
present volume, 15–77. According to Roethlisberger and Bok (1993, 1, 395),
there is little or no discernible influence of ancient sculpture in his own
work. The engraving, A Draughtsman Sitting at a Table, Drawing after Plaster
Casts (fig. 3), does not appear in the editio princeps from circa 1650, but
does feature in the 1685 edition and later ones (Bolten 2007, 1, 392, under no.
1290). The original drawing for this engraving is also in the Fitzwilliam
Museum, Cambridge: Bolten 2007, 1, 392, no. 1290, 2, 1290. For Feddes, see
Bolten 1985, 18, repr.; Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 395. For De Passe’s
Tekenboek see: Amsterdam and Washington D.C. 1981–82, 15–17, 21, repr. For
Dutch editions of Fialetti and for Dutch publications based or partially
reprinting Fialetti see Bolten. According to Strauss (1973, 348) Bloemaert’s
title page was ‘patterned partly on the frontispiece of Odoardo Fialetti’s Vero
modo et ordine per dessignar Tutte le parti et membra del corpo humano, Venice
(Sadeler), 1608’. See also Lehmann-Haupt 1977, 157. For Bloemaert’s fortuna
critica see: Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 47–50. Regarding the Tekenboek
Roethlisberger surmises that the 1740 edition was intended for print and book
collectors, rather than artists: ibid., 1, 394. For the various reprints of
Bloemaert’s Tekenboek cited in this paragraph see Bolten 2007, 1, 362. There
were also various editions of sets of prints copied after Frederick’s
engravings [consequently printed in reverse] during the second half of the 17th
century and in the 18th century (see ibid., 362, note 22). The only known copy
of the 1723 edition is in the Centraal Museum in Utrecht (see Bolten 2007, 1, 362).
Slatkin, 1976; Gerson 1983, 109–10 (Boucher and Fragonard), 189 (Piazzetta).
1 2 3 4 5 mp For Bloemaert’s life on which this biographical account is based,
see Roethlisberger and Bok, 1993, 1, 551–87; Bolten 2007, 1, 3–5. For ‘new’
Bloemaert paintings, see Roethlisberger, 2014, 79–92. Van Mander 1994–99, 1, 448–49
(fol. 297v). Roethlisberger and Bok 1993, 1, 570. Ibid., 1, 571. Verbeek and
Veldman 1974, 146, no. 191; De Passe 1643–44, unpaginated introduction, Aen de
Teekunst-lievende en-gunstige lezers, to the first part, met de zoon van Paulus
Moreelse en anderen) in een vermaarde 12. Michael Sweerts (Brussels
1618–1664 Goa, India) A Painter’s Studio c. 1648–50 Oil on canvas, 71 × 74 cm
provenance: Private collection, Moscow; acquired by Dr Abraham Bredius
(1855–1946); purchased by the Rijksmuseum in 1901 for f. 400. selected
literature: Martin 1905, 127, 131, pl. II [a]; Martin 1907, 139, 149, no. 10;
Horster 1974, 145, 147, 2; Van Thiel 1976, 532, A 1957, repr.; Döring 1994, 55–58,
2, 60–62; Kultzen 1996, 88–89, no. 6, repr., with previous bibliography.
exhibitions: Milan 1951, no. 166, pl. 117; London 1955, 90–92, no. 77 (D.
Sutton), not repr.; Rome 1958–59, 32–34, no. 4 (R. Kultzen); Rotterdam 1958, 36–37,
no. 4; Toyko 1968–69, no. 63; Cologne and Utrecht 1991–92, 270–72, no. 33.1 (R.
Kultzen); Hannover 1999, 18–20, 9; Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002,
97–99, no. VII (G. Jansen); Antwerp 2004–07 (no catalogue); Brussels 2007–08
(no catalogue); Doha 2011 (no catalogue). Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum,
SK-A-1957 We have entered the shadowy inner sanctum of a painter’s studio in
mid-17th-century Rome. A young draughtsman perched on a wooden stool to the
left studies a life-size model of a flayed nude écorché, assuming a balletic
pose at centre right. Behind it, another boy draughtsman, younger still, sketches
a classical female bust resting on a table, which is shared on the right by the
studio assistant who grinds red-hued pigments. Working at an easel in the left
back- ground is a painter, perhaps the master of the studio, capturing the
likeness of a male nude posed in the corner. Partly obscured in the shadows on
the far left are two gentle- men visitors in Dutch dress. One glances in our
direction while the other gestures to our right, perhaps towards the painter or
the écorché. The main attraction, however, is the abundant array of plaster
casts, mostly antique, piled up in the foreground – heads, torsos, limbs and a
relief – all bathed in warm, golden light. Though widely admired in his
lifetime, Sweerts remains a somewhat enigmatic figure about whom relatively
little is known.1 He was born in Brussels in 1618, but is first docu- mented
from 1646 to 1651 as residing on the Via Margutta in the parish of S. Maria del
Popolo in Rome, an area favoured by Dutch and Flemish expatriates.2 Already
twenty-eight when he arrived in the city, he would have had at least some
artistic training before then, probably in the North, though his early teachers
have not been identified. Neither signed nor dated, this canvas was probably
executed by Sweerts c. 1648–50 in Rome, where he remained until 1652 or later.3
In travelling south, Sweerts was following a long-standing educational
tradition, one succinctly articulated by Dutch painter and art theorist Karel
van Mander (1548–1606) who stated: ‘Rome is the city where before all other
places the Painter’s journey is apt to lead him, since it is the capital of
Pictura’s Schools’.4 It is evident from the Painter’s Studio and other
depictions of the same or similar theme of the artist at work, a subject that
clearly fascinated him, that Sweerts was well aware of artistic theory of the
day, particularly the importance placed on learning through drawing.5 Karel van
Mander recom- mends beginning artists to ‘seek a good master’, one who has
decent works of art in his workshop, that is, an ample supply of study
materials such as books, prints, drawings and plaster casts. The pupil must
learn to draw ‘first with charcoal, then with the chalk or pen’.6 After making
copies of prints and drawings by various masters, the student should progress
to plaster casts, an important step. On equal footing with the copying of casts
was the study of anatomy. However, given the difficulty of procuring corpses,
artists at this time copied anatomical figures in plaster or ‘flayed plaster
casts’.7 This was followed by study of the living figure before the student
finally proceeded to painting. Written at the beginning of the 17th century,
Van Mander’s book thus made available for Northern artists those principles of
artistic education, the ‘alphabet of drawing’ that had been codified in Italy
during the 15th and 16th centuries.8 By clearly setting out the stages of study
established by Van Mander and others, first drawing from casts and anatomical
figures in plaster, then the live model, Sweerts’ composition is a visual
lesson in the main principles of studio practice required to become a
successful painter.9 The goal is manifested in Sweerts’ completed Wrestling
Match canvas of c. 1648–50 displayed on the wall in the back- ground, which
features figures based on classical models.10 His didactic intent to illustrate
the step-by-step approach to learning recalls Odoardo Fialetti’s Artist’s
Studio, c. 1608, from Il vero modo, the instructional manual on drawing
published in Venice about forty years earlier (cat.), no doubt known to Sweerts
through one of the Dutch publica- tions that reproduced plates from it.11
Plaster casts and models were in constant use in Northern workshops from the
late 16th century onwards.12 Though he never travelled to Italy, Van Mander’s
friend, Cornelis Cornelisz. van Haarlem (1562–1638), had a collec- tion of
ninety-nine casts after antique and anatomical 134 135 models.13 Van
Mander praised his colleague (with whom he started, along with Hendrick
Goltzius, an informal academy in Haarlem in 1583) for selecting for his work
‘from the best and most beautiful living and breathing antique sculptures’.1 4
Sumptuously displayed in a large pile in the foreground, a veritable feast for
the eyes, casts play a starring role in Sweerts’ painting (detail, fig.). While
light enters both from the window and the open door, which reveals an urban
view, that light that illuminates the sculptures so brilliantly and
mysteriously emanates from an unseen source, over the viewer’s shoulder. The
casts are presented with clarity and in sharp focus, in marked contrast to the
more generalised treatment of most of the other elements in the composi-
tion.15 While the human expressions seem almost blank, those of the casts are
animated and alive: the comment often made about Sweerts, that ‘his people
often look like sculptures and his plaster casts seem almost human’, rings very
true here.16 Several sources for the antique casts can be identified, beginning
with the head of a woman on the table, the subject of study for the young boy
sketching in the middle distance. As noted previously,17 she is a much reduced
copy of the colossal so-called Juno Ludovisi (considered now to be a portrait
of Antonia Augusta, daughter of Octavia Minor and Mark Antony), which, from 1622,
was in the Ludovisi collection in Rome and is now in the Palazzo Altemps in
Rome.18 The most prominent among the jumble of casts in the foreground on the
right is the head of a woman, usually identified as Niobe from the famous group
in the Uffizi (fig. 2, see also 30, 34), but equally, the head could be that of
one of her daughters from the same group.19 They were discovered together with
the Wrestlers (p. 30, 33) on a vineyard outside Rome.20 Immediately to the left
of the Niobe, is a cast of a limbless Apollo based on a model by François
Duquesnoy (1597–1643).21 The head of an old woman in profile at the back of the
pile to the left is inspired by the Roman copy of a Hellenistic original
donated in 1566 by Pius V to the Con-servatori Palace and today in the
Capitoline Museum (fig. 3).22 She contrasts with the youthful beauty to her
right, the head of the celebrated Venus de’ Medici (Florence, Uffizi, see 42, 56).
Behind the old woman is a head of the Laocoön, ‘bronzed’ in effect, while the
rest of his body, seen from behind, rests on the top of the pile of casts (p.
26, 19).23 The relief propped up against the table at the back is a cast of a
Roman terracotta plaque, Winter and Hercules, from the Campana collection and
acquired by the Louvre in 1861 2. Niobe, from the Niobe Group, possibly a Roman
copy of a Greek original of the 4th century bc, marble, 228 cm (h), Uizi,
Florence, inv. 294 3. Statue of an Old Woman, Roman copy of a Hellenistic
original, marble, 145 cm (h), Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. Scu 640
1. Michael Sweerts, A Painter’s
Studio (detail) 136 (fig. 4).24 It was admired by artists like Giovanni da
Udine (1487–1564) in the 16th century when it was recorded in the collection of
Gabriele de’ Rossi (1517),25 and into the 17th by others such as Pietro da
Cortona (1596–1669) and Pietro Testa (1612–50), whose copies after it are
preserved respec- tively in the Uffizi, Florence, and in the Royal Collection
at Windsor Castle.26 That this collection of casts was an important part of
Sweerts’ working practice is suggested by their regular appearance in other
compositions. Some familiar faces – the head of the old woman, the Juno
Ludovisi, the Niobe and others – return in Sweerts’ later Artist’s Studio,
signed and dated 1652, in the Detroit Institute of Arts (fig. 5). They are seen
among examples, including a cupid and torso by François Duquesnoy; this is
being scrutinised by an elegant young man, probably in Rome on the Grand Tour,
while the painter appears to be explaining how Duquesnoy’s 4. Winter and
Hercules, Roman, 1st century ad, terracotta, 60 × 52 cm, Louvre, Paris, inv. Cp
4169 figures once formed part of a group.27 Closer to the present composition
in conception, is the Artist’s Studio with a Woman Sewing in the Collection Rau
Foundation UNICEF, Cologne (fig. 6).28 Though almost certainly a workshop
picture, it evidently documents Sweerts’ original design and intention. There
is a similar haphazard arrangement of casts, with many of the same specimens
reappearing, including the bronzed head of Laocoön and his torso, placed beside
modern works, including the copy after a marble relief of François Duquesnoy,
Children Playing with a Goat.29 Many other celebrated compositions by Sweerts
feature antique casts (see 40, 52). It is not known why he chose to display
them with such prominence and so frequently, but he may well have been catering
to a new class of patron, the Dutch Grand Tourist.30 Among Sweerts’ most
important benefactors in Rome in the 1640s were Dutch tourists, especially
merchants.31 Thus three of five brothers from the Deutz textile merchant family
were in Italy between 1646 and 1650, and that is when they probably acquired
the many paintings by Sweerts listed in their inventories, including an
Artist’s Studio owned by Joseph Deutz.32 Significantly, the documents also
suggest that Sweerts acted as the Deutz’s agent for purchasing antique
sculpture as well as modern pictures, as so many other painters were to do in
the next century.33 Another important patron in Rome, Prince Camillo Pamphilj,
the nephew of Pope Innocent X (r. 1644–55), may have involved Sweerts in
teaching. He painted a range of works for the Prince, who, interestingly,
possessed a version in porphyry of the ever-present Head of the Old Woman; he
137 also owned the Duquesnoy relief that occurs in Sweerts’
Artist’s Studio now in Cologne (fig. 6).34 An intriguing pay- ment recorded in
the Pamphilj account book to Sweerts on 21 March of 1652 for ‘various amounts
of oil used since 17th February in His Excellency’s academy’, suggests Sweerts’
direct involvement with an academy in Rome.35 By the summer of 1655, Sweerts
had returned to Brussels where he founded ‘an academy of life drawing’,
primarily to educate tapestry and carpet designers.36 Something of its original
appearance might be gleaned from Sweerts’ Drawing School in the Frans Hals
Museum in Haarlem (c. 1655–60), where students of various ages draw from a live
male nude.37 In this painting, conspicuously absent are plaster casts; the
animation is now provided by the more than twenty young students assuming
various attitudes, some concentrating on the task at hand, others less focused.
However, there was probably another version by Sweerts of this painting, now
known only in a copy, where the live nude has been substi- tuted by a cast of a
classical female sculpture.38 Evidently plaster models were never far from his
mind. aa et avl 1 For his life and work, see Kultzen 1996 and Amsterdam, San
Francisco and elsewhere 2002, with previous literature. 2 Sutton 2002, 12; Bikker
2002, 25–26. 3 Sutton 2002, 21. 4 In his ‘Foundation of the Painter’s Art’
(Grondt der Schilder-Const), published together with his ‘Lives’ and his two
other theoretical treatises in the Schilder-Boeck (1604). See Van Mander 1604,
fol. 6v, chap. 1, no. 66; Van Mander 1973, 1, 92–93, chap. 1, no. 66; Stechow
1966, 57–58. Van Mander further noted, ‘From Rome bring home skill in drawing,
the ability to paint from Venice, which I had to bypass for the lack of time.’:
Stechow 1966, 58; Sutton Sutton 2002, 11, 17. In the preface to his book on
painters: Van Mander 1604, fol. 9r, chap. 2, no. 9; Van Mander 1973, 102–03,
chap. 2, no. 9; Martin 1905, 126. Martin 1905, 127. See Aymonino’s essay in
this catalogue, 33–34. Martin 1905, 127. Staatliche Kunsthalle Karlsruhe;
Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 94–96, no. VI (G. Jansen). For
example, Johannes Gellee’s Tyrocinia artis pictoriae caelatoriae published in
Amsterdam in 1639 where copied versions of the Artist’s Studio and other
etchings appear: see Bolten 1985, 132–39 and for other publications based or
reprinting parts of Fialetti’s treatise see Bolten. For the use of plaster
casts in 17th- and 18th-century artists’ studios in Antwerp and Brussels, see
Lock 2010. Rembrandt’s bankruptcy inventory of 1656 lists numerous plaster
casts, from life as well as from the Antique, which were doubtless an essential
part of his workshop practice (Strauss and Van der Meulen 1979, 349–88;
Gyllenhaal 2008). See also cat. 23, note 18. Van Thiel 1965, 123, 128; Van Thiel 1999, 84, and Appendix II, 254–55, 257,
270–71, 273; Sutton 2002, 18. Van Mander 1604, fol. 292v; Van Mander 1973, 428–29.
Sutton 2002, 18. This also may be due, in part, to the
compromised condition of the canvas. Sutton 2002, 20. Martin 1905, 127; Horster
1974, 145. Haskell and Penny 1981, 100; Palma and de Lachenal 1983, 133–37, no.
58 (de Lachenal). Horster 1974, 145; Döring 1994, 60; Amsterdam, San Francisco
and elsewhere 2002, 97. For the group, see Haskell and Penny 1981, 274–79, no.
66, figs 143–47, and for the daughter that it resembles the most, 145; Cecchi
and Gasparri 2009, 318–19, no. 596.1. Haskell and Penny 1981, 274; Cecchi and
Gasparri 2009, 62–63, no. 50. Noted by Döring 1994, 60–61. For the Duquesnoy
sculpture, see Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 122, no. XV-2. On
Duquesnoy’s fame as a ‘classical’ sculptor during the 17th century and later
see Boudon-Mauchel 2005, 175–210. As first observed by Döring 1994, 62. For the
statue see Stuart Jones 1912, 288–89, no. 22. Döring 1994, 63. The subject was
noted by Denys Sutton (London 1955, 91) and Marita 138 139 5, Michael Sweerts,
An Artist’s Studio, 1652, oil on canvas, 73.5 × 58.8 cm, The Detroit Institute
of Arts, inv. 30.297 6, After Michael Sweerts, Artist’s Studio with a Woman
Sewing, c. 1650, oil on canvas, 82.5 × 106.7 cm, Collection RAU-Fondation
UNICEF, Cologne, inv. GR 1.874 25 26 27 28 29 Horster (1974, 145) who both
identified the motif from a sketchbook by Francisco de Hollanda. Sutton and
Guido Jansen (Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 97) believed the
plaster relief to combine scenes from two separate ones: the Winter and
Hercules and the Cretan Bull. However, as Eloisa Dodero has noted (personal
communication), it is based on the single terracotta relief in the Louvre, see
Christian 2002, 181–84 no. II.15, 25; De Romanis 2007, 235–238, 1. For the
acquisition by the Louvre, see Sarti 2001, 121. Dacos 1986, 222; Christian
2002, 181–86. For the Cortona drawing: Briganti 1982, 286.27; for the Testa sheet
at Windsor: Christian 2002, 181–82, 26. See Amsterdam, San Francisco and
elsewhere 2002, 120–23, no. XV, where the painting is discussed at length.
Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 110, xii–i (as by or after
Sweerts). Many copies are known suggesting it was a much-admired composition.
Bikker Sutton 2002, 15–16; Bikker 2002, 27–28. Described in documents in
general terms as ‘Ein Schildersacademetje’, it is not known which of the
surviving studio pictures it was. According to the collections database,
Detroit Institute of Arts website, it was theirs (fig. 5). Bikker 2002, 27–28.
Ibid., 28–31, figs 25, 27. Ibid., 29. This was probably a private academy and
not the Accademia di San Luca, of which Sweerts was possibly a member. He was
responsible for collecting membership dues from his compatriots: see Bikker
2002, 25–26. Lock 2010, 251; Bikker 2002, 31. Amsterdam, San Francisco and
elsewhere 2002, 133–35, no. xix (G. Jansen). Present whereabouts unknown; see
Amsterdam, San Francisco and elsewhere 2002, 133, xix–i. 13. Jan de
Bisschop (Amsterdam 1628–1671 The Hague) Two Artists Drawing an Antique Bust
(recto); A Reclining Man seen from Behind (verso) c. 1660s Pen and brown ink,
brushed with brown wash, 91 × 135 mm Inscribed recto l.r. in pencil: J. Bisschop.
watermark: part of the crowned coat of arms of Amsterdam.1 provenance: Private
collection, Germany; Sotheby’s, London, 13 April 1992, lot 260, from whom
acquired. literature: London 1992 (unpaginated), repr.; Broos and Schapelhouman
1993, 51, under no. 34, b. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Katrin
Bellinger collection, inv. no. 1992-012 Born in Amsterdam in 1628, Jan de
Bisschop was among a group of talented amateur artists, including his immediate
contemporaries and friends Constantijn Huygens the Younger (1628–1697) and
Jacob van der Ulft (1627–1689) who all worked in Netherlands around the
mid-17th century.2 De Bisschop was classically educated and trained as a
lawyer; he became an advocate at the judicial court of The Hague. But he also
distinguished himself as a writer, theoretician, literary scholar, and as a
connoisseur of the Antique. And although without formal artistic training, he
was an accomplished draughtsman and etcher who, through his publications
reproducing ancient sculpture and Old Master drawings, disseminated in the
Netherlands an anti- quarian culture and an aesthetic based on the works of
classical antiquity. He also helped introduce the practice of drawing after
both antique sculpture and live models in the Hague.3 His large corpus of
drawings, numbering in the upper hundreds, consists of sun-infused, Italianate
land- scapes, lively figure and genre studies, portraits, and many copies after
antique sculpture and paintings by Old Masters, 1. Bust of the so-called
Lysimachus, Roman copy of the Augustan period from a Greek original of the 2nd
c. bc, marble, 49 cm (h), Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, inv. 6141
usually executed in pen and brush and wash with a distinc- tive warm, golden-brown
ink, referred to from the late 17th century as bisschops-inkt (Bisschop’s
ink).4 As in the examples illustrated here, he often effectively combined dense
washes with reserves of untouched paper to create a light-drenched, fresh
out-of-doors effect. In this lively and rapid sketch, probably made on the
spot, two seated draughtsmen, seen from the back, draw after an antique bust of
a man. On the reverse one of them is sketched again, casually reclining. The
object of their gaze is a bust nowadays identified as of Lysimachus, the Greek
successor to Alexander the Great, who from c. 306 to 281 bc reigned as King of
Thrace, Asia Minor and Macedonia.5 Discovered c. 1576, it was acquired by
Cardinal Odoardo Farnese from the Giorgio Cesarini collection, and is preserved
today in the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli (fig. 1). Doubt- less known
to de Bisschop through one of the plaster casts which circulated in Northern
Europe at the time, the bust was in the 17th century thought to represent a
philosopher; from the 18th century he was identified more specifically – but
wrongly – as the Athenian legislator, Solon. It was copied profusely from the
17th century onwards, and was included, for example, in a portrait painted by
Isaac Fuller (1606–72) in c. 1670 (Yale Center for British Art, New Haven) of
the architect and sculptor, Edward Pierce (c. 1635–95), who rests one hand on
the bust while gesturing to it with the other.6 Admiration for the sculpture
continued in the 18th century, in France, where a red chalk copy of it was made
by the sculptor, Edmé Bouchardon (1698–1762) or a member of his circle,7 and
particularly in England, where, catering to a n emerging neo-classical
aesthetic, a blemish-free replica of the Lysimachus was carved in 1758 by
Wilton; this was acquired by Rockingham, for his VILLA at Wentworth and is now
in the The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.8 Another copy of the bust, made
by the sculptor and restorer of ancient statues, Bartolomeo Cavaceppi
(see cat.), was mentioned in a letter from the dealer and agent, Thomas
Jenkins, to his client, Charles Townley, as a possible acquisition. His scheme
involved fusing Cavaceppi’s bust with the body of a statue of Achilles;
mercifully, this was abandoned when the original head of Achilles was
recovered.9 Its diminutive size and spontaneous style of execution would
suggest the present sheet came from a sketchbook, probably one like that held
by the artist on the right. The draughtsmen have not been securely identified
but they are no doubt to be found among de Bisschop’s friends and associ- ates;
one may be Huygens the Younger, with whom he made sketching excursions in and
around The Hague and Leiden. In fact, drawings by de Bisschop are often
mistaken for works by Huygens, to whom this sheet was previously assigned.10 A
treatment of a similar theme, of two draughtsmen from the front seated in a
landscape but without an antique model to study, is found in de Bisschop’s
drawing in the Amsterdam Museum (fig. 2).11 Executed with the same loose pen
work and spontaneous handling of the brush, characteristic of de Bisschop after
1660, it shows one artist on the left gazing downwards to – or reading from – a
loose sheet held in both hands, while the other appears to be sketching in a
small book. A third rendering of two artists sketching out of doors, one, with
hat removed, holding a drawing board, is among the sheets by Huygens the
Younger in the Municipal Archives of The Hague (fig. 3).12 As with the present
study, the figures are seen from behind in a sunlit setting but on a bench, near
the entrance to the country house, Zorgvliet, near The Hague, and the subject
of their attention is out of view. De Bisschop’s drawings were admired by
collectors and connoisseurs from John Barnard (1709–84) to Horace Walpole
(1717–97), but his main contribution to scholarship was the publication of two
influential books. The first was the Signorum veterum icones issued in two
volumes in 1668–69; 2. Jan de Bisschop, Two Draughtsmen Seated Outdoors, pen
and brown ink with the brush and brown wash, grey ink, 97 × 149 mm, Amsterdam
Museum, inv. nr. A 18179 142 4. Jan de Bisschop, Allegory of Sculpture, title
page to the Signorum veterum icones, part 1, Amsterdam (?), 1668, etching, 245
× 114 mm, Warburg Institute Library, London also consulted prints by François
Perrier (1590–1650), who had published a selection of antique statuary in Paris
and Rome in 1638 (Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum . . .).18 An album of
140 drawings by de Bisschop suggests that he intended to publish a third volume
of Icones on antique Roman reliefs, based largely on another publication by
Perrier of 1645 (Icones et segmenta . . .).19 However, de Bisschop’s death from
tuberculosis at forty-three meant that the third volume was never realised. In
addition to his writings on art, de Bisschop contrib- uted in other ways to
furthering artistic education in the Netherlands. He participated in local
confraternities of artists and co-founded a private drawing academy with his
friends, including Huygens the Younger; they met several times a week in the
evenings, often drawing after a live model.20 In 1682, eleven years after de
Bisschop’s death, the first drawing academy in the Northern Netherlands –
includ- ing in its curriculum the study of plaster casts after the Antique –
was established in The Hague.21 De Bisschop’s influence may have extended
further, perhaps as a direct consequence of the Icones. Of significance is a
letter dated 1688 from the artist Romeyn de Hooghe (1645–1708) to the
burgermasters of Haarlem, asking their assistance in setting up an academy for
students to study ‘the best ancient statues, such as Venus, Apollo, Laocoön, in
order to familiarise themselves with the idea of classical beauty’.22 Although
that request was turned down, a Haarlem Drawing Academy was founded in 1772 and
although it was closed in 1795, in the following year, the Haarlem Drawing
College was established, with the study of the Antique remaining a vital part
of the curriculum (see cat. 31).23 3. Constantijn Huygens, the Younger, Two
Draughtsmen near Zorgvliet, detail, pen and brown ink and wash with the
brush over traces of graphite, 243 × 373 mm, Municipal Archives of The Hague,
Gr. A 110 the first volume was dedicated to his friend, Huygens the Younger and
the second, to Johannes Wtenbogaard, the Receiver-General of Holland and a
neighbour of his parents. In 1671, de Bisschop published the Paradigmata
graphices variorum artificum, which he dedicated to the collector Jan Six; this
comprised forty-seven etchings based on Italian Old Master drawings and ten
antique busts.13 The two volumes of the Icones were republished together with
the Paradigmata, in later editions.14 Of particular relevance to us is de
Bisschop’s Icones, featuring one-hundred etched plates after antique sculpture.
Its purpose was didactic: to provide a compilation of the best-known works and
to establish norms of classical beauty for artists, amateurs and collectors. In
de Bisschop’s words, they were ‘sculptures and reliefs of the greatest
perfection in art and the best sources for students’.15 The book proved to be
an enormously useful resource especially as it featured, in some cases, the
same sculpture seen from different angles; in essence, in the round. For
instance, de Bisschop’s presented five views of the celebrated Wrestlers
sculpture in the Uffizi (see 30, 33, and cats 16 and 27), two of which are
shown here (figs 5–6).16 In the Icones, the unusual left profile view of the
Farnese Hercules, in reverse was probably known to Jan Claudius de Cock and
Wallerant Vaillant, who reproduced it from the same viewpoint (see cat. 14, 4).
In fact, Cock took inspiration from several of the Icones plates for his
Allegory of the Arts series (cat. 14). As de Bisschop probably never travelled
to Italy, many of his prints relied on antique sculptures in Dutch collections,
or on casts, and especially on drawings by artists who had travelled south to
visit collections in Florence and Rome, such as Willelm Doudijns (1630–97),
Pieter Donker (1635– 68), Adriaen Backer (1635/35–84) and others.17 De Bisschop
avl 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 See Churchill
1967, pl. 8, no. 9, date: 1665 or pl. 9, no. 11, date: 1670. For this life and
work, see Van Gelder 1972. Van Gelder 1972, 27. Goeree 1697, 91.
Gasparri 2009–10, 2, 55–57, no. 32 (F. Coraggio), and 188–89, pl. XXXII, figs 1–4. Charlton-Jones 1991, 100–01, pl. 89. The subject of the
Louvre drawing (Guiffrey and Marcel 1907–75, 1, no. 1353) was identified by
Rausa 2007a, 172, no. 165.1. Fusco 1997, 56. Coltman 2009, 87. Sold as Huygens
at Sotheby’s, London, 13 April 1992, lot 260. Broos and Schapelhouman 1993, 51,
no. 34 (B. Broos). Amsterdam 1992, 37, no. 22 (R. E. Jellema and M. Plomp). Van
Gelder 1972, 1–2. Both books are published in their entirety with commentary by
Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 2 vols. See also Bolten 1985, 257–58 and Plomp 2010, 39–47.
Bolten 1985, 71. Van Gelder 1972, 19. Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 106–08, nos
18–22, 2, pls 18–22. Further plates are after other artists as well as drawings
by Jacob de Gheyn III (1596–1641), who is not known to have travelled to Italy
but visited collections in England (Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 15–16, 155).
Van Gelder 1972, 19–20. The album of classical statues, reliefs, Roman
architecture and contempo- rary Dutch figures and scenes is at the Victoria and
Albert Museum, London, inv. D.1212:1 to 141-1989. On it see Van Gelder 1972, 8–9
and especially Turner and White 2014, 1, 25–67, no. 23. Van Gelder 1972, 11.
Van Gelder 1972, 27. Van der Willigen 1866, 137; Washington D.C. 1977, under
no. 69 (F. W. Robinson). Haarlem 1990, 16–17, 34–38. 5. Jan de Bisschop, The
Wrestlers, from the Signorum veterum icones, part 1, Amsterdam (?), 1668, pl.
18, etching, 164 × 215 mm, Warburg Institute Library, London 6. Jan de
Bisschop, The Wrestlers, from the Signorum veterum icones, part 1, Amsterdam
(?), 1668, pl. 21, etching, 199 × 133 mm, Warburg Institute Library,
London 143 14. Attributed to Jan Claudius de Cock (Brussels
1667–1735 Antwerp) An Allegory of Painting c. 1706 Etching, 141 × 100 mm
watermark: possibly part of a coat of arms. provenance: Bassenge, Berlin, 6
December 2001, lot 5452 (as Anonymous, Southern German, c. 1700), from whom
acquired. literature:None. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Katrin
Bellinger collection, inv. no. 2001-037 In the corner of a painter’s
workshop, students draw after plaster casts, selected according to their age
and level of study. The youngest, wearing a Roman-style toga and stand- ing at
a pedestal, which supports his open sketchbook, records the likeness of the
head of a boy similar to him in age. He may be copying the bust itself, or more
likely, the drawing after the bust, propped up next to it. At the left, another
pupil, a pre-teen representing a higher level of study, thoughtfully examines a
reduced model, in reverse, of a rather unfit Farnese Hercules (see 30, 32 and
cats 7, 16, 21) elevated on a plinth, and shown in a similar pose as
illustrated by Jan de Bisschop’s Icones (fig. 1). The student and 1. Jan de
Bisschop, The Farnese Harcules, from the Signorum veterum icones, part 1,
Amsterdam (?), 1668, pl. 8, etch- ing, 221 × 105 mm, Warburg Institute Library,
London the statuette are so posed that they appear to exchange glances. In the
background, partially obscured by the sculp- ture’s base, is a third boy,
probably midway in age between the others, who bows his head in concentration.
Displayed on the shelf and walls above are workshop props – a globe, hourglass,
books, compass and additional fragments of plaster casts, included a female
torso and a male one which may be based on the Belvedere Torso (p. 26, 28).
Presiding over the scene is a voluptuously dressed female figure with an
elaborate hairstyle and bared breasts, who holds a palette with brushes in one
hand, and gestures to the statue of Hercules with the other. She is leaning on
a richly carved wooden table bearing bottles of spirit, compasses and completed
figural drawings. She is an Allegory of Painting, as described by Cesare Ripa
in his Iconologia, the widely consulted emblematic handbook first published in
1593 – and probably known to de Cock through the Dutch editions of 1698 or
1699: a beautiful woman with twisted, unruly hair, holding the tools of the
painter.1 She represents the goal; once pupils had completed their prescribed
course of study, mastering the succession of stages dictated by the established
norms of 16th-century studio practice – first, drawing the individual parts of
the body through drawings of others, prints, fragments and casts, and finally,
the entire figure, a statue or live model – only then, may they progress to
painting (see also cat. 10).2 The attainment of the goal is encapsulated in the
prominently displayed picture on the wall above Hercules, probably a Mars and
Venus. Though acquired as by an anonymous southern German artist, c. 1700, the
etching shares similarities with the work of the Flemish painter, sculptor,
etcher and writer, Jan Claudius de Cock.3 It is particularly close in style and
execution to his drawing of the Allegory of Sculpture drawing, signed and dated
1706 (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 2), which is carried out with the
same meticulous handling and degree of finish.4 Direct references to antique
sculpture abound in the New York sheet with plaster casts freely modelled after
the Pan and Apollo from the Cesi collection (Museo Nazionale 144
145 2. Jan Claudius de Cock, Allegory of Sculpture, 1706, pen and brown
ink, 317 × 195 mm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 2010.533 Romano,
Rome) at right and, at the left, the Wrestlers, acquired by the Medici in 1583
(Uffizi, Florence; see 30, 33).5 Antique-inspired motifs – busts, putti,
fragments and a strigilated krater – are also visible throughout. As with the
etching, there is a female personification – in this case, of sculpture – her
hand resting on one bust and pointing to a second with the other, just as
Painting does here in the etching. At her feet are the tools of her trade:
scalpels, mallet and a drill. Other drawings of similar subject matter, format
and date suggest de Cock planned a series on the Allegories of the Arts,
perhaps intending them to appear as etchings in a book. His drawing of a female
sculptor modelling a recumbent Venus (fig. 3), another Allegory of Sculpture,
is also signed, and dated (1706) and is numbered like the New York drawing.6
Further studies by de Cock no doubt relate to the same series.7 However, while
the drawings are roughly the same size, the present etching is considerably
smaller. The colossal Farnese Hercules became enormously popular immediately
after its discovery in the 16th century, and 146 3. Jan Claudius de Cock, An
Allegory of Sculpture, 1706, pen and brown ink, black chalk, 321 × 192 mm,
Christie’s, London, 19 April 1988, lot 140 numerous copies after it were
produced, often reduced to life-size or the scale seen here, to make it more manageable
and portable.8 A model strikingly similar to that in the etching occurs in a
mezzotint of a boy drawing in a studio, c. 1660–75, by the Dutch painter and
engraver, Wallerant Vaillant (1623–77), where it is perched on a table at a
nearly identical angle (fig. 4).9 Both prints suggest that by the early 18th
century, plaster models of the Hercules were commonplace in Flemish and
Netherlandish workshops.10 Several of the antiquities in both the etching, here
attrib- uted to de Cock, and his two related drawings discussed above, argue
knowledge of Bisschop’s Icones, by then the standard reference for antique
sculptures in the Netherlands (see cat. 13). For example, the rather unusual
left-profile view of the Farnese Hercules in the etching and the pose of the
Wrestlers in the New York drawing (fig. 2), both shown reversed in respect to
the antique originals, find their counterparts in the Icones (fig. 1 and cat.
13, 5).11 And the pensive Muse, possibly Clio, at the upper right of the 4.
Wallerant Vaillant, A Boy Drawing in a Studio, c. 1660–75, mezzotint, 324 × 300
mm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, RP-P-1889-A-14489 second Allegory of Sculpture
drawing (fig. 3), is a literal quotation from a plate in the second volume of
Bisschop’s 12 Born in Brussels, de Cock was apprenticed in the workshop of
Peeter Verbrugghen the Elder (c. 1609–86) in Antwerp. After Verbruggen’s death,
he established himself in that city, although he later moved to Breda, where
King William III Stadholder of the Netherlands commissioned him to work on
sculpture for a courtyard in the town.14 However, by 1697 or 1698, de Cock had
returned to Antwerp and devoted himself more to teaching, establishing a large
workshop with many pupils, some learning drawing, others, goldsmithing.15 In
1720, he wrote a didactic poetical treatise for his students, Eenighe
voornaemste en noodighe regels van de beeldhouwerije om metter tijdt en goet
meester te woorden (‘Some avl For Pittura from Ripa’s first illustrated edition
(1603), see Buscaroli 1992, 357 and in the Dutch edition of 1698, reprinted in
1699, see Hoorn 1698, II, 515 [c]. Armenini 1587, 52–59 (book 1, chap. 7);
Alberti 1604, 5 (quoting Federico Zuccaro); Roman 1984, 91. Nagler (1966, 3, no. 2100) and Wurzbach (1906–11, 1, 304–05) only
briefly mention his etchings and this subject does not occur. Acquired
Christie’s, London, 7 July 2010, lot 328. It is signed at lower left: ‘Joannes
Claud: de Cock invenit delineavit Anno= MDCCVI’ and numbered below, ‘4’. A
further inscription by the artist on the verso, “Sculptura Pace, et
Abondante=”/[. . .], may refer to another drawing in the series, perhaps an
Allegory of Peace and Abundance or a Concordia. Haskell and Penny 1981, 286–88,
no. 70; 337–39, no. 94. Christie’s, London, 19 April 1988, lot 140. According
to the catalogue, it is signed and dated, ‘Joan Claudius de Cock/invenit
delineavit/AoMDCCVI’ and numbered ‘3’ below. They include another signed
Allegory of Sculpture close to the New York drawing in composition, with
differences and executed in pencil, 326 × 194 mm (Christie’s, Amsterdam, 15
November 1993, lot 115) and a signed Allegory of Architecture, pen and
brown-grey ink and wash, 328 × 234 mm (Christie’s, Amsterdam, 21 November 1989,
lot 52). Haskell and Penny 1981, 232; Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 17–20, no. 1, repr.
on 207–13. Hollstein 1949–2001, 31, 119, no. 96. The 1635 studio inventory of
the painter, Hendrik van Balen (1575–1632) mentions a cast of the Hercules
among other antique works (Duverger 1984–2009, 4, 208). The torso of a draped
male statue on the shelf at upper right in the drawing probably derives from a
further etching by Bisschop, based on copies by Willelm Doudijns (1630–97),
reproducing a marble in the Pighini collection and now in the Vatican (Van
Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 110–11, no. 26, 2, pl. 26; Helbig 1963–72, 1, 194, no.
250). Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 184–85, no. 98, 2, pl. 98. In that drawing,
the male torso seen from the back on the shelf at right recalls de Bisschop’s
etching of the Belvedere Torso (Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 108–10, no. 24, 2,
pl. 24). Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 184–85; Haynes 1975, pl. 18. De Gheyn was
in London in the summer of 1618 and his drawing (untraced), was in the
collection of J. A. Wtenbogaert in Amsterdam (Van Gelder and Jost 1985, 1, 16,
155, 185). For his life and work, see C. Lawrence, “Cock, Jan Claudius de”.
Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, accessed December 10, 2014, http://www.oxford-
artonline.com/subscriber/article/grove/art/T018366. Pauwels 1977, 37. Published
in Brussels by Mertens 1865; Lawrence 1986, 283. Mertens 1865; Lawrence 1986, 283.
The original marble from the Earl of Arundel’s collection, known to de Bisschop
through a drawing after it by Jacques de Gheyn III, is now in the Ashmolean
Museum, Oxford.13 publication. chief and notable rules from the sculptor in
order to become a good master in due course’) although it remained unpublished
until the 19th century.16 It is entirely possible that he intended the Allegory
of Arts series to illustrate this treatise, in which he expressed his great
admiration for classical sculpture, namely the Laocoön, the Medici Venus – and,
most importantly – the Farnese Hercules.17 147 15. Nicolas
Dorigny (Paris 1658–1746 Paris), after Carlo Maratti (Camerano 1625–1713 Rome)
The Academy of Drawing c. 1702–03 Etching and engraving, 470 × 321 mm (plate);
503 × 331 mm (sheet) State I of II (second state dated 1728 with the address of
Jacob Frey). Inscribed on the plate, l.l. on the ground: ‘TANTO CHE BASTI’,
same inscription repeated l.r. on the perspective drawing on the easel, and
c.l. on the pedestal of the anatomical model. Inscribed u.c.
above the statue of Apollo: ‘NON / MAI ABASTANZA’; u.r. above the Three Graces:
‘SENZA DI NOI OGNI FATICA E VANA’. Inscribed l.c. with the title, ‘A Giovani
studiosi del Disegno’, followed by ten lines explaining the scene: ‘La Scuola
del Disegno, che s’espone delineata con le presenti Figure dal Sig.r Cavalier
Carlo Maratti, può molto contribuire al’disinganno di coloro che credono di
potere con la cognizione, e studio di molte Arti divenir perfet.ti nell’Arte
del dipingere senza procurare in primo luogo d’esser perfettissimi nel Disegno,
e senza il dono naturale, et un particolare istinto di saper con grazia, e
facilità animare, e disporre vagamente le parti di quell’Opera, che prenderanno
a delineare, e và figurando questo suo nobil pensiero con il mezzo
dell’azzioni, che qui si additano. Vedonsi alcuni studiosi delle mathematiche
in quella parte, che spetta alla Geometria, et Ottica, che conferiscono alla
Prospettiva: dall’altro lato, altri applicati all’osservazione d’un Corpo
anatomico, dà cui si apprende la giusta proporzione delle membra, e sito
de’muscoli, e nervi, che compongono una figura, dimostrato eruditame-te dà
Leonardo da Vinci espresso co- la propria effige, con il motto . Tanto che
basti . per dimostrare, che di tali professioni basta, che quello, che
attenderà al Disegno sia mediocrem.te erudito, per ridurre ad un’perfetto fine
qualunque Idea. Mà per coloro, che si esprimono attenti allo studio delle
statue antiche, non serve una leggiera applicazione alle mede, essendo lor
d’uopo di farvi sopra una lunga, et esatta riflessione, e studio per apprendere
le belle forme; e si pone l’esemplare delle statue antiche, come le più
perfette, nelle quali quei grandi Huomini espressero ì Corpi nel più perfetto
grado, che possano dalla natura istessa crearsi, e perciò vi si pone il motto .
Non mai abastanza . Tutto però riuscirebbe vano di conseguire senza
l’assistenza delle Grazie, che intende, come accennammo, per quel natural gusto
di disporre, et atteggiare con grazia, e delicatezza le positure, et ì
movimenti delle Figure, dalle quali poi risulta quella vaghezza, e leggiadria,
che destano meraviglia, e piacere in chiunque le mira, ponendosi queste a tal
oggetto in alto, e sù le nuvole per significare, che questo dono non viene che
dal Cielo, con il motto . Senza di noi ogni fatica e vana . Vivete felici.’1
Inscribed l.l. margin: ‘Eques Carolus Maratti inven. et delin. Cum privil Summi Pont. et Regis Christ.mi’, and l.r.: ‘N. Dorigny
sculp.’. watermark: Possibly a four-legged animal inscribed in a double circle.
provenance: Possibly Hugh Howard (1675–1737); Charles Francis Arnold Howard,
5th Earl of Wicklow (1839–81), from whom acquired in 1874. literature: Le Blanc
1854–88, II, 140, no. 51; Mariette 1996–2003, 3, 511, no. 76, 189;
Kutschera-Woborsky 1919, 9–28, 5; Goldstein 1978, 1, 1; Rudolph 1978, Appendix,
203, n. 38; Philadelphia 1980–81, 114–16, no. 101 A (A. E. Golahny); Johns
1988, 17–21, 5; Goldstein 1989, p.156, 1; Winner 1992, 1; Jaffé 1994, 128,
under no. 251 646; Mertens 1994, 222–24, 94; Goldstein 1996, 47, 14; Rome
2000b, 2, 483–84, no. 2 (S. Rudolph); Pierguidi 2014. exhibitions: Not
previously exhibited. The British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings,
London, 1874,0808.1713 This intriguing and complex image has a central
role in this catalogue, as it represents the most eloquent visual expres- sion
of the classicistic credo of the Roman Accademia di San Luca in the final
decades of the 17th century. More generally, it is a strong defence of the
Florentine and Roman academic traditions, with their stress on drawing, their
celebration of Raphael and, above all, on the study, copy and reverence of the
Antique. As we shall see, the original drawing from which the print is derived
was most likely conceived in 1681–82, at a time when the aesthetic belief
supported by the Accademia di San Luca was being challenged by other
pedagogical methods and criticised from other theoretical viepoints, hence its
programmatic nature and didactic aim. Carlo Maratti was the most authoritative
painter in Rome during the final decades of the 17th century and the beginning
of the 18th and the champion of classicism.2 As a boy of twelve he had entered
the large workshop of Andrea Sacchi (1599–1661), where he remained until the
master’s death in 1661. His training followed the usual curriculum of 148 Roman
studios, centred on drawing, and on the copy of the Antique, and of Renaissance
and early 17th-century masters.3 His lifelong friend, mentor and biographer,
the great art theorist and antiquarian, Giovanni Pietro Bellori (1613–96),
tells us that he concentrated especially on copying Raphael’s frescoes.4 He
pursued this commitment throughout his life, incorporating the essential
qualities of the great Renaissance champion of classicism into his own
painting, to the point that he became known as the Raphael of his time.5 In
1664 Maratti became ‘principe’, or president, of the Accademia di San Luca,
where, in the same year, Bellori’s discourse, the ‘Idea of the painter, the
sculptor and the archi- tect, selected from the beauties of Nature, superior to
Nature’, was publicly delivered (see Appendix, no. 11).6 Bellori’s theoretical
statement, then published as a prologue to his Vite in 1672, was to become
enormously influential in defin- ing and diffusing the central tenets of the
classical ideal, preparing the ground for the eventual affirmation of classi-
cism in the 18th century.7 Maratti remained an influential 149 figure
within the Accademia for almost fifty years – while Bellori held the position
of secretary several times – playing a vital role in reorganising its
curriculum according to a comprehensive pedagogical programme, based on the
exer- cise of drawing from drawings, from casts after the Antique and from the
live model, and on students’ competitions and regular lectures.8 The print,
which embodies this theoretical and didactic approach, is based on a drawing
now preserved at Chatsworth (fig. 1), commissioned from Maratti by one of his
most faithful patrons, Gaspar Méndez de Haro y Guzmán, 7th Marquis of Carpio,
(1629–87), Spanish ambassador in Rome between 1677 and 1682.9 A sketchier
version, in the same direction as the print but with differences in detail, is
at the Wadsworth Atheneum (fig. 2).10 Art lover, collector and patron, Carpio
commissioned from contemporary Roman artists a large series of drawings with
the practice, theory, and nature of painting as their subject.11 The result was
a sophisticated collection of allegories of art, of which Maratti’s drawing is
by far the most celebrated, largely due to Dorigny’s print.12 Another drawing
with the Allegory of Ignorance Ensnaring Painting and Massacring the Fine Arts,
now in the Louvre, was probably produced by Maratti for Carpio as a pendant to
the Academy of Drawing, and as such was later engraved by Dorigny with a
similar explanatory inscription devoted to the ‘Lovers of the Fine Arts’ (fig.
3).13 Possibly intended from the beginning to be printed, Maratti’s drawing for
the Academy of Drawing was later engraved by the Parisian printmaker, Nicolas
Dorigny, 1. Carlo Maratti, The Academy of Drawing, c. 1681–82, pen and brown
ink with brown wash, heightened with white gouache, over black chalk, 402 × 310
mm, Chatsworth, The Duke of Devonshire and the Chatsworth Settlement Trustees,
inv. 646 2. Carlo Maratti, The Academy of Drawing, c. 1681–82, pen and brown
ink and red chalk, 505 × 355 mm, Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford,
CT, inv. 1967.309a who spent the years 1687–1711 in Rome. The rare first state,
exhibited here, was probably published around 1702–03 under the supervision of
Maratti, who owned the copper- plates and who, no doubt, was the author of the
explanatory inscriptions below this print and its pendant.14 The reason why it
took twenty years for the original drawing and its pendant to be engraved, may
be due to the fact that Carpio left Rome in 1683 to become Viceroy of Naples
and his move might have brought the original publication project to a halt.
After Maratti’s death in 1713, the plates were purchased by Jacob Frey
(1681–1752) who published a second state in 1728.15 The image is a very
condensed and crowded composi- tion, in line with similar examples by Stradanus
(cat. 4), Pierfrancesco Alberti (cat. 2, 1), and others, which would certainly
have been known to Maratti.16 The Academy of Drawing is presented as an antique
academy devoted to intellectual pursuits, clearly reminiscent of Raphael’s
School of Athens in the Vatican Stanze, and in general subtle refer- ences to
Raphael’s works are ubiquitous throughout.17 We are invited to follow the
different disciplines and principles essential for the education of the young
artists, distributed visually and symbolically in an ascent: from the technical
and mathematical rudiments for the representation of space in the foreground,
to the ideal models for the depiction of the human figure in the upper left
part of the composition, and finally to the divinely inspired grace and
artistic talent on the upper left background, without which all the previous
learning would be useless. Bellori, in his biography 3. Nicolas Dorigny after
Carlo Maratti, Allegory of Ignorance ensnaring Painting and mas- sacring the
Fine Arts, 1704–10, etching and engraving, 468 × 319 mm, The British Museum,
Department of Prints and Draw- ings, London, inv. 1874,0808.1714 that. We know
from another passage in Bellori that Maratti, although he ‘always considered perspective and anat- omy necessary to the
painter’, abhorred some ‘masters, or rather modern censors who, having learned
a line or two of perspective or anatomy, the minute they look at a picture look
for the vanishing point and the muscles, and scold,
correct, accuse and criticise the most eminent masters’.23 Maratti’s attitude
was, in fact, very much in line with the Italian art theory of the second half
of the 16th century.24 Most writers agreed that, although the knowledge of
mathematical sciences was vital, the artist’s judgement and his eye must be the
ultimate criteria in the artistic process. Giorgio Vasari (1511–74) clearly
formulated this concept, paraphrasing Michelangelo’s famous saying that ‘it was
necessary to have the compasses in the eyes and not in the hand, because the
hands work and the eyes judge’.25 This opinion was rephrased by Giovanni Paolo
Lomazzo (1538– 1600) who wrote precisely that ‘all the reasoning of geome- try
and arithmetic, and all the proofs of perspective were of no use to a man
without the eye’, and shared also by Federico Zuccaro (c. 1540–1609) the
founder and first principal of the reformed Accademia di San Luca in 1593 (see
cat. 5).26 A similar approach was reserved for the study of anatomy, the excess
of which, as represented by Michelangelo – who is not alluded to in the print –
was explicitly condemned by Giovan Battista Armenini (c. 1525–1609) and others,
an opinion supported by Bellori and Maratti.27 The ‘Young Students of Drawing’,
to which the print is dedicated, need instead to focus their attention on, and
constantly draw from, ancient statues, here represented by 4. Raphael, Apollo,
detail, School of Athens, 1509–11, fresco, Stanza della Segnatura, Apostolic
Palace, Vatican City of Maratti, left unfinished at his death in 1696,
provides a description of one of Maratti’s original drawings (figs 1–2) and
this, plus the explanatory inscription on the print, constitute the best guide
to interpret the composition.18 At the centre a ‘master of perspective’
indicates to a young disciple the visual pyramid and various geometrical
figures traced on a canvas placed on an easel, at the bottom of which we read:
‘TANTO CHE BASTI’, ‘Enough to suffice’.19 The same inscription recurs on the
ground on the left, in front of another pupil intent at drafting geometrical
figures on the abacus with his compass, a gesture evoking that of Archimedes in
Raphael’s School of Athens. As Bellori explains, this is to signify that ‘once
the young have learned the rules necessary to their studies’ – geometry and
perspec- tive – ‘they should pass on without stopping’.20 On the right, below
the easel, we see a stool supporting the physical tools of the art of painting:
another compass and a palette with various brushes. Behind them a ruler leans
diagonally against the canvas. The same warning ‘TANTO CHE BASTI’ reappears on
the left on the pedestal supporting a life-size anatomical écorché, in a pose
reminiscent of the Borghese Gladiator (see 41, 54 and cat. 23, 1). Several
students draw its muscles, directed by Leonardo, whose anatomical studies were
very well known, especially after the first publication of his treatise on
painting in 1651.21 ‘Anatomy and the drawing of lines’ continues Bellori, ‘do
indeed fall under definite rules and can be learned perfectly by anyone, just
as geometry used formerly to be learned in school from childhood’.22 They
therefore constitute those sciences that can be taught by rational precepts.
But if the young students want to become great artists they need much more
than 150 151 the gigantic Farnese Hercules (see 30, 32 and
cat. 7, 1), by a Venus Pudica reminiscent of the Venus de’Medici (see 42, fig.
56) and by an Apollo, the latter clearly derived from the statue presiding over
the philosophers in the School of Athens (fig. 4).28 Apollo, as patron of the
arts, combining together a reference to the Antique and to Raphael,
conveniently substitutes for the Belvedere Antinous (see 26, fig. 22 and cat.
19) seen on the earlier sketch (fig. 2).29 The study of classi- cal sculptures,
as the inscription on the wall behind the Apollo instructs us, is ‘NON MAI
ABASTANZA’, ‘Never enough’, as they contain ‘the example and the perfection of
painting together with good imitation selected from
nature’ as Bellori tells us.30 In other words, they materialise Bellori’s
concept of the ‘Idea’, intended as the selection of the best parts of Nature
according to the right judgement of the artist in order to create ideal beauty
(see Appendix, no. 11). If a young artist assimilates their principles, he will
have a secure guide towards artistic perfection. On the left, sitting on
clouds, the Three Graces – again referring to the similar figures painted by
Raphael in the Villa Farnesina in Rome – are there to remind us: ‘SENZA DI NOI
OGNI FATICA E VANA’, ‘Without us, all labour is in vain’. Without natural
talent and divine inspiration, all the efforts and studies depicted below would
be ultimately useless. The concept of grace was one of the crucial features in
Vasari’s theory of art, intended as a certain sweetness and facility of
execution, dependent on natural talents – namely judgement and the eye – as
opposed to beauty which is based on the rules of proportions and mathematics.31
But the great artist must cultivate this natural gift through constant study
and, for Bellori, constant imitation of the Antique and of the great masters,
especially Raphael, the excellence and grace of whom he exalted in several of
his publications.32 Therefore our print reminds us in its subject of the
necessary union of natural talent and study. At the same time it provides in
its very forms an ideal example of inventive imitation, namely Maratti’s
assimilation of the Antique and Raphael. The need to insist on these very
points reflects the particular moment in which our image was created. In 1676
the Accademia di San Luca and the Parisian Académie Royale were formally
amalgamated and at times French painters became principals of San Luca – Errard
and Brun. While sharing the same values and attitudes, the Italian could never
feel comfortable with the extreme ration- alisation of art characteristic of so
much French theory and academic approach.34 The methodical and precise
dissection of painting into its main components, as expressed for instance in
the Académie’s Conférences, is in fact probably 152 alluded to in the speaker
seen below the Graces in our image, who uses his fingers to enumerate the main
points of his arguments – referring to Socrates in the School of Athens. The
early Académie’s Conférences were published by André Félibien (1619–95) in
1668, and their official presentation at San Luca in 1681 generated a
discussion that was most likely at the origin of Maratti’s Academy of Drawing,
as reported by Melchior Missirini (1773–1849) in his history of the Accademia
di San Luca.35 After the reading of the last two Conférences, devoted to the
analysis of the drawing, colour, composition, proportions and expressions of
Poussin’s paintings, one of San Luca’s members, Giovanni Maria Morandi
(1622–1717), raised the objection that the French had left out art’s most
important and beautiful element: grace, that sublime and delicate quality of
the ‘imitative practice’, which appeals to the heart rather than the mind.36
The elderly Bellori, present in the audience, interrupted the speech remarking
that grace was indeed Apelle’s and Raphael’s best quality, ‘and it is well
known’, continues Missirini, ‘that Maratti, who also devoted every effort to
obtain this quality, induced by these words painted his three graces with the
motto ‘Without you, everything is worthless’.37 No doubt conceived as a
response to this intellectual debate, as a defence of the Florentine and Roman
attitude and tradition versus its French counterpart, Maratti’s Accademia must
be understood also as a celebration of classicism against those painters and
theorists who were at that time criticising its values and outcomes. In
particular the Venetian Marco Boschini (1515–80) and the Bolognese Cesare
Malvasia (1613–93) in their treatises published in the 1770s had attacked the
pictorial tradition based on disegno and imitation of the Antique, supporting
instead colore and naturalism.38 They, as Bellori remarks right before his
discus- sion of Maratti’s drawing, taught ‘in their schools and in their books
that Raphael is dry and hard, that his style is statue- like’.39 This dispute
had its counterpart in France where the Querelle du coloris had been fiercely
debated in the 1770s.40 The theoretical battle escalated further with the
publication in 1681 of the Notizie de’ professori del disegno by the Florentine
Filippo Baldinucci (1625–97), who strongly defended Vasari and the Central
Italian tradition, at the same time directly attacking Malvasia.41 The early
1680s were therefore a moment of intense debate within and between the Italian
and French artistic schools and theoretical traditions, of which this image is
one of the most telling documents. In the following decades Maratti became the
leading artistic authority in Rome. His devotion to Raphael was rewarded in
1693 when he was appointed Keeper of the Vatican Stanze, which he then restored
in 1702–03, having already worked on the restoration of Raphael’s frescoes in
the Farnesina from 1693.42 In 1699 he was re-elected principal of San Luca, a
position he held until his death in 1713. Pope Clement XI (r. 1700–21)
nominated Maratti Director of the Antiquities in Rome in 1702, and officially
sanctioned support for his classicism by establishing papal-sponsored
competitions, the Concorsi Clementini, at the Academy.43 It is probably in
celebration of the final affirmation of this classicist aesthetic that Maratti
decided to finally print in 1702, or soon after, the complex drawing
celebrating above all the study of Antique that he had produced twenty years 44
‘The School of Drawing, a figurative drawing by Cavalier Carlo Maratti, can
contribute much to the disenchantment of those who believe that through
knowledge and study of many arts they can become most accomplished in the art
of painting without first acquiring the highest skill in drawing and without
the natural gift and innate capacity to give, with grace and ease, life and
shapeliness to the parts of a work they set out to depict. In addition, he [Maratti]
gives form to his fine thought through the activities pointed out here. To one
side there are some students of the mathematics of Geometry and Optics that
feed into Perspective: elsewhere there are others intent on the observation of
an anatomical model, from which can be learned the just proportions of the
limbs, the placement of the muscles and sinews that compose a figure, as set
out with precision by Leonardo da Vinci, a likeness of whom is given, with the
motto ‘Enough to suffice’, to evince that, of these professional skills, he who
pursues drawing must be competent enough to bring any idea to a perfect
outcome. But for those shown engaged in the study of classical statues, slight
attention to the same is of no use since the point is to make a long and
detailed study so as learn the forms of the beautiful; and classical statues
are given as the most perfect for this since those great sculptors gave shape
to bodies in the most perfect state that Nature herself can create, which
explains the presence of the motto: ‘Never enough’. Everything, however, would
be futile without the assistance of the Graces, understood, as mentioned, as a
natural bent for composing and arranging with grace and delicacy those postures
and movement of figures from which derive the beauty and allure that stir
wonder and pleasure in the spectator, wherefore they are set for that purpose
up above on the clouds as indication that this gift comes only from heaven, and
are given the motto: ‘Without us all labour is in vain’. Live happily’
(translation by Michael Sullivan). For a biographical summary see Rudolph 2000.
Schaar and Sutherland Harris 1967. See Bellori 1976, 625, 636, 639. See
Baldinucci 1975, 307. On Maratti’s cult for and imitation of Raphael see also
Mena Marqués 1990. Goldstein 1978, 3. For the text of Bellori’s Idea see
Bellori 1976, 13–25, and for an English translation see Bellori 2005, 55–65. On
it see Mahon 1947, esp. 109– 54, 242–43; Panofsky 1968, 103–11; Bellori 1976,
esp. xxix–xl; Barasch 2000, 1, 315–22; Cropper 2000. On Maratti’s role within
the Accademia see Goldstein 1978, esp. 2–5. On Bellori’s see Cipriani 2000.
Jaffé 1994, 128, no. 251 646. It is not fully clear whether Dorigny used the
Chatsworth drawing or a lost copy of it, as he arrived in Rome in 1687, five
years after Del Carpio had left the city to become Viceroy of Naples: see Rome
2000b, 2, 483, no. 1 (S. Rudolph). Philadelphia 1980–81, 116, note 3 and 4;
Winner 1992, 512, 5. Bellori 1976, 629–31. On Del Carpio’s commission see
Haskell 1980, 190–92; Pierguidi 2008; Frutos Sastre 2009, 369–71. For other drawings of the series, see Winner 1992. For the drawing
(Louvre, Paris, inv. 17950) see Rome 2000b, 2, 484, no. 3 (S. Rudolph). For the
print see Philadelphia 1980–81, 114–16, no. 101 B (A. E. Golahny); Rome 2000b, 2,
484–85, no. 4 (S. Rudolph). For the transcription of the print’s inscription
see Winner 1992, 517–18, note 7. See Philadelphia 1980–81, 114–16, no. 101 A
and B (A. E. Golahny); Rome 2000b, 2, 483, no. 2 (S. Rudolph). This second
state contains the address of Frey. Rudolph (Rome 2000b, 2, 483, no. 2),
supposes that the long explanatory inscription was added only to this second
state, while the impression exhibited here proves that it was inserted in the
first state as well. The inscription is mentioned also in a chronological list
of Maratti’s prints produced in 1711: see Rudolph 1978, Appendix, 203, no 38.
Kutschera-Woborsky 1919; Winner 1992, especially 521–22, 531. Although some
will be discussed here, the references to Raphael are too many to be covered
comprehensively. For a fuller discussion see Winner 1992. Bellori 1976, 629–31.
For an English translation, see Bellori 2005, 422–23. Bellori’s unfinished
biography of Maratti was first published with modifications in 1731 and
independently in 1732. See Bellori 1976, 571, note 1; Bellori 2005, 435, note
4. For modern critical editions of the text, see Bellori 1976, 569–654; Bellori
2005, 395–440. Winner (1992, 524) suggests that the ‘master of perspective’
could be Vitruvius, as the geometrical figures on the canvas are similar to
those illustrated by Andrea Palladio in Daniele Barbaro’s edition of Vitruvius’
De architectura (1556). On the other hand the visual pyramid clearly refers to
Albertian perspective, as it had been recently republished and illustrated in
Dufresne 1651, see especially 17–18. Bellori 1976, 630; Bellori 2005, 423.
Dufresne 1651: see esp. the ‘Vita di Lionardo da Vinci descritta da Rafaelle du
Fresne’, at the beginning of the volume (not paginated) and 5, ch. XXII, 12,
ch. LVII. Bellori 1976, 631; Bellori 2005, 423. Bellori 1976, 629; Bellori
2005, 422. On Bellori’s sources in general see esp. Barocchi
2000; Perini 2000a. Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 6, 109. See also Vasari’s
introduction to his chapter on Sculpture: Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 1, 84–86.
Lomazzo 1584, 262 (book V, chap. 7). Zuccaro 1607, 2, 29–30 (book II, chap. 6).
See Armenini 1587, 63–67 (book I, chap. 8); Bellori 1976, 630; Bellori 2005, 423.
On this see also Pierguidi 2014. Bellori had specifically praised the Farnese
Hercules and the Venus de’Medici in his Idea: Bellori 1976, 18; Bellori 2005, 59.
On this see also Winner 1992, 532. On the Farnese Hercules see Haskell and
Penny 1981, 229–32, no. 46; Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 17–20, no. 1. On the Venus de’
Medici see Haskell and Penny 1981, 325–28, no. 88; Cecchi and Gasparri 2009, 74–75,
no. 64 (137). On the Belvedere Antinous see Haskell and Penny 1981, 141–43, no.
4; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 62, no. 10. Bellori 1976, 630;
Bellori 2005, 423. Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 3, 399, 4, 5–6. See
also Blunt 1978, 93–99. Bettarini and Barocchi 1966–87, 3, 399; Bellori 1976, 625–26;
Bellori 2005, 421. Also for Armenini ‘una bella e dotta maniera’ could be
acquired only if the artist has a natural gift cultivated by study (Armenini
1587, see esp. 6 of the Proemio and 51–69, book I, chs 7 and 8). Bellori’s
essays on Raphael, written at various dates, were published in Bellori 1695. On
Raphael and grace in Bellori see Maffei 2009. On the cult of Raphael in the
17th century see Perini 2000b. Boyer 1950, 117; Goldstein 1970, 227–41;
Bousquet 1980, 110–11; Goldstein 1996, 45–46. Mahon 1947, 188–89. Missirini
1823, 145–46 (ch. XCI); Mahon 1947, 189; Goldstein 1996, 46. Missirini
1823, 145. Ibid., 146. Boschini 1674; Malvasia 1678. Bellori 1976, 627; Bellori 2005, 421. On the ‘statuelike’ concept, or
‘statuino’ see esp. Malvasia 1678, 1, 359, 365, 484. See also Pericolo’s
forthcoming article. I wish to thank Dr Lorenzo Pericolo for generously putting
this study at my disposal. See Teyssèdre 1965; Puttfarken 1985; Arras and
Épinal 2004 with previous bibliography. Baldinucci 1681, see esp. his
‘Apologia’ at 8–29. On the controversy between Malvasia and central Italian art
theorists see Perini 1988; Rudolph 1988–89; Emiliani 2000. See Zanardi 2007.
See Johns 1988. The second state of both prints, published by Jacob Frey in
1728 was explic- itly issued in parallel to the reward ceremony of the 1728
Concorso Clementino: see Rome 2000b, 2, 484–85, no. 4. earlier, with the
Allegory of Ignorance as its pendant 16. Charles-Joseph Natoire (Nîmes
1700–1777 Castel Gandolfo) The Life Class at the Royal Academy of Painting and
Sculpture 1746 Pen, black and brown ink, grey wash and watercolour and traces
of graphite over black chalk 453 × 322 mm Signed and dated by the artist on
recto, on the box at l.c., in pen and dark grey ink: ‘C. NATOIRE f. 1746’.
provenance: Possibly sold at the artist’s posthumous sale, Alexandre-Joseph
Paillet, Paris, 14 December 1778, lot 100;1 purchased Aubert for 120 livres;
Gilbert Paignon-Dijonval (1708–92); Bruzard, Paris, 23–26 April 1839, part of
lot 208; Walker Gallery, acquired Sir Robert Witt (1872–1952) (L. suppl.
2228b); Sir Robert Witt Bequest, 1952. selected literature: Bérnard 1810, 142,
no. 3348; Mirimonde 1958, 282, 3; Princeton 1977, 22–23, 3; Troyes, Nîmes and
elsewhere 1977, 80, under no. 42; Roland Michel 1987, 58–59, 45; Foster 1998, 55–56,
13; Amsterdam and Paris 2002–03, 85–88, under no. 25; Paris 2009–10, 40, 13;
Petherbridge 2010, 222, pl. 152; Caviglia-Brunel 2012, 122, repr., 336, no. D.
370, repr.; Rowell 2012, 179–80, 9; London 2013–14, 8, repr., 69, 24. selected
exhibitions: London 1950, 18, no. 54; London, York and elsewhere 1953, 27–28,
no. 79, not repr.; London 1953, 91–92, no. 391, not repr. (K. T. Parker and J.
Byam Shaw); Los Angeles 1961, 51, 58, no. 25; London 1962, 9–10, no. 37, not
repr.; Swansea 1962, unpaginated, no. 38; London 1968a, 101, no. 490 (D.
Sutton); King’s Lynn 1985, vi, no. 33, not repr.; London 1991, 80, no. 35 (G.
Kennedy); Paris 2000–01, 405–06, no. 210 (J.-P. Cuzin); London and New York
2012–13, 161–65, no. 33 (K. Scott). The Courtauld Gallery, Samuel
Courtauld Trust, London, D. 1952.RW.397 exhibited in london only Painter,
draughtsman and educator, Natoire was a contem- porary of François Boucher
(1703–70) and like him, executed both cabinet pictures and decorative schemes,
as well as history paintings.2 Trained in the studio of Lemoyne, Natoire
started his career with a series of successes: having won in 1721 the Prix de
Rome of the Académie Royale, he spent the years 1723–28 in Rome where in 1727
he received the most prestigious reward for a young painter, the first prize of
the Accademia di San Luca. Back in Paris in 1730, he was received (reçu) as a
full member of the Académie in 1734 and spent the following two decades
executing decorative ensembles in Royal Palaces and various hôtels and châteaux
of the aristocracy, such as the celebrated Hôtel de Soubise (now the Archives
Nationales) in Paris. In 1751 he was appointed Director of the Académie de
France in Rome and spent the rest of his life there, dying at Castel Gandolfo
in the Alban Hills in 1777. Natoire’s large and beautifully preserved drawing –
of which there is another version, dated 1745, almost identical but less
finished, in the Musée Atger in Montpellier – offers a rare glimpse of the
École du modèle of the Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture in Paris,
where young students spent hours copying the live model.3 But rather than a
faithful view of the École du modèle, which was a similar but rather different
space,4 it is an idealised representation of how Natoire thought it ought to
be. In essence, it is a visual manifesto for the Académie’s reform at a time,
as we shall see, when many of its original practices had been abandoned or
neglected. Trying, in a programmatic image, to convey as much infor- mation as
possible, Natoire ingeniously reconfigures the 154 space for his purpose: a very
high ceiling and an angular point of view allow maximum concentration and
display of objects. Crammed together, one on top of the other, we see drawings,
bas-reliefs, paintings of different format and size and, most importantly,
plaster casts after the Antique. Our attention is immediately drawn to the
seated figure at the lower left-hand corner wearing a bright red cloak, no
doubt Natoire himself: he had been appointed assistant pro- fessor at the
Académie royale in 1735, professor in 1737 and from 1736 was instructor in the
life class for the month of February.5 Comfortably seated in an armchair, his
tricorne hat resting on the box in the centre, he carefully corrects the black
chalk drawings after the two live models presented by his pupils. At the centre
of the composition, the attention of all students is directed to the two models
posed together, a monthly event at the Académie that had been introduced in the
mid-1660s.6 The teacher was responsible for placing the models ‘in an attitude’
for afternoon classes lasting two hours, using sunlight during the summer and
artificial light during the winter months.7 The sunlight filtering in from the
left is therefore imaginary, as in February, when Natoire was in charge of the
École du modèle, illumination would have been from lamps. Only male models were
allowed, despite repeated requests for female models from the students, all of
whom were also male since women were not allowed to join the Académie until the
end of the 19th century.8 The same pose was retained for three days in a row
for a total of six hours and students were supposed to produce two study
drawings of the figures each week.9 As in this case, a curtain was usually
placed behind the model or models, to enhance 155 the contours and
isolate the figure from the background. The plinth supporting the model had
hooks at the corner to allow the professor to move it according to the fall of
the light. In addition to posing the model, the ‘duty teacher’ from 1664
onwards was supposed to make his own drawing to serve as an example for the
students and to devote part of each session to correcting students’ works, as
we see represented in this drawing.10 Natoire’s own drawing of the two models
may be in the portfolio leaning against the box in the centre; indeed an
identical red chalk composition survives – although reversed – proving that
this pose was actually used during one of his sessions (fig. 1).11 The models’
attitude in the middle follows the well- established practice within the
Académie of adopting and adapting poses to recall ancient statuary.12 In this
case they evoke the dynamic, interlocking bodies of the Wrestlers (see 30, 33),
of which the Académie possessed a plaster cast, or possibly the pose of the
so-called Pasquino.13 The main purpose of the practice was to pose the live
model with the same tension and flexing of muscles as the ancient statues, so
that students could then correct their drawings from ‘fallible Nature’ against
the perfection of the antique exam- ple. The practice was diffused already in
the 17th century and explicitly recommended by Sébastien Bourdon (1616–71), in
his famous Conférence Sur les proportions de la figure humaine expliquées sur
l’Antique delivered at the Académie in 1670.14 We 1. Charles-Joseph Natoire,
Two Models, c. 1745, red chalk, 490 × 420 mm, sold Sotheby’s, Paris, 18 June
2008, lot 101 know from the influential Abrégé de la vie des plus fameux
peintres, published by the art writer Argenville, that the great painter Champaigne
devoted ‘his evenings to drawing at the Académie and, on his return,
he would correct from the Antique what he had done from the model’.15 Natoire
was exposed to a similar exercise during the years he spent at the Académie de
France in Rome during the 1720s and he must often have returned to this
practice during his sessions at the Académie in Paris.16 Distributed in a
semi-circle around the models are students of different ages, busy drawing the
figures. Most of them are using chalk in porte-crayons, drawing on large sheets
of paper. The exceptions are the two more mature students on the right who are
modelling bas-reliefs in clay with their fingers and wooden sticks; the one on
the right holds a sponge in his hand to clean the clay with water as seen in
the drawing by Cochin engraved for the Encyclopédie (p. 52, 91).17 The process
is clearly described in the Istruzione elementare per gli studiosi della
scultura, the famous manual for students of sculpture published by Francesco
Carradori (1747–1824) in 1802, and illustrated with a strikingly similar image
(fig. 2).18 A third student, in the lower right corner, is wetting rags in a
bucket to keep the clay damp and avoid cracks, as Carradori advised. On his
left a dog – could it be Natoire’s? – stares at us from its sheltered position.
The 2. Carradori, Istruzione elementare per gli studiosi della scultura,
Florence, 1802, detail of plate 5 disposition of the students reflects the
admission conditions and entrance hierarchy of the École du modèle: two-thirds
were painters and one-third sculptors, placed in the back rows.19 Behind the
semi-circle of students we see life-size plaster casts of four of the most
canonical classical sculptures: from left to right the Farnese Hercules (see 30,
32; cat. 7), the Laocoön (see 26, 19; cat. 5), the Venus de’ Medici (see 42, 56)
and the Borghese Gladiator (see 41, 54; cat. 23).20 The Hercules and the Venus
are looking away from the viewer, as if to signal that the study of the Antique
constitutes a different – though inextricably connected – practice from the
study of the live model. The four statues provided the students with idealised
models of human proportions, anatomy, beauty and emotion: the muscular strength
of the heroic male body at rest, embodied by the Hercules, the complex pose and
the pathos and drama of the Laocoön, the grace and beauty of the female body
ideally incarnated by the Venus and, finally, the active anatomy of the
muscular man in motion as expressed by the Gladiator. They repre- sented a sort
of ‘canon within the canon’ of classical sculptures for artists, and their
choice here is not accidental. These four statues – plus the Belvedere Torso
and an antique Bacchus at Versailles – had been specifically selected as
subjects of the Conférences devoted to the Antique held at the Académie Royale
during the 1660s and 1670s; the text describing them was constantly being
re-read by academi- cians since then.21 At the time this drawing was made, the
Académie owned casts of all four statues – among many others – but Natoire
ingeniously concentrates here what was actually distributed over various
rooms.22 Significantly, all the statues in the drawing are in reverse as
Natoire did not copy them from the casts but from prints in François Perrier’s
celebrated Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum of 1638 (figs 3–6).23
Perrier’s collection of engravings after ancient statues had been for more than
a century the standard work of reference for students beginning their study of
the Antique, providing them with images in two dimensions that they could
master before approaching the three-dimensional casts. This course was firmly
recommended at the time of the foundation of the Académie in 1648 by Abraham
Bosse (1602–76), its first professor of perspective.24 References to the
glorious past of the Académie continue on the walls, where we are invited to
ascend from drawings and bas-reliefs to paintings. On the lower tier are the
designs and reliefs after the model that teachers had to produce from 1664
onwards (although this requirement was eventually abolished in 1715).25 Above
these are displayed a series of canvases representing some of the greatest
triumphs of modern French painting: the largest and most prominent, on the
left, is Charles Le Brun’s Alexander at the Tent of Darius (1661); to its right,
Jean Jouvenet’s Deposition (1697) and below it, barely discernible, Eustache Le
Sueur’s Solomon and the Queen of Sheba (1650). Above, in the upper register, is
hung another Le Sueur, the circular Alexander and His Doctor (1648– 49). On the
right is François Lemoyne’s Annunciation (1725); and finally, below it
Sébastien Bourdon’s Holy Family (1660– 70).26 The two square paintings on the
upper left, probably a reclining Nymph or Venus and a Cupid and Psyche, have
not been identified; it would be tempting to think that they might be Natoire’s
own creations, but they do not correspond to any of his known works.27 None of
the paintings were displayed at that time in the Académie and all are reversed,
meaning that Natoire deliberately assembled them in this crowded space from
prints.28 All were revered examples of history paintings by famous past
academicians, ranging from Le Brun, Le Sueur and Bourdon, who had been among
the twelve original founding members of the Académie in 1648, to Lemoyne,
Natoire’s own teacher. Showing different kinds of history painting – Biblical
subjects, Mythology and secular history – they here provide the young students
with models both to imitate and aspire to. On the central pier, presiding over
all the artistic activity below, is Bernini’s 1665 bust of Louis XIV, of which
the Académie then displayed a plaster cast,29 reminding us of the glories of
the institution under the reign of the Sun King. Such a deliberately
programmatic image, which assem- bles so many references from different places
and times, must be understood as a visual manifesto in favour of a retour à
l’ordre within the Académie. At the time Natoire conceived it, many of the
original academic practices and credos had long been neglected. After the late
17th century almost no new Conférences were held, and teachers simply re-read
the old ones and the biographies of past academicians.30 Nor does it seem that
the study of the Antique was much promoted and certainly the collection of
casts was not integrated with the École du modèle.31 Finally, and most impor-
tantly, during the first half of the 18th century, history painting had lost
its place of pre-eminence within the Académie, a process foreshadowed by the
success of Jean- Antoine Watteau (1684–1721) and his acceptance into the
Académie in 1717 as a painter of fêtes galantes, a new category that encouraged
the development of the ‘lesser genres’ of painting.32 At the same time, because
of the popularity of ‘the Rococo interior’, history painters were often obliged
to adapt their canvases for decorative schemes, to the point that Natoire
complained in 1747 that his painting was regarded as mere furniture.33
Significantly, a completely different model was in place in Rome during the
years spent by Natoire in the city as a young 156 157 3.
(top left) François Perrier, Farnese Hercules, plate 4, from Segmenta nobilium
signorum et statuarum, Rome, 1638 4. (top right) François Perrier, Laocoön,
plate 1, from Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum, Rome, 1638 5. (bottom
left) François Perrier, Venus de’Medici, plate 83, from Segmenta nobilium
signorum et statuarum, Rome, 1638 6. (bottom right) François Perrier, Borghese
Gladiator, plate 28, from Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum, Rome, 1638
years implemented a series of radical changes – such as the re-establishment of
the Conférences, the acquisition of new casts, and making the history paintings
of the Royal Collection accessible to students – which paved the way to the
triumph of the highest genre in the second half of the century.36 It is at this
moment that Natoire’s drawing was conceived, probably as a statement in support
of Tournehem’s reforms. These, in essence, involved a return to the original
credo and mission of the Académie as devised by Louis XIV’s Minister Colbert
and his Premier Peintre Charles Le Brun (1619–90): a royal institu- tion
intended to support and cultivate History Painting through the practice of
drawing and the study of the live model and the Antique. Natoire would apply
many of the principles proclaimed in his drawing during his tenure as director
of the Académie de France in Rome after 1751. The fact that everything in the
Courtauld drawing – statues, paintings and even models – appears in reverse
would suggest that it was intended to be engraved.37 How- ever, the students
hold the porte-crayons in their right hands, which would seem to contradict
this theory. In any case, it is highly likely that this complex image was
conceived to be diffused for promotional purposes, possibly on the example of
Dorigny’s engraving after Maratti (cat. 15), which Natoire would certainly have
known.38 It would have been a persuasive way to promote the study of the live
model together with the study of the Antique, a training that would effectively
prepare young artists to revive those noble forms of painting that had been the
glory of the Grand Siècle. London 2013–14, 33. See the 11th article of the 1664
reformed statutes of the Académie: Montaiglon 1875–92, 1, 253. See also London
2013–14, 33–34. The fact that the drawing is in reverese seems to suggest that
it is a counter- proof. For the drawing see Caviglia-Brunel 2012, 481, no.
D.794, repr. in colour at 128. The drawing was sold at Sotheby’s, Paris, 18
June 2008, no. 101. Some of Natoire’s drawings after the live model were
published in 1745: Huquier 1745. Paris 2000–01, 415–29; London 2013–14, 62–69.
Guérin 1715, 148, no. 49; London 2013–14, 94, note 62. On the pose of the two
models see also Foster 1998, 56–57. On the Pasquino see Haskell and Penny 1981,
291–96, no. 72; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 202, no. 155 Lichtenstein and Michel
2006-12, 1.1, 374–77. See also Goldstein 1996, 150. Dezailler d’Argenville
1745–52, 2, 182. Macsotay 2010, 189–90. As noted by Gillian Kennedy in London
1991, 80, no. 35. I wish to thank Camilla Pietrabissa for a fruitful discussion
on the subject. Carradori 1802, esp. 3–4, article 2, and plate 5; Carradori
2002, 23–24, and 60–61, plate 5. London 2013–14, 34. On the Farnese Hercules
see Haskell and Penny 1981, 229–32, no. 46; Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 17–20, no. 1.
On the Laocoön see Haskell and Penny 1981, 243–47, no. 52; Bober and Rubinstein
2010, 164–68, no. 122. On the Venus de’ Medici see Haskell and Penny 1981, 325–28,
no. 88. On the Borghese Gladiator see Haskell and Penny 1981, 221–24, no. 43;
Paris 2000–01, no. 1, 150–51 (L. Laugier); Pasquier 2000–01c. Lichtenstein and
Michel 2006–12, see esp. vols 1–2, passim. See also Aymonino’s essay in this
catalogue, 45–46. Guérin 1715, 62, no. 35, 105–06, nos 1–2, 185, no. 41; London
and New York 2012–13, 162; London 2013–14, 94, note 62. On Perrier’s
Segmenta see Picozzi 2000; Laveissière 2011; Di Cosmo 2013; Fatticcioni 2013. Bosse 1649, 98. On the success of the Segmenta see Haskell and Penny
1981, 21; Goldstein 1996, 144; Coquery 2000, 43–44. See also Aymonino’s essay
in this catalogue, 42. London 2013–14, 53. On a similar display in the real
École du modèle see Guérin 1715, 258 London 1991, 80, no. 35; Caviglia-Brunel
2012, 334, no. D.362; London and New York 2012–13, 161. The Montpellier version
also shows Poussin’s circular Time defending Truth against the Attacks of Envy
and Discord on the ceiling: see Caviglia-Brunel 2012, 334, no. D.362. I would
like to thank Alastair Laing for discussing these two paintings with me. London
1991, 80, no. 35. It was previously thought that the print from Lemoyne’s
Annunciation was not in reverse but this has been disproven by Rowell 2012, see
p. 178, 7 and p. 180, note 27. Guérin 1715, p. 165, no. 1. See Lichtenstein and
Michel 2006–12, passim. Guérin 1715, 257–60. See also Foster 1998, 56–57;
Schnapper 2000; Macsotay 2010. Locquin 1912, 5–13; Plax 2000. Jouin 1889;
London 1991, p. 80, no. 35. On the Concorsi Clementini see Cipriani and
Valeriani 1988–91 and Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, p. 54. See also cat.
15. Macsotay 2010; Henry 2010–11. Locquin 1912, 5–13; Schoneveld-Van Stoltz
1989, 216–28; Caviglia- Brunel 2012, 86–87. As already noted in Troyes, Nîmes
and elsewhere 1977, p. 80, no. 42. Dorigny’s print was reissued in 1728, in
parallel to the award ceremony of the Concorsi Clementini, when Natoire was
still in Rome (see cat. 15). student. The Accademia di San Luca
officially supported the copying of the Antique and the production of history
painting through the system of the Concorsi Clementini, established in 1702, of
which, as we know, Natoire obtained the first prize.34 At the same time the
Académie de France in Rome saw a complete reorganisation under the directorship
of Nicholas Vleughels (1668-1737) between 1725 and 1737. Its enormous
collection of casts was redisplayed and integrated with the Ecole du modèle and
its students, like Natoire, were strongly encouraged to compare the ideal of
casts from the Antique against nature in the form of the live model, as we see
promulgated in our drawing.35 These principles began to be re-introduced in
Paris after the election in 1745 of Charles- François-Paul Le Normant de
Tournehem – the uncle of Madame de Pompadour – as director of the Bâtiments du
Roi, the official protector of the Académie Royale on behalf of the king.
Tournehem initiated a reform aimed at the rehabilitation of history painting,
and in the following 158 159 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 aa Lot 100 is probably this
drawing but it could also refer to the very similar version of this sheet now
preserved at the Musée Atger, Montpellier, inv. MA1, album M43 fol. 26: see
Troyes, Nîmes and elsewhere 1977, p. 80, no. 42; London 1991, p. 80, no. 35;
Caviglia-Brunel 2012, p. 334, no. D.362 and p. 336, no. D. 370, where the lot
description is transcribed in full. On Natoire see Troyes, Nîmes and elsewhere
1977; Caviglia-Brunel 2012. For the Monpellier drawing see above note 1. Guérin
1715, 257–60, plate between 256–57; Caviglia-Brunel 2012, p. 334, no. D.362;
London and New York 2012–13, 161–62, 68. Montaiglon 1875–92, 5, 171, 193;
London 1991, p. 80, no. 35; Caviglia-Brunel 2012, p. 334, no. D.362. Guérin
1715, p. 259; London 1991, p. 80, no. 35; London 2013–14, 46, 62. See the 4th
article of the 1648 statutes of the Académie: Montaiglon 1875–92, 1, p. 8. See
also Guérin 1715, p. 258. London 2013–14, p. 40. Women were admitted to the
Académie, then named École des Beaux-Arts, only in 1896 and allowed to enrol
for the Prix de Rome in 1903: Goldstein 1996, p. 61. 17. Hubert Robert
(Paris 1733–1808 Paris) The Artist Seated at a Table, Drawing a Bust of a Woman
c. 1763–65 Red chalk, 333 × 441 mm provenance: Poulet, whence acquired by
Pierre Decourcelle (1856–1926), Paris in October 1912 for 300 francs;1 by
descent; Decourcelle sale, Christie’s, Paris, 21 March 2002, lot 317, from whom
acquired. literature: Paris 1933, p. 124, under no. 197; Rome 1990–91, p. 191,
under no. 135; Ottawa, Washington D.C., and elsewhere 2003–04, p. 308, under
no. 92, 142. exhibitions: Paris 1922, p. 16, no. 85, not repr. Katrin
Bellinger collection, inv. no. 2002–012 Hubert Robert received a classical
education at the Collège de Navarre before studying drawing in the studio of
the sculptor, Michel-Ange Slodtz (1705–64). Even during this early period, he
showed an interest in ‘architecture in ruins’.2 Although not eligible for a
place at the Académie de Rome – he had not attended the requisite École Royale
des élèves protégés – family connections allowed him to bypass this regulation
and on 4 November 1754 Robert arrived in Rome in the retinue of the new French
ambassa- dor, Étienne-François, comte de Stainville (1719–85), later duc de
Choiseul. The diplomat sponsored Robert for the first three years of his stay
before he was granted pensionnaire status at the Academy in 1759, under the
directorship of Joseph-Charles Natoire (see cat. 16).3 Robert remained in Rome
– with intermittent study trips to Naples, Florence and elsewhere in Italy –
for eleven years, responding to the fertile archaeological climate, sparked by
recent excavations at Pompeii and Herculaneum as well as the newly opened
Capitoline Museum, and indulging his fascination for classical ruins. Natoire
encouraged Robert and the other students to sketch antiquities outdoors in
situ, in the Roman campagna and beyond. Robert also took inspiration from the
work of other mentors including the celebrated vedu- tista, Giovanni Paolo
Panini (c. 1692–1765), and the printmaker and draughtsman, Giovanni Battista
Piranesi (1720–78). With his friend and compatriot, Jean-Honoré Fragonard
(1732–1806), Robert enthusiastically sketched classical monuments and
antiquities in and around Rome, later fusing real and imagined elements to
create highly original compositions – often punctuated by ancient ruins or
dilapidated architectural fragments – that would become a trademark of his
work. The vast repository of motifs amassed by him during this productive Roman
period, coupled to his facile draughtsmanship, would serve him well for years
to come. He became a star pupil of the Academy and his drawings in particular
would be eagerly sought after before he returned to France in 1765, where he
entered the Académie Royale and successfully exhibited at the Salons.4 160
Undoubtedly one of his finest red chalk drawings, the present study shows the
artist in a rare moment of casual repose, seated at a table and drawing, legs
casually extended and crossed, stockinged feet resting carelessly on a large
portfolio of drawings lying open on the floor.5 His relaxed, almost dishevelled
appearance and level of undress – the fallen left knee-sock slumped around his
ankle, the unbut- toned breeches and the disregarded, rumpled, coat, strewn on
a chair opposite alongside his hat and the long shadows cast – all suggest that
it is the end of a long day and he is at home, resuming a favourite activity:
drawing. The focus of Robert’s gaze is the bust of an attractive young woman in
right profile placed on the table. With his chalk-filled porte-crayon in hand,
he stares intently at her, poised to sketch. Her head titled downwards, she
returns his steady gaze; there is a palpable tension between them. However, the
presence of a third figure threatens to interrupt their private moment. With a
side-glance, a bearded man drawn on a sheet pinned up on the wall between them
also watches the young woman, thereby completing an amusing love triangle of
Robert’s invention. The object of the men’s attention is the Roman Empress,
Faustina the Younger (c. ad 125/30–175), daughter of Emperor Antonius Pius and
Faustina the Elder (fig. 1). She married Emperor Marcus Aurelius, perhaps the
bearded rival in the drawing on the wall.6 Her marble bust was discovered in
Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli and in 1748 presented by Benedict XIV to the
Capitoline Museum where Robert would have seen it.7 Bartolomeo Cavaceppi, the
Roman sculptor and antiquities restorer, who worked on the original for a year
after its discovery and made several copies after it, was an acquaintance of
Robert’s who occasionally visited his studio (cat. 18).8 In fact, his red chalk
drawing in the Château Borély in Marseilles (cat. 18, 6) records an antiquities
restorer, quite possibly Cavaceppi himself, working on a female bust.9 The
present composition is repeated in a small signed painting in the Museum
Boijmans Van Beuningen in 161 room’s generous proportions, the beamed
ceiling and for- mal window, the elegant Louis XV-style table– are consistent
with those found in Robert’s detailed sanguine of Breteuil’s grand Salone.13
Thus, it is highly likely that the composition was conceived during his stay at
the Ambassador’s residence, 1763–65, and that it is Breteuil’s guest room that
is shown. Perhaps the drawing, more a ricordo than a preliminary study for the
painting, was intended as a gift to the host, as a gesture of gratitude and
friendship. A highly regarded collector and patron of the arts, Breteuil was an
ardent admirer of Robert’s work.14 At the outset of his posting in Rome,
Natoire praised the diplomat as an informed collector who already owned
‘quelque chose’ by Robert.15 Breteuil would later procure many of Robert’s
drawings as well as paintings.16 A close friendship between patron and artist
followed, evidently based on a shared love of art and antiquity in all its
forms.17 Together they translated texts by Virgil and took sightseeing trips in
Rome, and at least one to Florence.18 The Ambassador asked Robert to accompany
him to Sicily ‘pour visiter et dessiner les beaux morceaux antiques qui sont
dans ses cantons-là’, but, it seems, the trip never took place.19
Representations of artists in the act of drawing antique sculpture and other
works of art are recurrent in Robert’s oeuvre along with representations of
classical architecture in ruin. Detailed studies made on the spot such as The
Draughts- man at the Capitoline, c. 1763 (p. 56, 95) convey something of the
wonder and excitement that he must have felt at 20 encountering these
celebrated sights for the first time. He often represented himself or his
associates in grandiose, stage-like settings or as art tourists, of the sort
that he would frequently have encountered. But as an intimate scene of private
contemplation, the present drawing stands apart 2. Hubert Robert, The Artist in
his Studio, c. 1763–65, oil on canvas, 37 × 48 cm, Museum Boijmans van
Beuningen, Rotterdam, 2586 (OK) 3. Hubert Robert, Young Artists in the Studio,
red chalk, with framing lines in pen and brown ink, 352 × 412 mm, Metropolitan
Museum of Art, New York, 1972.118.23 from these. It bears a close resemblance
to a composition in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (fig. 3) showing the same
room but on another day with visitors: a bare-footed servant and two artists –
one drawing, the other inspecting the portfolio.21 A little-known red chalk
study formerly in the Camille Groult collection in Paris (fig. 4) probably
preceded 22 the present drawing. It shows the same relaxed figure alone –
Robert – in identical attire but fully dressed and outdoors, lying on the
ground and sketching, presumably after his favourite subject: the Antique. 4.
Hubert Robert, Le Dessinateur, red chalk, 300 × 400 mm, present whereabouts
unknown 1. Bust of Empress Faustina the Younger, 147–48 ad,
marble, 60 cm (h), Musei Capitolini, Rome, inv. MC449 Rotterdam (fig. 2).10 It
is of similar dimensions to the drawing but a few modifications were made:
Robert no longer has a full head of hair and the open portfolio used as a foot
rest is now safely closed, while another leans against his chair. The view of
the room is wider and includes a high, beamed ceiling, a generously sized
window and a table on the right, on which rest tools and utensils. A further
nod to antiquity is a lively copy after the celebrated Roman sculpture,
Germanicus (cat. 33, 4) on a pedestal on the left. While it was found in Rome,
in Robert’s time the statue was already in Versailles.11 But its fame endured
in Italy and a plaster cast was available for study at the French Academy in
Rome. Further playful details were introduced: a framed picture and
precariously hung drawings (including a possible por- trait of Faustina); a
charming dog that takes a keen interest in Robert’s casually flung slippers.
While the intimate nature of the scene, bordering on genre, suggests this is
indeed Robert’s private space, its spacious grandeur is not that of his student
lodging at the Academy. When his official term as pensionnaire ended in October
1763, his stay was extended by the largesse of the French Ambassador of the
Order of Malta to the Holy See, the Bailli de Breteuil (1723–85), who housed
him at his palace on the Via dei Condotti until he returned to Paris in July 1
2 3 4 5 6 7 8 avl According to N. Schwed (e-mail, 30 July 2014), this
information was provided to Christie’s at the time of the Decourcelle sale in
2002. Taillasson 1808, 473. Letters exchanged between the influential Marquis
de Marigny, Director General of King Louis XV’s buildings (and brother of his
mistress, Madame de Pompadour), and Charles-Joseph Natoire, Director of the
French Academy in Rome published by A. de Montaiglon and J. Guiffrey between 1887–1912
provide essential details about Robert and his stay in Italy. For Robert and Choiseul, see ibid., 11, 262, no. 5331. Collector and
connoisseur, Pierre-Jean Mariette preferred Robert’s draw- ings to his
paintings: ‘ses tableaux est fort inferieur à ses desseins [sic], dans lesquels
il met beaucoup d’esprit’ (Mariette 1850–60, 4, 414). Letters between Marigny and Natoire mention requests from Mariette for
drawings: Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 11, 365, no. 5477; 367, no. 5483; 388,
no. 5521; 428, no. 5589. The traditional view that the drawing is a
self-portrait (Paris 1922, 16, no. 85; Paris 1933, 124, under no. 197), upheld
in the recent literature, need not be questioned. The figure resembles Augustin
Pajou’s marble bust of Robert (1780) in the École Nationale Supérieure des
Beaux-Arts and Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun’s 1788 portrait of him in the Louvre. He
has all the characteristics of an emperor from the Antonine period. It could
well be a reference to the bust of Marcus Aurelius in the Capitoline Museum.
See Fittschen and Zanker 1985, 1, 76–77, no. 69, 2, pls 79, 81–82. A copy by
Cavaceppi in terracotta is preserved in the Museo del Palazzo di Venezia, see
Rome 1994, 104, no. 19, repr. For the bust, see Fittschen and Zanker 1983, 1, pp.20–21,
no. 19, 2, pls 24–26. For its restoration, see London 1983, 66–67. Cavaceppi’s
posthumous inventory of 1802 mentions two marble Faustinas and one plaster cast
9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 (Gasparri and Ghiandoni 1994, 264, no.
310, 270, no. 624 and 286, no. 109). For surviving copies by Cavaceppi,
predominantly acquired by English collectors, see Howard 1970, 123, figs 8 and
9, 128; Howard 1982, 240, no. 6, 313, 133, 83, 251, 25–26, 326, 211, 264, no.
14, 268, no. 15, 419; I. Bignamini, in London and Rome 1996–97, 211–12, no.
159; D. Walker, in Philadelphia and Houston 2000, 242, no. 120. This is not,
however, Faustina, as Marianne Roland Michel proposed (Marseille 2001, 96, no.
109). For the painting, see J. Ebeling, in Ottawa, Washington D.C. and
elsewhere 2003–04, 308–09, no. 92, 372, with select previous literature listed.
See Haskell and Penny 1981, 119–20, no. 42, 114. Montaiglon and Guiffrey
1887–1912, 12, 86, no. 5856. Paris, Louvre. Méjanès 2006, 77, no. 33 and Ottawa
and Caen 2011–12, 140–41, no. 53. The connection was first noted by J. de
Cayeux in Rome 1990–91, 191, under cat. no. 135. On Breteuil, see
Yavchitz-Koehler 1987, 369–78, Depasquale 2001, and Ottawa and Caen 2011–12, 13–17
and 140–41, no. 53. Letter from Natoire to Marigny, 25 April 1759 (Montaiglon
and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 11, 272–73, no. 5346). For the drawings, see letter
from Natoire to Marigny, 5 January 1763, Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 11,
455, no. 5636. Compositions by Robert are among the copies made in 1770 by Ango
(active 1759 – after 1773) after works in Breteuil’s collection (Choisel 1986,
nos 23–26, 44, 80). Their close rapport was recorded by Robert’s friend, the
painter Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun (Gabillot 1895, 80–81). Breteuil owned antique
works as well as copies after the antique by contemporary artists. Some are
recorded in drawings by Ango (Choisel 1986, 29, 45, 47, 51, 54–57, 71–72,
74–75, 83 and 125) including a small bronze Venus Pudica, no. 56, and a copy by
Laurent Guiard (1723–88) after the Venus Calllypige from the Farnese collec-
tion (no. 75). Additional antique works and copies are listed in Breteuil’s
posthumous sale in Paris of 16 January 1786, including a copy of the Gladiator
by Luc-François Breton (1731–1800), no. 135, and a copy of the bust of
Germanicus in the Capitoline, no. 143. Although no bust of Faustina is listed,
he may have owned the copy that Robert draws in the present drawing. Gabillot
1895, 61, 81–82. Letter from Natoire to Marigny, 5 January 1763 and another from
Marigny to Natoire, 20 February 1763. Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 11, 455,
no. 5636 and 462, no. 5649. J.-P. Cuzin, in Paris 2000–01, 373, no. 178. Michel
1998–2000, 60, 62, 13. Sold Galerie Charpentier, Paris, 21 March 1952, lot 52.
Present whereabouts unknown. 163 of 1765. 162 12 Certain decorative
features in the painting – the 18. Hubert Robert (Paris 1733–1808 Paris)
The Roman Studio of Bartolomeo Cavaceppi c. 1764–65 Black chalk, 339 × 443 mm
Inscribed verso l.r. in pencil: ‘Salon de 1783 / No. 61 Intérieur d’un atelier
à Rome / dans lequel on restaure des statues / antiques / Cet atelier est
pratiqué et construit / dans les debris d’un ancien temple / 5 pieds de large
sur 3 pieds 9 pounces de haut’ watermark: A coat of arms, possibly containing a
star, three hills and the initials ‘CB’ below, surmounted by a Cardinal’s hat
with tassels on each side (see Heawood 1950, nos 791–99). provenance: Charles
Albert de Burlet (1882–1956), Berlin, around 1910; Sold Galerie Fischer,
Lucerne, 13 November 2006, lot 1944; Private collection, Switzerland, in 2006;
Le Claire Kunst, Hamburg, in 2011; Sold Villa Grisebach, Berlin, 28 November
2013, lot 307R, from whom acquired. literature: Le Claire Kunst 2011, no. 13
(unpaginated), repr.; Yarker and Hornsby 2012-13, 65–66, 37; Körner 2013, lot
307R, repr. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection,
inv. no. 2013-030 A visit to the studio of Bartolomeo Cavaceppi (1716–99)
the sculptor, dealer, antiquarian, collector and especially, restorer of
ancient sculpture was essential for any serious art tourist or collector in
Rome on the Grand Tour.1 Known as the ‘Museo Cavaceppi’, by the 1770s it was
listed in guide- books as among the top sights of the Eternal City.2 Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832), who lived nearby, and visited it in 1788 noted
that one could experience in the studio ancient sculpture from close proximity
in all its gran- deur and beauty.3 The painters, Henry Fuseli (1741–1825) and
Giovanni Casanova (1728/30–1795) and the sculptor, Antonio Canova (1757–1822),
also came to see the collection.4 The ‘Museo’ was an international meeting
place, frequented by many artists including the English sculptor, Joseph
Nollekens, who worked for Cavaceppi as an assistant in the 1760s, and the
English painter, Charles Grignoin, who resided with him in 1787.5 Strategically
located between the Spanish Steps and the Piazza del Popolo and thus in the
social hub of Rome, the sprawling workshop was graced by European royalty –
Catherine the Great, Maria Christina, Duchess of Teschen, Princess Sophia
Albertina of Sweden, her brother, King Gustav III – and a steady stream of
English Grand Tourists like Charles Townley (see cat. 28), many of whom became
important clients.6 From a modest background, Cavaceppi trained as a sculp- tor
before enrolling in the Accademia di San Luca in 1732. Albani, the nephew of
Pope Clement XI and then the most respected private collector of antiquities in
Rome, appoints Cavaceppi as his personal restorer. The association brought him
many profitable commissions from foreign tourists for whom he found antique
statues, restored them, or made copies, in marble or plaster. He also created
original works, rarely signed, that were often confused with authentic antique
originals. Through his friend, the art historian and archaeol- 164 ogist,
Johann Joachim Winckelman (1717–68), who, in 1764, published The History of Art
in Antiquity (Geschichte der Kunst des Alterthums), Cavaceppi secured many
English clients, taken with the current mania for classical antiquity. He later
served as chief restorer to the Pope at the Museo Clementino and was made
Knight of the Golden Spur in 1770. In 1768 Cavaceppi published the first volume
of his Raccolta d’antiche statue, busti, teste cognite ed altre sculture
antiche con- taining sixty plates of antique statues that had been repaired in
his studio, often ‘corrected’ with missing or broken parts filled in. Over half
of these had been acquired by English collectors.7 A year later, he published
the second volume, essentially a promotional catalogue with works available for
purchase, followed by a third in 1772. Illustrating a total of 196 works, these
influential volumes, the first of their kind, helped to satisfy the seemingly
insatiable demand for unblemished antique sculpture – free of fragmentary
vestiges or other perceived flaws – and to encourage an emerging neo-classical
aesthetic. For modern scholars they serve as an indispensible tool for identifying
works he restored. By 1756 Cavaceppi established his vast studio on the Via del
Babbuino, a workshop and showroom. Cavaceppi employed a range of skilled and
unskilled workers with different roles and specialisations, fifteen of whom
have been identified by name, with Giuseppe Angelini and Carlo Albacini being
the most accomplished.8 The frontispiece to the first volume of Cavaceppi’s
Raccolta provides a fascinating look at his active studio with assistants
exercising different techniques of restoration and antiques in various stages
of completion (fig. 1). It offers a glimpse at what must have been a sprawling
complex of rooms with distinctive architectural details – high ceilings,
lattice windows and an enfilade of vaulted archways connecting each room, one
leading to an open garden courtyard at the back.9 165 1. View of Cavaceppi’s Roman Studio,
engraving, in Raccolta d’antiche statue, 1, frontispiece, Rome, 1768. Photo:
Warburg Institute, London Hubert Robert certainly encountered Cavaceppi during
his Roman sojourn, 1754–65 (see cat. 17), and visited his studio on occasion,
as this drawing testifies. Executed in soft black chalk, it offers a view of
one of the many rooms in the Cavaceppi workshop. As in the engraving, there is
a high ceiling with lattice windows, statues and blocks of stone are scattered
about, and affixed to the wall on the left, is the same type of wooden
structure and lead point suspended on a cord used for measuring sculpture.10
With a chisel in one hand and a mallet in the other, a restorer dressed in
formal attire, perhaps Cavaceppi himself, is busy worker-cutting on the
cascading drapery of an enormous statue of an armless woman. We can identify
this as Cavaceppi’s studio with virtual certainty as two works in the drawing
were illustrated in perhaps Cavaceppi himself, working on a female bust (fig.
6). Captivated by the theme of the artist at work, Robert would return to the
subject of the restorer’s studio. In 1783 he successfully showed the
impressive, rather generically entitled, The Studio of an Antiquities Restorer
in Rome at the Salon (Toledo Museum of Art), which, though clearly an idealised
vision featuring some of the most famous antique works of the day (including
the River Nile, Cupid and Psyche, etc.), is also a wistful reminiscence of the
artist’s own Roman years and passionate study of antique statuary: a diminutive
figure of an artist sketching is visible in the foreground.18 In another
little-known privately owned picture attributed to Robert, well-clad visitors
admire antique statues in a sculptor’s studio while the ubiquitous artist is
seen drawing (fig. 7). Though certain features suggest the small painting may
also represent Cavaceppi’s studio, as with the Toledo canvas, topographical
exactitude is tempered with a more generalised, romantic – and highly saleable
view – of remnants from Rome’s ancient. For his life and work, see especially
Howard 1970, Howard 1982, London 1983, Howard 1991, Gasparri and Ghiandoni
1994, Rome 1994, Piva 2000, Barr 2008, Weiss and Dostert 2000, Bignamini and
Hornsby 2010, 252–55; Piva 2010–11, C. Piva in Rome 2010–11, 418–19, no. IV.1
and Meyer and Piva 2011, 149–55 (for essential bibliography). Howard 1988, 479;
Piva 2000, 5; Barr 2008, 86. Goethe 1827–42, 540, cited in C. Piva in Rome
2010–11b, 418–19, no. IV.1. Piva 2000, 6, 17, note 4; Honour and Mariuz 2007, 26,
60–63. For Nollekens, see Howard 1964, 177–89; Coltman 2003, 371–96. For
Grignoin, see Ingamells 1997, 433–34. Howard 1988, 479. For Cavaceppi’s works
from British collections, see London 1983. Haskell and Penny 1981, 68. Barr
2008, 104 and 184, Appendix B. Some of the same topographical details are
discernible in a little-known floor plan of the building (Piva 2000, 10, 7).
For more on this device and an engraving demonstrating its use (published by D.
Diderot and J. le Rond d’Alembert in the Encyclopédie in 1765), see Myssok
2010, pp. 272–73, 13.2. As first noted by Stefan Körner (Körner 2013, under lot
307R). Ibid., under lot lot 307R; U. Müller-Kaspar, in Hüneke 2009, 416, no.
270. Körner 2013, under lot lot 307R; U. Müller-Kaspar, in Hüneke 2009, 430,
no. 283. Müller-Kaspar 2009, 395. D. Kreikenbom, in Hüneke 2009, pp. 578–79,
no. 357. According to Winckelmann, many statues (including Kalliope and
possibly also Lucilla) were acquired by Bianconi in 1766 from the sale of
Cavaliere Pietro Natali’s collection in Rome. Conceivably, they were brought to
Cavaceppi’s studio while they were still in Natali’s possession (Müller- Kaspar
2009, 395; U. Müller-Kaspar, in Hüneke 2009, pp. 416, 430). Marseille 2001, 96, no. 109. Guiffrey 1869–72, 32, p.25, no. 61:
‘L’intérieur d’un Attelier à Rome, dans lequel on restaure des statues
antiques. Cet Attelier est pratiqué et construit dans les debris d’un ancien
Temple’. 2.
Lucilla Sotto sembianza d’Urania, anch’essa or esistente in Germania, engraving
in Raccolta d’antiche statue, 1, Rome, 1768, pl. 58. Photo: Warburg Institute, London 3. Kore as Urania, body, Antonine, c.
150 ad after a Greek model, 4th century bc; head, 160–170 ad; marble, 270 cm
(h), Berlin, SMBPK, Antikensammlung, Sk 379 in the drawing, to the right, the
muse Kalliope, lost in Berlin during World War II, was also restored by
Cavaceppi (figs 4–5).13 Both were acquired in 1766 by the Bolognese doctor and
antiquarian, Giovanni Ludovico Bianconi, another friend of Winkelmann’s, for
King Frederick William II of Prussia and assigned to Cavaceppi for restoration
before being sent to the Sansssouci Palace in Potsdam in 1767.14 The child’s
sarcophagus visible in the drawing on the left wall is also similar to that
preserved today in Charlottenhof Palace in Potsdam though it does not appear in
the Raccolta.15 The dating of Robert’s drawing is problematic as in 1766, the
year Lucilla and Kalliope were acquired by Bianconi, the 4. Kalliope, engraving
in Raccolta d’antiche statue, 1, Rome, 1768, pl. 45. Photo: Warburg Institute,
London 5. Kalliope, Roman, marble, 98 cm, formerly Berlin, SMBPK,
Antikensammlung, Sk 600, lost c. 1945 6. Hubert Robert, L’Atelier du
restaurateur de sculptures antiques, black chalk, 368 × 323 mm, Château Borély,
Marseilles, Inv. 68-194 painter was already back in Paris, having left Rome in
July 1765. However, it seems highly likely that the works were lodged in
Cavaceppi’s studio before their acquisition and, indeed, they are drawn in
their pre-restoration state.16 During the same period Robert probably made the
black chalk drawing now in Marseille showing an antiquities restorer, 17 7.
Hubert Robert, Studio of a Sculpture Restorer, oil on panel, 13 × 10 cm,
private collection. Photo: Witt Library his Raccolta. 166 11 One of
them, the monumental female statue in the centre, re-appears in the
publication, with arms added and an entirely different head (fig. 2). Cavaceppi
identified her as Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelius, with the attrib- utes
of Urania, the muse of Astronomy (‘Lucilla Sotto sembian- za d’Urania,
anch’essa or esistente in Germania’). A staggering 220-cm in height she is
preserved today, with further restorations, in Berlin (fig. 3).12 The seated
figure behind her past. avl 167 19. Georg Martin Preissler (Nürnberg
1700–54 Nürnberg) after Giovanni Domenico Campiglia (Lucca 1692–1775 Rome)
Self-Portrait of Campiglia Drawing 1739 Engraving, first state (before the lettering)
226 × 167 mm (image); 315 × 223 mm (sheet) Inscribed l.l. below image in
pencil: ‘Campiglia se ipse del.’; l.r.: in pencil: ‘G. M. Preisler.Sc.Nor.; and
l.c. in pencil: ‘Joh. Dominicus Campiglia, / Pictor Florent. Delineator / Musei
Fiorentini.’ provenance: Trinity Fine Art, London, 1999, from whom acquired.
literature: Le Blanc 1854–88, 3, 244, no. 6, ‘Campiglia (Giov. – Dom.). 1739.
In – fol. -1er état : avant le lettere.’ exhibitions: London 1999b, 8, no. 16,
not repr. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 1999–054 A prolific and
accomplished draughtsman, painter and reproductive engraver, Campiglia was a
central figure in promoting and disseminating images of the Antique during the
middle decades of the 18th century and therefore, is a key figure in the
present exhibition.1 His formative years were spent training with his uncle and
local painters in Lucca, Bologna and Florence where he studied drawing, as well
as anatomy and perspective and made copies after the Old Masters. By 1716, he
was residing in Rome studying the most important collections of antique
sculpture. That year he received a first prize for painting and for drawings to
illustrate a booklet for the Accademia di San Luca. He was already respected
for his wide culture and his work was admired by English collectors like
Richard Topham, who esteemed his refined and highly finished chalk studies of
antique sculpture, as well as his portraits.2 His close involve- ment in two
lavishly illustrated and highly successful and influential publications largely
devoted to antique sculpture – the Museum Florentinum and the Museo Capitolino
(cat. 20) – brought him lasting fame and consolidated the taste for classical
antiquity that continued through the rest of the 18th century and beyond.3 In
the early 1730s the Florentine antiquarian, Anton Francesco Gori (1691–1757),
began to assemble a set of vol- umes that aimed to provide a visual record of
the art collec- tions of Florence, mainly those of the Medici, the ruling
dynasty. He commissioned Campiglia, already in the city in 1726, and others to
make drawings of the works selected to be engraved. The Museum Florentinum was
published between 1731 and 1766. It comprised twelve large volumes divided into
four parts: Gemmae antiquae ex Thesauro Mediceo et privatorum dactyliothecis
florentiae..., devoted to engraved gems (1731–32); Statuae antiquae deorum et
virorum illustrium, on antique statues and monuments (1734), Antiqua numismata
aurea et argentea, dedicated to ancient coins (1740–42) and, lastly, Serie di
ritratti degli eccellenti pittori, illustrating 320 portraits of prominent
artists, published in 1752–66. This last volume, based on art- ists’
self-portraits in the Uffizi’s collection, is of particular relevance here, as
we shall see later. This rare engraving by Preissler, hitherto unpublished and
known only in a single impression of the first state, is probably based on a
now untraced self-portrait of Campiglia.4 Without explanation, Le Blanc dates
the print to 1739 – when the artist was 47.5 Wearing an ermine collar with a
crisp, white, open-necked shirt and directly engaging the viewer, he presents
himself as straightforward, successful and brim- ming with confidence. Assuming
that Le Blanc’s date is cor- rect, the print appeared at time when Campiglia
was enjoying considerable success. The first two parts of the Museum
Florentinum had already been published, he had begun work on the Capitolino
(see cat. 20) and, precisely in 1739, he had been appointed Superintendent of
the Calcografia Camerale, the papal printing press. These successes culmi-
nated in his nomination for membership of the Accademia di San Luca in November
of that same year.6 Resting a sheet of paper against a drawings portfolio held
in his left hand, with his right hand he is drawing with a porte-crayon a model
of the Belvedere Antinous standing on the table before him (fig.). At the
statue’s feet is a figurine of a herm with the head of a youth, perhaps
Mercury, and two medals, one showing a man holding a lyre, who may be Homer.7
It is not surprising that Campiglia, whose reputation was established through
skilfully reproducing artefacts from the ancient world, should present himself
with the Belvedere Antinous, one of the most celebrated statues to survive from
antiquity. Renowned since its discovery in the 16th century and for its
placement in the Belvedere court, it soon ranked among the most famous statues
of Rome.8 Casts of the statue of the handsome youth, the lover of the Roman
emperor, Hadrian, who drowned himself in the Nile and was deified by 168same
year.6 Resting a sheet of paper against a drawings portfolio held in his left
hand, with his right hand he is drawing with a porte-crayon a model of the
Belvedere Antinous standing on the table before him (fig. 1). At the statue’s
feet is a figurine of a herm with the head of a youth, perhaps Mercury, and two
medals, one showing a man holding a lyre, who may be Homer.7 It is not
surprising that Campiglia, whose reputation was established through skilfully
reproducing artefacts from the ancient world, should present himself with the
Belvedere Antinous, one of the most celebrated statues to survive from
antiquity. Renowned since its discovery in the 16th century and for its
placement in the Belvedere court, it soon ranked among the most famous statues
of Rome.8 Casts of the statue of the handsome youth, the lover of the Roman
emperor, Hadrian, who drowned himself in the Nile and was deified by 168
169 adopts the same pose in the print as he did for his person- ification
of painting in the little-known Il Genio della Pittura of around 1739–40 in the
Accademia Nazionale di San Luca (fig. 2).13 The chalk holder becomes a paint
brush and the drawings portfolio a canvas. Not coincidentally, Campiglia seems
to have donated this painting as his entry work to the Academy c. 1740, about
contemporary with the present engraving.14 He cleverly fuses iconographic
elements in an amusing black chalk study of c. 1737–38 in the British Museum
(fig. 3) acquired by Charles Frederick (1709–85) while in Rome on the Grand
Tour, where he depicts himself drawing in the company of a seated monkey who
playfully holds up a paint brush, a clear allegorical reference to art
imitating nature or ‘art as the ape of nature’ as Aristotle describes it in the
Poetics.15 Characterised as ‘a very well-bred communica- tive man’, Campiglia
and his portraits were enormously popular with English collectors.16 Campiglia
made several other self-portraits throughout his career.17 Of particular
relevance is the painting made around 1766 for his pupil and collaborator,
Pietro Antonio Pazzi (c. 1706–after 1766) and now in the Uffizi.18 It shows the
artist at ease, his hands casually resting on his ever-present portfolio. The
picture appears, like so many of the Uffizi self-portraits, as an engraving by
the same Pazzi in the final volume of the Museum Florentinum (fig. 4).19 In
Pazzi’s engraving the format and central image dimensions are nearly identical
to our print of Campiglia by Georg Martin Preissler, who, not coincidentally,
engraved other portrait plates in the Museum Florentinum. Furthermore, the
pencil lettering, Joh. Dominicus Campiglia, / Pictor Florent. Delineator,
beneath the image in our engraving is similar in style and format to the
engraved inscriptions accompanying the other portraits in the book. Also
telling is the final pencil inscription, Delineator Musei Fiorentini, under his
name in the print. All this evidence strongly suggests that Campiglia intended
to use the present image for the Museum Florentinum – and had it engraved by
Preissler for that purpose – but he decided not to use it. Perhaps it served as
a kind of test-print for the engraved self-portraits in the volume. Although
the portrait series was not published until 1752–66, by 1739, Gori and
Campiglia would already have started to plan the format of the later sections.
Interestingly, Charles Le Blanc similarly describes Preissler’s engravings of
Dürer, Eglon van der Neer, Rubens and Raphael, all destined for the Museum
Florentinum, as first states ‘before the lettering’.20 But whatever our print’s
true purpose, by the time the portrait volumes appeared, Campiglia, then well
into his sixties and in the twilight of his career opted to present a more
recent and relaxed version of himself. avl 2. Giovanni Domenico Campiglia,
Genius of Painting, c. 1739–40, oil on canvas, 48 × 63.3 cm, Accademia
Nazionale di San Luca, Rome, Inv. 0075 3. Giovanni Domenico
Campiglia, Self-Portrait of Campiglia Drawing, with a Monkey Seated on the
Table at Left, c. 1737–38, black chalk, 417 × 258 mm, Department of Prints and
Drawings, British Museum, London, 1865,0114.820 4. Pietro Antonio Pazzi after
Giovanni Domenico Campiglia, Self-Portrait of Campiglia, engraving in Museum
Florentinum, Florence, 12, 1766, plate XXII, 274 × 176 mm (plate), Sir John
Soane’s Museum Library, London, 2848 1. Belvedere Antinous, Roman copy of the
Hadrianic period (117–138 ad) from a Greek original of the 4th century bc,
marble, 195 cm (h), Vatican Museums, Rome, inv. 907 the grief-stricken emperor,
were produced almost immedi- ately after its discovery and copies in marble and
bronze were made through the 17th century.9 Considered to embody perfection,
according to Bellori the statue was the subject of studies in ideal proportion
by François Duquesnoy (1597– 1643) and Nicolas Poussin (1594–1665) (p. 47, 68).
The figure had wide-reaching appeal to collectors and connois- seurs, and
enticed a range of artists, who, from the 16th century included it in
portraits.10 During the 18th century small-scale models in bronze or marble,
like that seen in the engraving, were produced in large numbers with ‘restored’
arms, as seen here. Archaeologist and art historian, Winckelmann, no doubt
contributed to the statue’s elevated status even more with his claim, ‘our
Nature will not easily create a body as perfect as that of the Antinous admir-
andus’.11 The widely held belief that the statue was the embodiment of ideal
beauty would be upheld into the 19th century: even the usually acerbic William
Hogarth admitted its proportions were ‘the most perfect of any of the antique
statues’.12 Campiglia was not shy and his other self-portraits make a
compelling comparison with this one. Interestingly, he 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 For
essential biography, see Prosperi Valenti 1974, pp. 539–41; Quieto 1984a;
Quieto 1984b. Through his agent, Francesco Ferdinano Imperiali, Topham commis-
sioned Campiglia and others, including the young Pompeo Batoni, to make dozens,
if not hundreds of drawings with the aim of systematically illus- trating Roman
collections of antiquities. Many of these drawings are now preserved at Eton
College. See Connor Bulman 2002, 343–57 and Windsor 2013, 11, 14–15. The corpus
of his drawings for the Museum Florentinum are in the Uffizi in Florence
(Quieto 1984b, 10) and for the Museo Capitolino, in the Istituto Nazionale per
la Grafica in Rome (Quieto 1984b, 10, 17–26, 29–36; I. Sgarbozza in Rome
2010–11b, 402, no. II.15a-b). It is listed by C. Le Blanc (1854–88, 3, 244, no.
6) among the prints by G. M. Preissler: ‘Campiglia (Giov. – Dom.). 1739. In –
fol. -1er état : avant le lettere. Frauenholz, 4 flor.’ To the knowledge of the
present writer, no impression of the second state exists nor, for that matter,
has either state previously been published or discussed. The name and price Le
Blanc men- tions – Frauenholz, 4 florins – refer to the Nuremberg-based print
dealer and publisher, Johann Friedrich Frauenholz (1758–1822), who may have
owned the catalogued impression and who sold (or acquired) it for the price of
4 florins. While it is possible that the present impression is the one
described, none of Frauenholz’s collector’s marks or inscriptions (L. 951, L.
994, L. 1044 and L. 1458) appear on it. Campiglia’s relatively youthful
appearance suggests the drawn or painted original may have been executed a
decade or so earlier. He was proposed by Sebastiano Conca on 15 November 1739
and his mem- bership confirmed, 3 January 1740 (Quieto). As noted by Eloisa
Dodero (personal communication), the herm is similar to the one seen in the background
of Campiglia and Pazzi’s engraving, Students Copying Antiquities at the
Capitoline Museum (see following entry, cat. no. 20). 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16
17 18 19 20 Haskell and Penny (1981, 139–42, no. 4) give a full account of the
sculp- ture’s history and reception. See also Krahn 1996. See V. Krahn in Rome
2000b, 2, 403–04, no. 9. Haskell and Penny 1981, 142 and Krahn 1996. Haskell
and Penny 1981, 142; and Winckelmann 1968, 153. Hogarth 1753, 81–83. Faldi
1977, 504, 508, 8. Quieto 1983, 5; Rome 1968, 22, no. 5. Liverpool 1994-95, 72,
no. 19. Ibid., 72. Gentleman’s Magazine 1853, 40, 237, as quoted by H.
Macandrew 1978, 138. Painted self-portraits are in the Palazzo Altieri, Viterbo
(formerly Faldi collection, Rome; Quieto 1983, 5–6, 8, 3, c. 1726–28), the
Lemme collection, Rome (ibid., 1983, 5, 7–8, 4, 1732–34). See also the two
mentioned in note 18, below. Drawn self-portraits of a later date have appeared
on the London art market: Chaucer Fine Arts, 2003 (London 2003a, no. 12),
Christie’s, December 6, 2012, lot 56 and Christie’s, April 21 1998, lot 126.
See Quieto 1983, 4–5, 2 and Quieto 2007, 93–94, 27. As that author noted, it
reprises the composition of an earlier work painted for the Accademia di San
Luca (1983, 5, cover). Although in 1766 the painting was not yet in the Uffizi
– it was not left by Pazzi to the Grand Ducal collection until 1768 (Quieto
1983, 5) – it is likely that at that date he had already planned to bequeath
it, given the self- portraits in the Museum Florentinum are based on the
Uffizi’s collection. Le Blanc 1854–88, 3, 244, 8, 23, 28, 30. Interestingly, Le
Blanc indicates that the Dürer and Raphael were also once owned by Frauenholz.
It seems that all these early first states were in a folio together. 170
171 20. Pietro Antonio Pazzi (Florence c. 1706 – after 1766 Florence)
after Giovanni Domenico Campiglia (Lucca 1692–1775 Rome) Students Copying
Antiquities at the Capitoline Museum 1755 Engraving in Giovanni Gaetano
Bottari, Musei Capitolini, 3, Rome, 1755, 1 99 × 186 mm (plate), 444 × 287 mm
(sheet) Inscribed l.l.: ‘Gio. Dom. Campiglia inv. e disegn.’; and l. r.: ‘P.
Ant. Pazzi incis.’ provenance: Robert Adam (1728–92); his
sale, Christie’s, London, 20–21 May 1818; purchased by Sir John Soane
(1753–1837), not listed in the Christie’s sale catalogue (according to hand
list, Sir John Soane’s Museum, Priv. Corr. XVI.E.3.12: ‘Books purchased at Mr
Adam’s sale’). literature: Haskell and Penny 1981, 84, fig. 46; Lyon 1998–99, 109–10,
under no. 89, not repr. (A. Themelly); Paris 2000–01, 370, fig. 2; Macsotay
2010, 194, fig. 9.3. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Sir John
Soane’s Museum Library, London, 4033 exhibited in london only Few images
capture the process of learning to draw after the Antique in 18th-century Rome
as vividly as Campiglia and Pazzi’s densely populated engraving. More readily
accessible than the Belvedere Courtyard in the Vatican (cats 5 and 6) and the
private aristocratic collections, such as the Borghese and Farnese (cats 6 and
21), the Capitoline Museum was the ideal venue for students to draw in situ
from some of the most celebrated antiquities preserved in Rome. Founded in 1471
with Pope Sixtus IV’s (r. 1471–84) dona- tion of several important ancient
bronzes – the She Wolf, the colossal bronze head and hand of Constantine, the
Spinario and the Camillus – all preserved until then in the Lateran Palace, the
Capitoline grew in time to become one of the largest and most prestigious
collections of classical antiqui- ties ever assembled in Rome.1 In 1734, in
conjunction with the recent acquisition of the celebrated collection of
Cardinal Alessandro Albani, and thanks to the enlightened policy of Pope
Clement XII (r. 1730–40), the Capitoline opened as a public museum.2
Established with the two-fold civic and educational purpose of preserving and
making accessible to the public the city’s antiquities and to cultivate ‘the
practice and advancement of young students of the Liberal Arts’, the museum
soon became a lure for Italian and foreign antiquar- ians and artists alike.3
The didactic function of the museum was emphasised further by Pope Benedict XIV
(r. 1740–58) with the opening of the Pinacoteca Capitolina in 1748, the first
public collection of painting in Rome, and, in 1754, the establishment of the
Accademia del Nudo.4 The Capitoline thus became the first public museum in
Europe in the modern sense of the word and an ideal academy where art students
could copy concurrently from the Antique, Old Master paintings and the live
model. The museum’s educational mission was sanctioned by its growing associa-
tion with the Accademia di San Luca. Academy members 172 presided over the life
classes at the Accademia del Nudo (Campiglia directed classes there in April
1757 and November 1760)5 and prizes for the student competitions at the
Accademia di San Luca, the Concorsi, were awarded in sump- tuous ceremonies in
the rooms of the Capitoline palaces.6 This image is the engraved vignette that
introduces the volume devoted to ancient statues of the Musei Capitolini, an
ambitious publication produced with the pedagogical intent of spreading
knowledge of the museum and its collection of antiquities.7 Conceived by
Cardinal Neri Maria Corsini, the nephew of Pope Clement XII, it consisted of
large engraved plates (fig. 1), all based on designs by Campiglia, accompa-
nied by a substantial commentary by the antiquarian Bottari; both artist and
writer had worked together previously on the monumental Museum Florentinum
(cat. 19). First published in Italian as Del Museo Capitolino (Rome, 1741–82)
and then translated into Latin as Musei Capitolini (4 vols, Rome, 1750–82) in
order to reach a wider foreign audience, the large volumes can be 1. Carlo
Gregori after Giovanni Domenico Campiglia, The Dying Gladiator, engraving, 202
× 300 mm, plate 68 from Giovanni Gaetano Bottari, Musei Capitolini, 3, Rome,
1755 173 considered the first systematic catalogue of a public
museum.8 The prestige of the publication, the clarity and neatness of the
illustrations – produced by many of the engravers who, like Pietro Antonio
Pazzi, had participated in the Museum Florentinum – soon made it a celebrated
and indispensible reference work that greatly contributed to the diffusion of
the classical taste in Europe. It was a familiar presence in the libraries of
connoisseurs and artists as this copy, owned by Soane and before him by Robert
Adam (1728–92), testifies. The engraving is a celebration of the new
educational role of the museum and its association with the Academy of San
Luca, of which Campiglia had been a member since 1740 (see cat. 19). In a
crowded space, a group of students is seen sketching and modelling in clay
after two of the most famous statues that had been recently acquired for the
museum: the so-called Dying Gladiator (fig. 2) and the Capitoline Antinous
(fig. 3), now believed to represent respectively a Gaul and Hermes. The former,
discovered around 1623, and already famous in the 17th century when it was in
the Ludovisi collection, had been acquired in 1737 by Clement XII for the 9 Capitoline.
Placed at the centre of the composition, with 2. The Dying Gladiator, Roman
copy of a Pergamene original of the 3rd century bc, marble, 93 cm (h),
Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. MC0747 3. The Capitoline Antinous, Roman copy of
the 2nd century ad of a Greek original of the 4th century bc, marble, 180 cm
(h), Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. MC0741 the young artists assembled in a
semi-circle around it as if in a life class, the Gladiator invited analysis and
study of the male anatomy in a complex pose, as well as offering an example of
a noble and heroic death. The Capitoline Antinous, recorded in Cardinal
Albani’s possession from 1733, had been acquired with the rest of the
Cardinal’s collection in the same year and was displayed in the museum a few years
later.10 Quickly eclipsing the Belvedere Antinous (see 26, 22 and cat. 19, 1),
it represented a perfect image of the male body in its youth. It is not by
chance that the young students are focusing on these two statues among the many
towering over them in the room, for the Dying Gladiator and the Capitoline
Antinous were the chosen subjects for the third class of the Concorso
Clementino – reserved for the copy – either drawing or modelling – usually
after the Antique, organised by the Accademia di San Luca for the year 1754
(fig. 4).11 But if the engraving alludes to a contemporary event, the
establishment of the museum as a ‘Scuola del Disegno’,12 it is also a
capriccio, as it gathers together sculptures that were in fact displayed
elsewhere in various rooms and collections, much as Hubert Robert would do in
his beautiful red chalk drawing of almost ten years later (p. 56, 96). The
Dying Gladiator, the Capitoline Antinous and the two stand- ing statues behind
him, the Antinous Osiris and the Wounded Amazon, could all be admired and
studied in the privileged space of the Salone of the Palazzo Nuovo, which
housed some of the best masterpieces of the collection.13 The so- called Albani
Crater, half visible on the far left, and the seated Agrippina behind the
Antinous, were however, displayed elsewhere in the Palazzo Nuovo, respectively
in the Stanza del Vaso and in the Stanza dell’Ercole.14 Moreover, Campiglia did
not confine himself to depicting only works from the Capitoline collections:
even more out of place are the two figures on the right, who turn their backs
to 4. Giovanni Casanova, Drawing of the Capitoline Antinous (third award for
the third class in painting of the Concorso Clementino), 1754, red chalk on
brown prepared paper, 510 × 290 mm, Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Rome, inv.
A.380 5. Giovanni Paolo Panini, View of Ancient Rome or Roma Antica, detail,
c.1755, oil on canvas, 169.5 × 227 cm, Staatsgalerie Stuttgart inv. Nr. 3315 us
as if to signify that they belong elsewhere. These are the much revered
Antinous Belvedere and the Venus de’ Medici – dis- played at that time
respectively in the Vatican and in the Tribuna of the Uffizi.15 Their presence
here probably served to sanction and affirm the canonical status of their
Capitoline companions, all recently excavated or acquired. What we see is
therefore a symbolic space, where reality and fantasy are combined to
legitimise and promote the relatively new collection of the museum. The volumes
of the Musei Capitolini served as a reference tool for many artists and no
doubt inspired the scene showing young students drawing the Dying Gladiator in
the foreground of Giovanni Paolo Panini’s renowned View of Ancient Rome (fig.
5, and 53, 92), the first version of which, not coincidentally, was painted at
about the same 6. Carlo Gregori after Giovanni Domenico Campiglia, Young
Artists Copying the ‘Arrotino’, engraving, 118 × 151 mm, page 225 in Anton
Francesco Gori, Museum Florentinum, Florence, 1754 time as the publication of
this particular volume. Campiglia devised similar graceful allegorical
vignettes for the contemporary volumes of the Museum Florentinum.16 One in
particular, engraved by Carlo Gregori (1719–59), seems to be the Florentine
counterpart of the Roman image, showing students sketching the Arrotino,
surrounded by the symbols of the arts and books on anatomy and geometry (fig.
6).17 Although in the second half of the 18th century access to the museum
sometimes proved difficult due to lack of personnel, and while artists had to
go through the bureau- cratic process of applying to the papal camerlengo or to
the director of the museum for licence to make copies, the Capitoline remained
one of the most popular sites among artists and travellers, as the many views
of its interiors testify (pp. 55–56, figs 94–96).For recent and brief
introductions on the history of the Capitoline collec- tions, with previous
bibliography, see Parisi Presicce 2010; Paul 2012. On the early years of the
Capitoline as a public museum see Arata 1994; Franceschini and Vernesi 2005;
Arata 2008. Document dated 5 December 1733 quoted in Arata 1994, 75. On the
Pinacoteca see Marinetti and Levi 2014. On the Accademia del Nudo see
Pietrangeli 1959; Pietrangeli 1962; MacDonald 1989; Barroero 1998. On Campiglia’s supervision of life classes at the Accademia del Nudo see
Pirrotta 1969. On the Concorsi see Cipriani and Valeriani 1988–91; Rome,
University Park (PA) and elsewhere 1989–90; Cipriani 2010–11. See Quieto 1984b;
Kieven 1998; Philadelphia and Houston 2000, 484– 86, no. 329 (S. Prosperi
Valenti Rodinò); Rome 2004, 96–108, nos 1–7 (A. Gallottini); Rome 2010–11b, p.
401, no. II.14 (I. Sgarbozza). Campiglia started working on his designs for the
plates in 1735: see Franceschini and Vernesi 2005, 59–60. See Haskell and Penny
1981, 224–27, no. 44; Mattei 1987; La Rocca and Parisi Presicce 2010, 428–35.
See Haskell and Penny 1981, 143–44, no. 5; La Rocca and Parisi Presicce 2010, 500–01.
The statue was exhibited in the museum from 1739 or 1742. Cipriani and
Valeriani 1988-91, 2, 219–20, 228. While the 1754 prize drawings depicting the
Antinous survive in the archives of the Accademia, the terracottas representing
the Dying Gladiator are lost. The Dying Gladiator was also chosen as the
subject for the third class in painting in 1758 and the Capitoline Antinous for
the third class in sculpture in 1779, and in painting in 1783: ibid., 3, 9–22,
120, 129–30, 141–46. It was referred to as such in the award ceremony for the
Concorso: see Belle Arti 1754, 36. On the Antinous-Osiris, donated to the
museum by Benedict XIV in 1742 and from 1838 in the Vatican Museum, see Paris,
Ottawa and elsewhere 1994– 95, 78–79, no. 24 (M. Pantazzi). On the Wounded
Amazon, acquired in 1733 as part of Albani collection, see Weber 1976, 46–56.
On the Albani Crater and its base, both previously in the Albani collection,
see Grassinger 1991, 189–90, no. 32. On the so-called Agrippina, already
recorded in the Capitoline collections in 1566, see Haskell and Penny 1981, 133–34,
no. 1; Rome 2011, 324–25, no. 5.9 (A. Avagliano). On their display at that
time, see Venuti 1750, 23, 30, 33–34; Arata 1994. For the Antinous Belvedere
and the Venus de’ Medici see above 26, 22 and 42, 56. Many are found in volumes
8 to 12. On the so-called Arrotino or Knife Grinder, once in the Villa Medici
in Rome and from 1680 in the Tribuna of the Uffizi see Haskell and Penny 1981, 154–56,
no. 11; Bober and Rubinstein 2010, 83–84, no. 33. On access to the Capitoline
Museum in the 18th century see Sgarbozza 2010–11. 174
175 21. Louis Chays (Aubagne c.1740–1811 Paris) The Courtyard of the
Farnese Palace in Rome with the Hercules Farnese 1775 Pen and brown ink, brown
wash, pencil and white gouache, 434 × 534 mm Inscribed recto, l.l., in pen and
black ink: ‘chaÿs f. a rome 1775.’; and l.c., in pencil, possibly by different
hand: ‘Cour du Palais Farnése’. provenance: Hippolyte Destailleur (1822–93)
collection (no. 110). literature: Berckenhagen 1970, 394, no. 3027, repr.;
Giuliano 1979, 100, 13; Michel 1981b, 584, 8; De Seta 1992, 240, repr.;
Gasparri 2007, 53, 45 and p. 178, no. 273.4; Macsotay 2010, p. 194; Göttingen
2013–14, p. 208, 53. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited.
Kunstbibliothek, Berlin, Hdz 3027 exhibited in london only Private aristocratic
collections of antiquities in Rome contin- ued to attract large numbers of
artists and visitors during the 18th century. The Farnese Palace, with its
group of canon- ical ancient sculptures – the Farnese Hercules (see p. 30, 32)
the Farnese Bull and the Farnese Flora among others – and its Gallery with the
Loves of the Gods, the widely admired fresco cycle by Annibale Carracci
(1560–1609), offered the ideal opportunity to copy the Antique and a tour de
force of early 17th-century mythological decoration at the same time.1 Drawings
after the famous Farnese statues by Maarten van Heemskerck (1498–1574),
Hendrick Goltzius (1558–1617) (see cat. 7), Annibale Carracci (see p. 43, 58),
Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640; see p. 46, 67), Nicolas Poussin (1594–1665),
Anthony van Dyck (1599–1641), Carlo Maratti (1625–1713; see p. 43, figs 60–61),
Hubert Robert (1733–1808), Jacques Louis David (1748–1825) and
Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres (1780– 1867), to name just a few, testify to the
enduring fame of the palace and its legendary collection of antiquities among
European artists residing in Rome.2 In the 18th century the palace went through
changes of ownership, passing in 1731 from the Farnese to the Bourbon, but it
remained a lively envi- ronment, with many artists and others residing in its
rooms, and was readily accessible for those who wished to draw or model.3
Between 1786 and 1800 all the ancient statues of the collection were removed by
the Bourbon King Ferdinand IV to Naples – where they can be seen today in the
National Archaeological Museum – a decision that marked the end of the palace
as a privileged place for studying the Antique.4 Louis Chays is one of the
lesser-known figures among the French artists who gravitated towards the
Académie de France in Rome in the 1770s. He studied at the Academy in Marseille
under Jacques-Antoine Beaufort (1721–84), before moving to Rome thanks to the
patronage of Louis-Joseph Borély, a wealthy Marseille merchant.5 His five years
in Rome, between 1771 and 1776, were probably spent in the company of such pensionnaires
of the Academy as Joseph-Benoît Suvée (1743–1807), Jean-Simon Berthélemy
(1743–1811), Pierre- Adrien Pâris (1745–1819) and François-André Vincent
(1746–1816). These young artists were of the same generation, they all arrived
in Rome in 1771 and stayed there for a similar span of years. They seem to have
travelled around the city and the Roman campagna as a group, sketching sites,
ruins and landscapes, and they naturally shared a similar style and
repertoire.6 The result of Chays’ artistic wanderings consists mainly of
evocative drawings in the manner of Hubert Robert and Jean-Honoré Fragonard
(1732–1806) though Chays’ drawings lack their characteristic vivacity. The
corpus of his drawings is preserved in the Kunstbibliothek in Berlin.7 This study,
with its companion, The Colonnade of St Peter’s Square, stands apart in Chays’
known graphic production in being a large-scale and highly finished
pen-and-wash draw- ing.8 The lively view is the only known representation of
groups of students, rather than just individuals, at work in the courtyard of
the Palazzo Farnese; nor does the present writer know of any similar record of
study in other private collections of antiquities in Rome. It is also an
important historical document, being one of the last images to show the statues
in their original location before their removal to Naples, from 1786 onwards.
Chays cleverly chose a low view- point and an angle that allows for maximum
drama: the receding pillars of the portico frame the focus of our atten- tion,
the massive statue of the Farnese Hercules. We are standing in the shadowy
passage leading to the gardens of the palace and we see the Hercules from
behind, by then a view as successful as the front (see cats 7 and 16). Other
images of the Hercules from the back in the Farnese courtyard had been produced
decades earlier by Giovanni Paolo Panini (1691–1765) (fig. 1), Giacomo
Quarenghi (1744–1817) (fig. 2) and Frédéric Cronstedt (1744–1829), and one
wonders whether Chays had seen any of them.9 In any case, to animate his
composition Chays certainly took inspiration from the many capricci by Panini
where the Hercules towers over groups of wanderers and also from such drawings
showing artists at 176 177 1. Giovanni Paolo Panini, View of the
Courtyard of the Palazzo Farnese with the ‘Hercules’ seen from Behind, c. 1730,
pen and black and grey ink and wash, and coloured wash, heightened with white,
419 × 417 mm, private collection work in Rome produced by Charles-Joseph
Natoire (see 55, 94) or Hubert Robert (see 56, figs 95–97). We see here the
usual cast of characters familiar from Robert’s drawings: a combination of
artists, beggars, dogs, young children, and bystanders, some of them dressed in
the current fashion, like the elegant aristocratic couple in the centre, no
doubt accompanied by a tour guide or cicerone. Others are presented in
all’antica dress, such as the beggar and muscular male student on the right,
both of whom wear Roman togas and gaze intently at the sculpture from behind.
But among the many visitors to the courtyard, the true protagonists are the
students, busy at work, sketching on large sheets resting on drawing boards or
modelling in clay, as in Campiglia’s and Pazzi’s engraving (cat. 20). Some
focus on the Hercules, while others, seated on chairs or on the ground in the
middle of the courtyard, turn towards the other star of the collection, the
Farnese Flora, visible to the right of the Hercules.10 The entire palace seems
to have been turned into an academy, with animated conversations taking place
throughout: particularly intriguing is the lively discus- sion taking place
around a large drawing in the central bay of the first floor loggia. In the
distance, through the entrance vestibule on the lower right, we have a glimpse
of the Piazza Farnese and the external world. While the technique in this
drawing is precise and although the details are lively, the rendering of the
architec- ture, which was evidently drawn first and before the figures were
superimposed, is less successful. It is notable that the 2. Giacomo Quarenghi,
View of the ‘Farnese Hercules’ in the Portico of the Courtyard of the Farnese
Palace, c. 1775–79, pen and black ink and wash and coloured wash, 304 × 233 mm,
private collection scale of the two sides of the courtyard visible behind the
por- tico does not quite correspond. In fact, Chays’ real forte was landscape
rather than accurate architectural views, although reasonably faithful
depictions of the Villa Madama and other Roman buildings survive.11 Although
this view is largely imaginary, it seems to evoke the spirit of the courtyard
as it appeared to pupils of the Accademia di San Luca and pensionnairesof the
Académie de France in Rome who frequented the palace regularly. Visits to
grandiose palaces such as this must have left a lasting impression on these
young students. The Accademia di San Luca sent its students around Rome to copy
the Antique, especially on the occasion of academic competitions, the
Concorsi.12 In the 18th century the Hercules and the Flora were chosen several
times as subjects for the third class of the Concorso Clementino – reserved for
the copy, a drawing or a model, usually after the Antique – and the students’
gather- ings in those occasions must have offered a scene as animated as that
we see in Chays’ drawing.13 Most of the artists depicted here are sketching on
large sheets of paper, generally reserved in the 18th century for academic
drawings after the Antique, as seen also in Campiglia’s and Pazzi’s engraving
(cat.).14 The Académie de France in Rome had been founded in 1666 with the
specific intent of shaping the taste and manner of young artists ‘sur les
originaux et les modèles des plus grands maîtres de l’Antiquité et des siècles
derniers’ and of furnishing the royal gardens at Versailles with copies of the
most famous antiquities from Rome.15 Although the direct copy from antique
statuary had been neglected for certain periods since the Académie’s founding,
it had once again gained a central place in the official curriculum of the
pensionnaires during the direc- torates of Nicolas Vleughels (1725–37) and
Charles-Joseph Natoire (1751–75) (see cat. 16). Although no surviving drawings
after the Antique by Chays are known, he probably produced them as he spent
considerable time in Rome copying Old Master paintings, such as those by
Raphael, Titian and Reni.16 He returned to Marseilles in 1776 and spent the
following years decorating the château of his patron, today the Musée Borély,
where he put into practice the lessons and skills he had acquired in Rome.17
After becoming one of the professors of the Académie in Marseilles, Chays
participated in the Revolution and as sergeant-major took part in 1790 in the
occupation of the fort of Notre-Dame de la Garde by the Garde National.18 He
later published a collection of etchings some of which he based on the views
that he had assembled in his Roman years.19 Among the last mentions we have of
him are his Paris Salon entries of 1802 and 1804: perspective drawings of the
antiquities collection of the Louvre. SeeMéjanès1976;WashingtonD.C.1978–79,pp.148–155.
Berckenhagen1970,pp.393–96,nos3026–3074and3673–3674. Ibid.,p.394,no.3026. For
Panini’s drawing see Arisi 1961, 245, no. 80, 359; Sotheby’s New York, 29–30
January 2013, lot 113. Two paintings attributed to Panini (wrongly, in the
opinion of the present writer) in a French private collec- tion show similar
views: see Munich and Cologne 2002, 408–10, nos 187 a/b. For Quarenghi’s
drawing see Sotheby’s New York, 27 January 2010, lot 90. Another, almost
identical version is in the Hermitage, St Petersburg (inv. 25819): Bergamo
1994, 185–86, no. 234. For Cronstedt’s drawing, executed in 1772, now in the
National Museum, Stockholm see Palais Farnèse 1980–94, 2, 131, b. Before the
18th century the same viewpoint had been represented in a drawing by an
anonymous Dutch draughtsman of c. 1540–60, now in the Herzog Anton
Ulrich-Museum, Braunschweig (inv. Z 320r): see Gasparri 2007, 17, 4 and 178,
no. 273.1. The Flora is here shown with its Renaissance restorations by
Guglielmo Della Porta and Giovanni Battista de Bianchi and before Carlo
Albacini’s new restorations undertaken after 1787: see Gasparri 2009–10, 3,
esp. 38–40. See for instance, Berckenhagen 1970, 395, no. 3030. On the Concorsi
see cat. 20, note 6. Both were chosen for the third class in sculpture in 1703:
Cipriani and Valeriani 1988-91, 2, 26–27. The Hercules was chosen for the third
class in both painting and sculpture in 1728 and later on in sculpture in 1783
and in 1789 (this time from a plaster since the statue had been transported to
Naples in 1787): ibid., 2, 182, 3, 130, 153. The Flora was chosen for the third
class in painting in 1750: ibid., 2, 209–10. See the size of the drawings for
the third class of the Concorsi Clementini of the Accademia di San Luca in
Cipriani and Valeriani 1988–91, vols 2–3. See also Macsotay 2010, 193–94. ‘On
the originals and the examples of the greatest Antique masters and those of
preceding centuries’: letter from Jean-Baptiste Colbert to Nicolas Poussin,
1664, mentioned in Montaiglon and Guiffrey 1887–1912, 1, 1 and in Lapauze 1924,
1, 2. See Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 44–46. These copies now survive
in the Musée des Beaux-Arts and in the Musée Borély in Marseille: Paris 1989, 268–69,
no. 113 (J.-F. Méjanès). Benoît 1964. Vialla
1910, 484. ‘Ouvrage de 36 feuilles tirées des Porte-feuilles du C[itoye]n S.
[sic] Chays...’. See Thieme-Becker 1907–50, 6, 445. See also Le Blanc 1854–88, 1,
625. ‘Dessins perspectives de différens points de vue, qui donnent le
développe- ment de toutes les figures antiques du Musée [du Louvre], ainsi
qu’une juste idée du local et de la décoration du palais’: Sanchez and Seydoux
1999– 2006, 1, 46, no. 58 (1802), 76, no. 105 (1804). See also Paris 1989, 268–69,
no. 113 (J.-F. Méjanès). 178 179 1 2 3 4 5 aa On the Farnese Hercules see above
30 and cat. 7. On the Farnese Flora see Haskell and Penny 1981, 217–19, no. 41;
Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 37–42, no. 8, pl. VI, 1–5 (C. Capaldi). On the Farnese
Bull see Haskell and Penny 1981, 165–67, no. 15; Gasparri 2009–10, 3, 20–25 no.
2, pl. II, 1–16 (F. Rausa). See Gasparri 2007, 11 and 157–78. See Michel 1981b
and La Malfa 2010–11. In 1775, the year of this drawing, the palace had 180
inhabitants. See the list in Michel 1981a, 565. For a list of artists residing
in the palace see Michel 1981b, table between 610–11. Rausa 2007b, 57–60. On
Chays (often spelled differently, Chaÿs, Chais, Chaix) see: Thieme- Becker
1907–50, 6, 445; Benoît 1964; Toronto, Ottawa and elsewhere 1972–73, 143–44,
no. 23; Paris 1989, 268–69, no. 113 (J.-F. Méjanès); Raspi Serra 1997.
22. Fuseli (Zürich–London) The Artist Moved by the Grandeur of Antique
Fragments; The Right Hand and Left Foot of the Colossus of Constantine c.
1778–79 Pen and sepia ink and wash, red chalk, 420 × 352 mm Inscribed recto on
the pedestal of the foot: ‘S.P.Q.R’, followed by illegible characters and l.r.
in pencil: ‘85 W. Blake’ (false signature, perhaps 19th century) watermark:
‘ZP’ and the coat of arms of the city of Zurich1 provenance: Susan Coutts,
Countess of Guildford (1771–1837) (her stamp on the verso2); Paul Hürlimann,
from whom acquired in 1940. selected literature: Irwin 1966, 47, pl. 32; Schiff
1973, 1, 115, 478–79, no. 665, 2, 145, 665; Tomory 1972, 49, 90, 4; Füssli
1973, 60–61, repr.; Schiff and Viotto 1980, pl. viii, no. D35 on 112; Klemm
1986, no. 4; Lindsay 1986, 483–84, 1; Taylor 1987, 125, repr.; Noch- lin 1994, 7–8,
1; Rossi Pinelli 1997, 15, 18, repr.; Bartels 2000, 23, note 2; Patz 2004, 271,
3; Bungarten 2005, cover; Pacini 2008, 55–56, 4; Valverde 2008, 163–64, 5;
Trumble 2010, 6–7, repr.; Barroero 2011, no. 22, repr.; Mongi-Vollmer 2013, 294,
127. selected exhibitions: Zurich 1941, no. 251; New York 1954, no. 31; Zurich
1969, no. 165; Copenhagen 1973, 55, no. 21, not repr. (B. Jørnæs); Hamburg
1974–75, 129, no. 45 (G. Schiff); London 1975, 54–55, no. 10 (G. Schiff );
Paris 1975, unpag., no. 10 (G. Schiff ); Milan 1977–78, 19–20, no. 6 (L.
Vitali); Geneva 1978, 8, no. 3; Munich 1979–80, 279–80, no. 154 (J. Gage);
Tokyo 1983, 62–63, no. 7 (G. Schiff ); Zurich 1984, 49, 179, no. 25; Stockholm
1990, 33, no. 3 (G. Cavalli-Björkman and R. von Holten); Stuttgart 1997–98, 5–7,
no. 10 (C. Becker); Zurich 2005, 256, no. 1, frontispiece 2; Paris 2008, 120,
no. 36 (B. von Waldkirch). The Kunsthaus, Graphische Sammlung, Zürich,
inv. no. 1940/144 exhibited in london only This celebrated drawing is one of
the most powerful images ever produced on the relationship of the artist with
the Antique. It presents a very different response to classical antiquity from
the many didactic compositions shown in this catalogue, expressing the
extremism and the Sturm und Drang that imbued early Romanticism. The artist
here confronts the Antique not as a source of information or inspiration but on
a deeper level: he meditates on the grandeur of a lost past both as a
philosopher, considering the fragility of the human condition and, more
powerfully still, as a creator in despair at his own inability to match the
achievements of classical antiquity. Fuseli’s evocative image effectively
summarises the dramatic change in the approach to the Antique which took place
in Rome in the late 18th century within a circle of anti-academic and largely
self-taught artists, such as Alexander Runciman (1736–85), John Brown
(1749–87), Tobias Sergel (1740–1814) and Thomas Banks (1735–1805), among whom
Fuseli was the most influential.3 For them the ancient sculptures were alive, a
tangible expression of the emotions and individuality of their creators, rather
than models of ideal beauty and proportional perfection. Born Johann Heinrich
Füssli in 1741 in Zurich into a fam- ily of artists, his father, Caspar
(1706–82), a painter and histo- rian, was one of the Swiss correspondents of
Anton Raphael Mengs (1728–79) and Johann Joachim Winckelmann (1717– 68).4
Fuseli’s early education benefited from the teaching of Johann Jakob Bodmer
(1698–1783) and Johann Jakob Breitinger (1701–76), forerunners of the literary
and artistic movement Sturm und Drang, who introduced the young artist to the
study of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton and the Niebelungenlied, decisively
contributing to the eclecticism of his imaginative sources. Fuseli moved to
London in 1764 and soon became well acquainted with the city’s lively cultural
milieu and quickly acquired fame as a painter. In 1770, on the advice of Sir
Joshua Reynolds (1723–92), Fuseli travelled to Rome. He stayed there for eight
years, with very few inter- ruptions, leaving in 1778. After spending a few
months in Zurich, he returned to London where he was destined to spend the rest
of his life. Elected academician at the Royal Academy of Art in 1790 and
Professor of Painting in 1799, Fuseli became one of the most acclaimed artists
of his generation; he died in the residence of the Countess of Guilford, one of
his patrons and previous owner of the pre- sent drawing, in Putney Hill in
south-west London, in 1825. The eight years Fuseli spent in Rome were of great
impor- tance for the development of his artistic language and theory of art.
Fascinated by the majestic relics of imperial Rome, but even more impressed by
Michelangelo’s masterpieces, Fuseli soon distanced himself from the idealised
and harmonious view of the Antique espoused in the theoretical works of Gotthold
Ephraim Lessing (1729–81) and of Winckelmann, who had been murdered in Trieste
two years before Fuseli arrived in Rome. This death was symbolic for, although
ini- tially a great enthusiast for Winckelmann’s writings, some of which he
translated into English, Fuseli became one of his most radical detractors by
asserting the importance of appreciating the emotions and conflicts that ran
through 180 181 ancient works of art.5 As Fuseli stated many years later
in the introduction to his Lectures on Painting presented at the Royal Academy,
German critics had taught the artist ‘to substitute the means for the end, and,
by a hopeless chase after what they call beauty, to lose what alone can make
beauty interest- ing – expression and mind’.6 ‘Expression animates, convulses,
or absorbs form. The Apollo is animated; the warrior of Agasias is agitated;
the Laocoon is convulsed; the Niobe is absorbed’. This is one of the Aphorisms
on Art compiled by Fuseli in the late 1780s, although it was first published
only in 1831 by John Knowles in his The Life and Writing of Henry Fuseli.7
These famous masterpieces of ancient sculpture, the Apollo Belvedere, the
Borghese Gladiator, the Laocoön and the Niobe Medici, are not seen by Fuseli
simply as the embodiment of a canon of perfection, models to imitate, or points
of reference in the academic education of a young artist; they are treated as
animated forms of the subjectivity of the artists who created them and,
ultimately, of their ways of expressing feeling and emotion.8 Fuseli’s many
studies after the Antique are never an end in themselves, they are rather means
of expression and, because of that, ancient statues can be adapted, distorted,
even desecrated by him.9 A homosexual scene depicted on an ancient Greek
red-figured vase can become the model for a Shakespearean composition showing
the King of Denmark poisoned by his brother in his sleep.10 Likewise, one of
the Horse Tamers on the Quirinal Hill (see 22, 10), reproduced and adapted many
times by Fuseli, can be turned into Odin receiving the Prophecy of Balder’s
Death.11 If Winckelmann praised the Laocoön for his dignified grandeur,12 in
two of his late sketches Fuseli transformed the Trojan priest into the object
of a courtesan’s sexual desire.13 Even the famous Nightmare (1781),14 one of
the most disquieting compositions ever created by Fuseli, still retains
memories of the Antique, from the devilish head of the horse peeping out of the
curtain, so like those of the Quirinal horses, to the reclining figure in which
one can recognise a transposition of the celebrated Cleopatra in the Belvedere
Court (see 26, fig. 20).15 The Artist Moved by the Grandeur of Antique
Fragments per- fectly embodies the artist’s revolutionary approach to the
Antique. Although no doubt based on sketches made on the spot, and using a
technique, sepia ink and wash, often used by Fuseli in Rome, the watermark with
the coat of arms of the city of Zurich suggests that the drawing was made
during or soon after his brief stay in his home town after he left Rome in
1778.16 The drawing shows a scantily clad figure seated on a block dwarfed by
two adjacent marble fragments, the left foot and the right hand of a gigantic
statue set on plinths before a wall composed of majestic, square blocks.17 The
pose of the artist, loosely inspired by Michelangelo’s Ancestors of Christ on
the Sistine Ceiling, is deeply expressive; he cradles his head in deep grief
and anguish, and his mood, with his legs casually and unguardedly crossed, is
one of total surrender; the forlornness is enhanced by the wild weed that
audaciously pushes its way up against the colossal marble hand. The antique
fragments are easily recognisable as the left foot and the right hand of a
colossal statue of the emperor Constantine the Great (r. 306–37 ad; figs 1–2)
which were found in the west apse of the Basilica of Maxentius in 1486 under
the papacy of Innocent VIII (r. 1481–92) along with other fragments including
the head (fig. 3) and the right foot. By Fuseli’s time they could be admired in
the courtyard of the Palazzo dei Conservatori on the Capitoline hill, where
they are still preserved today.18 The monumental scale of these fragments
fascinated generations of artists from the Renaissance onwards, but they became
increasingly a focus of attention in the 17th and 1. Colossal Statue of
Constantine the Great: Right Hand, 313–24 ad, Luna marble, 166 cm (h),
Capitoline Museums, Courtyard of the Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome, inv.
MC0786 2. Colossal Statue of Constantine the Great: Left Foot, 313–324 ad,
Parian marble, 120 cm (h), Capitoline Museums, Courtyard of the Palazzo dei
Conservatori, Rome, inv. MC0798 3. Colossal Statue of Constantine the
Great: Head, 313–24 ad, marble, 260 cm (h), Capitoline Museums, Courtyard of
the Palazzo dei Conservatori, Rome, inv. MC0757 in the drawing (‘S.P.Q.R.’) can
actually be found on the pedestal supporting the right foot and not the left
one, as Fuseli represents it here. The detail, however, is not irrelevant,
since it is part of the inscription, commemorating a restoration of the
fragments promoted by Pope Urban VIII (r. 1623–44) in 1635 and 1636, so that
one can read a clear reference to the awe inspired by the greatness of the ‘Res
Romana’.22 Awe of the Antique is expressed in the drawing by the contrast between
the muscular fragments of the colossus and the diminutive, frail and almost
abstract figure, who can be interpreted both as a personification of a modern
man in general and as a symbolic self-portrait of the artist – ‘Füssli’ in
German means ‘little foot’, thus suggesting a visual word- play.23 However, the
title of the drawing given by Gert Schiff, The Artist Moved by the Grandeur of
Antique Fragments, captures only one aspect of the composition, that is, the
feeling of artistic and intellectual inadequacy before the sublime Past.24
Possibly, even the inconsistent perspective of the pedestal of the foot was
consciously introduced to express the artistic inferiority of the moderns
compared to the ancients. But the pose, which recurs many times in Fuseli’s
works, can convey at the same time other meanings.25 It could cause a deep 5.
Hubert Robert, Ancient Sculptures of the Capitoline, red chalk, 442 × 330 mm,
Staatliche Museen, Kunstbibliothek, Berlin, Inv. Hdz 3076 18th centuries:
two wanderers are shown among the colossal ruins in a drawing by Stefano della
Bella (1610–64; 4),19 while the foot and hand appear in an evocative capriccio
by Hubert Robert (1733–1808; 5).20 As in their studies, Fuseli’s drawing shows
the base sustaining the colossal upward pointing right hand on the pedestal
supporting the left foot; only in the early 19th century was the hand moved to
its present location along the wall of the courtyard. Fuseli, however, modifies
the disposition of the fragments in order to create a perfect triangle, whose
apex coincides with the index finger of the hand, pointing authoritatively
upward. The fact that the drawing was made when Fuseli had already left Rome
may account for a few inconsistencies, such as swapping the right foot – flat
on the ground – and the left foot – with the heel slightly raised and set on a
support.21 Moreover, the first line of the inscription roughly transcribed 4. Stefano
della Bella, Courtyard of the Palazzo dei Conservatori, after 1659, pen and
grey ink and grey wash, 152 × 194 mm, Istituto Nazionale per la Grafica, Rome,
inv. FC 126001 sense of loss before the dismembered
statue as well as a melancholic frustration at the impossibility of achieving a
whole, satisfactory knowledge of the ancient world. Finally this evocative
image is clearly a grim meditation on human Vanitas, on the cruelty of time and
its inevitability, capable of destroying even the most impressive human
creations.26 In his vision of antiquity Fuseli was following in the footsteps
of Giovanni Battista Piranesi (1720–78), the great engraver of ancient Rome,
who populated his images with similar figures dwarfed and seemingly lost among
the colossal remains of Rome’s decaying statues and buildings. Piranesi’s
ancient ruins, the gigantic stones of which fill his modern onlookers with
wonder, are evoked by Fuseli in the massive blocks of the background wall,
which are not part of the courtyard of the Palazzo dei Conservatori. Piranesi
died in 1778, the year that Fuseli left Rome for Zurich where he created this
harrowing memory of the city he had just left behind him. Could the present
drawing be a posthumous homage to the great Italian artist, with whom Fuseli
shared the same inventive, original and imaginative vision of the Antique? aa
et ed 1 Schiff 1973, 479. 2 Ibid., 479. 3 See Pressly 1979; Valverde 2008;
Busch 2013. 4 For Fuseli’s biography see Tomory 1972, 9–46; Schiff 1973, 1;
Zurich 2005, 13–31. 5 See Pucci 2000b and Busch 2009. During his London years
between 1764 and 1770, Fuseli translated into English Winckelmann’s
Beschreibung des Torso del Belvedere Zu Rom (1764, translated as Description of
the Torso Belvedere in Rome in 1765) and the Gedanken über die Nachahmung der
griechischen Werke in der Malerei Und Bildhauerkunst (1755, translated as
Reflections on the Painting and the Sculpture of the Greeks in 1765). 6 See
Wornum 1848, 345. On Fuseli’s Lectures see in particular Bungarten 2005. 7
Knowles 1831, 3, 90, aphorism no. 88. 8 For these statues see respectively 26, 18;
41, 54; 26, 19; 30, 34. 9 For a checklist of Fuseli’s drawings of ancient
sculptures see Schiff 1973, 1, 475–79, Schiff 1973, 1, 450, no. 445 (dated
1771); the ancient scene is taken from D’Hancarville 1766–67, 2, pl. 32. Schiff
1973, 456–57, nos 485 and 487 (c. 1776). See in particular Winckelmann. See
also Appendix, no. 15. Schiff 1973, 1, 547, nos 1072 and 1072a (1801–05).
Schiff 1973, 1, 496, no. 757. See Powell 1973, 67–75. See in particular
Waldkirch 2005, 63–78. For a drawing showing a figure in a similar attire see
Schiff 1973, 1, 476, no. 561 (1777–79); and for one with similar blocks in the
background ibid., 1, 447, no. 425. For the right hand and the left foot see
Stuart Jones 1926, 11, no. 13, pl. 5 (hand), 13–14, no. 21, pl. 5 (foot). For a
discussion on the original colos- sal statue see Fittschen and Zanker 1985, 147–52,
pls 151–52; Deckers 2005; Parisi Presicce 2007 (in particular for the history
of the display); Bardill 2012, 203–17. The provenance of the colossus from the
Basilica is testified to by a caption on a drawing by Francesco di Giorgio
Martini (1439–1501) (Morgan Library et Museum, New York, Codex Mellon, fol.
54r), see Buddensieg 1962; census.bbaw.de/easydb/censusID= 233951. See Paris
2000–01, 371 no. 176 (J.-P. Cuzin); Rome 2004, 346, no. 46 (V. Di Piazza);
another similar drawing is in the Louvre, see Viatte 1974, 63 no. 46, 65, 46.
See Berckenhagen 1970, 332; Paris 2000–01, 374, no. 180 (J.-P. Cuzin). These
details are clearly rendered on the drawings by Della Bella and Robert. Bartels
2000, 23 no. 1.7: ‘Senatus Populus Que Romanus APOLLINIS COLOSSUM A Marco
LUCULLO/ COLLOCATUM IN CAPITOLIO DEIN TEMPORE AC VI SUBLATUM EX OCULIS TU TIBI
UT ANIMO REPRAESENTES PEDEM VIDE ET ROMANÆ REI MAGNITUDINEM METIRE’. (‘The
Senate and the People of Rome; that you may bring before your mind’s eye the
colossal statue of Apollo set by Marcus Lucullus on the Capitol Hill, later
removed from sight by the violence of time; look at this foot and be aware of
the greatness of Rome’: translation Eloisa Dodero). Lindsay 1986, 483. Schiff
1973, 1, 115, 478–79, no. 665, 2, 145, 665. The pose finds parallels in other
works by Fuseli chiefly illustrating mourn- ful scenes, such as the painting
showing Milton Dreaming of His Dead Wife Catherine: Schiff 1973, 1, 523–24, no.
920; Zurich 2005, 223, no. 184. Remarkable is the closeness of Fuseli’s figure
with the famous Democritus by Salvator Rosa (Statens Museum, Copehangen; see
Scott 1995, 97, 101; the composition was known also through a number of
etchings, see for instance Naples 2008, 281, no. 8). The philosopher in Rosa’s
composition is shown deep in thought and surrounded by several symbols of
mortality including antiquities; the caption on the etchings describes the
scene as ‘Democritus omnium derisor/in omnium fine defigitur’ (‘Democritus, who
used to laugh about everything, here meditates on the end of every- thing’).
23. Philippe Joseph Tassaert (Antwerp 1732–1803 London) A Drawing Academy 1764
Pen and black ink, grey and black wash drawn with the brush over black chalk,
331 × 309 mm provenance: Private collection, Vienna; Gallery Kekko, Lucerne,
2004, from whom acquired. literature:None. exhibitions: Brussels 2004, 75–76,
repr.; London 2007–08, no. 59, not repr. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no.
2004-004 Although Tassaert was born in Flanders, he moved at a young age to
London where he trained with the expatriate Flemish drapery painter, Joseph van
Aken (c. 1699–1749), and where he established his career; aside from occasional
trips to the continent, Tassaert remained in London until his death.1 Van Aken
had a large practice executing draperies for most of the major British portrait
painters active during the 1730s and 1740s, and after his death, Tassaert seems
to have followed his example, assisting especially the portrait painter, Thomas
Hudson (1701–79). In 1769, Tassaert joined the Society of Artists of Great
Britain and served as its presi- dent from 1775–77; he exhibited with the
Society until 1785.2 Also active as a dealer and picture restorer, Tassaert
worked as an agent for the auctioneer, James Christie (1730–1803), valuing
paintings in French and English collections, includ- ing that of Sir Robert
Walpole at Houghton Hall, for sale to Catherine the Great in 1779.3 He later
moved for a period to Italy, residing in Rome between 1785 and 1790.4 As a
mezzotinter, Tassaert reproduced many composi- tions after earlier painters,
especially those by Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640). The present drawing – a
relatively rare survival compared with his production of prints – shows young
students, dressed in the costumes of Rubens’ era, sketching a reduced model of
the Borghese Gladiator (fig. 1), illuminated by candlelight from above.5 Two
instructors, including the imposing figure of Rubens him-self in the doorway on
the right, inspect drawings made by two pupils who await their verdict. Casts
of busts and statuettes are placed on the shelf above the lamp, as seen in
artists’ work- shops from the Renaissance onwards (see cats 2, 10, 14).6 The
present drawing is closely related to another, rather larger and more loosely
executed, representation of an academy by Tassaert now in the British Museum
(fig. 2), that is observed from a closer viewpoint and is horizontal rather
than vertical in format.7 Rendered in warm brown instead of grey ink, the
British Museum drawing focuses on the group clustered around the sculpture on
the left. The master, in the doorway in our drawing, now leans against a chair
gesturing towards the sculpture and the copy of it made by one of the pupils.
But that student, seen in left profile studying the Gladiator intently, remains
essentially unchanged in both sheets. The British Museum drawing is signed and
dated, ‘Tassaert. del Bruxelles. 1764’, and the Bellinger drawing was no doubt
made at the same time. Both were probably made in preparation for a painting,
now lost, but described in a 1774 review of the Society of Artists’ exhibition
at the Strand in London: ‘Mr. TASSAERT, Director, F.S.A. [ . . .] 285. An
academy with youth’s [sic] at study. -Yellow shaded with black, has a starved
effect’, a description which suggests that it may have been monochrome. 8 A
keen admirer and copyist of Rubens’ work, Tassaert clearly intended to evoke
the atmosphere of the master’s studio. A drawing by Tassaert, ‘Rubens
instructing his pupils’ 1. Agasias of Ephesus, Borghese Gladiator, c. 100 bc,
marble, 199 cm (h), Louvre, Paris, inv. Ma 527 184 185 2.
Philippe Joseph Tassaert, A Drawing Academy, 1764, pen and brown ink and brown
wash over black chalk, 330 × 406 mm, The British Museum, Department of Prints
and Drawings, London, 2003,1129.1 which was sold in London in 1785 was probably
one of the two drawings under consideration.9 The master in both is
physiognomically identical, and wears the wide-brimmed hat and voluminous cloak
seen in Rubens’ mature self-portraits, such as that of 1623 in the Royal
collection, Windsor Castle, an image widely disseminated through engravings.10
Another self-portrait,showingtheartistatsixty,intheKunsthistorisches Museum,
Vienna (1633–35), may also have been known to Tassaert through prints.11 No
doubt Tassaert’s drawings and the lost painting for which they presumably
prepared, were intended to commemorate the fact that Rubens’ studio in Antwerp,
founded on his return from Italy in 1608, was one of the first in Northern
Europe to be organised on the ‘academic’ Italian model. Ruben’s studio – much
more than a workshop – encouraged the intellectual as well as practical
ambitions of young artists, who vied with each other to become his pupils. The purpose
of Tassaert’s lost painting is not certain, but one possibility is that he
intended to present it to the recently revamped Brussels art school. It may be
significant that Tassaert, who hailed from Antwerp (where he became a member of
the Guild of St Luke in 1756), signed the British Museum drawing ‘Tassaert. del
Bruxelles’, and dated it, 1764, the year the Brussels school began to flourish
under new stewardship.12 Reportedly discovered in Nettuno in 1611, the Borghese
Gladiator, signed by Agasias of Ephesus, is thought to copy a statue of the
school of Lysippus.13 It was acquired by Cardinal Scipione Borghese
(1576–1633), and between 1650 and 1807, was displayed in a room bearing its
name on the ground floor of the Casino Borghese before it was sold to
Napoleon.14 The statue was keenly admired by artists from the mid-17th century
onwards as it embodied the male nude in an active, heroic and resolute pose.
François Perrier (1590–1650) ranked it among the finest statues in Rome and
published four views of it in his influential collection of etching after
antique sculpture (Segmenta nobilium signorum et statuarum . . ., Paris, 1638,
pls. 26–29), more than he devoted to any other figure. Casts of it were made
for Philip IV of Spain and for the Académie Royale in Paris (see cat. 16) and
the Académie de France in Rome.15 It became a standard presence in artists’
manuals from the 17th century onwards, as the perfection of its anatomy and
proportions made it an ideal model for young pupils to copy. Its fame endured
well into the 18th century as many of the objects in this catalogue make clear
(cats 16, 24, 26).16 Rubens, who was thirty-four when the statue was found,
revered it greatly. Although his two Roman sojourns (1601– 02 and 1600–08)
pre-date its discovery in 1611, he certainly knew the statue through copies and
probably owned a cast of it.17 That plaster casts came to be widely used in
Northern workshops of the period is shown in the 1635 and 1656 studio
inventories of Rubens’ contemporary, Balen and of Rembrandt and by the many
paintings that depict artists making copies of them (see 40, figs 49–53 and
cat. 14).18 Rubens’ deep interest in antique sculpture, which he collected
enthusiastically, is well-documented.19 In one of his theoretical notebooks, De
Imitatione Statuarum (‘On the Imitation of Ancient Statues’), recording his
observations from 1600 to 1610 on the proportions of the human form, symmetry,
perspective, anatomy and architecture, he defined canonical male body types of
the first rank: the strongest and most robust, the Farnese Hercules (see cats
7, 14, 16, 21); the less muscular and fleshy, Commodus in the Guise of Hercules
and the River Nile (see cat. 5) and the third, lean and slender, with prominent
bones and a longer face, the Borghese Gladiator, which he analysed in a
diagram.20 Finally, there was the slim and handsome type, less strong, among
which statues of Apollo and Mercury were classed.21 Rubens referred to the
Gladiator again in another of his notebooks and he adapted it in some of his
paintings, such as the Mercury and Argus of 1636–37 (Prado, Madrid) where
Mercury in a pose strongly reminiscent of the Gladiator, is about to behead the
multi-eyed giant.22 Although Tassaert would not have known Rubens’ manuscript,
parts of it were published in 1708 by Roger de Piles in his Cours de peinture
par principles, translated into English in 1743 as The Principles of Painting
(see Appendix, no. 8).23 Within twenty years of its discovery, casts of the
Borghese Gladiator were commissioned by Charles I and other English patrons and
it soon became one of the most celebrated 186 187 antique sculptures in
the British Isles.24 By the 18th century, copies of it had becoming a mainstay
of country house collections.25 Joseph Wright of Derby (1734–1797) depicted a
reduced model of the Gladiator studied by candlelight (private collection; see
cat. 24, 2), exhibiting it at the Society of Artists in 1765, just a year after
Tassaert’s drawings and William Pether made a mezzotint after Wright’s painting
in 1769.26 When Tassaert showed his painting of a similar subject, probably
based on his earlier studies, at the same venue in 1774 he may have been
responding to the challenge of his English colleagues, particularly the fellow
mezzotinter, Pether.27 Indeed, it is tempting to suppose that Tassaert, by
exhibiting the finished painting, was asserting the suprem- acy of Flemish
academies over the English ones by establish- ing that the sculpture was
well-known and used as a teaching tool already in Rubens’ time. As will be seen
later (see cats 24–26), study after plaster casts increasingly became an
indispensible part of artistic training in the English Academies as the 18th
century progressed. It is especially significant in the present context that
the catalogue of the posthumous sale of the effects of Tassaert’s master,
Joseph Van Aken, in 1751 in London, lists no fewer than sixty models in
terracotta and plaster after the Antique, among them, the Laocoön, the Farnese
Hercules, heads of Antinous and, significantly, two Gladiators.28 It is well
known that antique models were widely diffused in England in the first half of
the 18th century, well before the foundation of the Royal Academy in 1768 (see
cat. 25), but Van Aken’s collection and Tassaert’s preoccupations suggest that
interest in the Antique had a particularly Flemish dimension. Of course, such
models served a vital role for artists in helping to achieve an idealised
representation of the anatomy, poses and expressions of the human body, but
also, as in the case of Van Aken, they could act as lay-figures for the
arrangement of drapery.29 avl 1 For brief accounts of Tassaert’s life and work,
see Edwards 1808, who, on 282–83, asserts that Tassaert was ‘the scholar’ of
van Aken; Redgrave 1874, 2, 402; Wurzbach 1906–11, 2, 689–90; Thieme-Becker
1907–50, vol, 32, 456; Bénézit 2006, 13, 708–09; Wallens 2010, 328. Edwards
(1808, 282) reports his association with van Aken though the latter had already
moved to London in 1720, before Tassaert was born. They probably met there
though he was only about seventeen when van Aken died. According to Bénézit
(2006, 708), Tassaert was the brother of the sculptor, Jean Pierre Antoine
Tassaert (1727–1788). 2 For his involvement with the Society (and disagreements
with), see Hargraves. His paintings were shown also at the Royal Academy. 3 He
is listed frequently as buyer/seller in Christie’s sale catalogues of c. 1779–
82 (see Kerslake 1977, 1, 337). For Tassaert at Houghton, see Twist 2008, 106–07.
4 Wallens. For his engravings, see Le Blanc 1854–88, 4, 9; Wurzbach 1906–11, 2,
689–90; Smith 1878–83, 3, 1354–56. A further drawing by Tassaert of an artist’s
studio, but with figures in contemporary dress, is in Tate Britain, from the
Oppé collection, black chalk on blue paper, 490 × 317 mm, inv. no. T09847. They
may also be seen lightly sketched at upper right in Tassaert’s drawing of an
artist’s studio in the Tate (see note 5 above). Lock 2010, 255, 12.4; Phillips
2013, 127, 5. ‘Conclusion of the Account of the Pictures now exhibiting at the
Artist’s [sic] great Room near Exeter Exchange, Strand’, published in The
Middlesex Journal, 30 April – 3 May 1774, 2 (as noted by Elizabeth Barker,
under inv. no. 2003,1129.1, British Museum collection database). The same
subject painted by Tassaert, probably more than once, is listed in several
Christie’s sales in London between 1805–12: 1805 (1–2 March, lot 69, seller:
John Mayhew; unsold; 14–15 June, lot 40, seller: John Mayhew; unsold); 1806
(7–8 March, lot 33, seller: John Mayhew; unsold); 1808 (11–12 March, lot 18,
seller: Adam Callander; unsold; 14 May, lot 33, seller: Rev. Philip Duval;
bought by Daubuz); 1809 (17–18 November, lot 65, seller: Adam Callander; bought
by J. F. Tuffen) and 1812 (22 May, lot 44, seller: John Mayhew; unsold; 18–19
December, lot 80, seller: John Mayhew; bought by J. F. Tuffen). Source: Getty
Provenance Index. Jean-Baptiste-Guillaume de Gevigney, his sale, Greenwood,
London, 14–15 April 1785, lot 44. Presumably the same drawing was sold two
years later: ‘An academy by Tassaert, washed in bisque, fine’, Greenwood,
London, 14–15 March 1787, lot 29 to John Thomas Smith for £1.0. Jaffé 1989, 281,
no. 764. Ibid., 371, no. 1379. Between 1764 and 1768, the school was
revitalized under Count Charles Cobenzl (Phillips 2013, 127–28). Paris 2000–01,
no. 1, 150–51 (L. Laugier); Pasquier 2000-01b. Haskell and Penny 1981, 221;
Laugier 2000–01. See also Aymonino’s essay in this catalogue, 41. Haskell and
Penny 1981, 221. Ibid., 221–24, no. 43, 115. For Rubens’ study of sculpture in
Roman collections, see Van der Meulen 1994-95, 1, 41–68. For van Balen’s
inventory, see Duverger 1984–2009, 4, 200–11. Among the casts listed are the
Laocoön, Hercules, Apollo, Athena and Mercury (ibid., 208). Rembrandt’s 1656
bankruptcy inventory (Strauss and Van der Meulen 1979, 349–88) mentions several
plaster casts from life, including hands, heads and arms (ibid., 365, 383), and
after the antique (‘A plaster cast of a Greek antique’ (Een pleijster gietsel
van een Griecks anticq), 383, no. 323). Also mentioned are antique statues of
unspecified medium, including a Faustina, Galba, Laocoön, Vitellius (ibid., 365,
nos 166, 168; 385, nos 329, 331) and several others. For Rembrandt’s use of
statues, casts and models, see Gyllenhaal 2008. For his collection, see Muller
1989, Appendix C, 82–87 and Muller 2004, especially, 18–23. The Johnson
manuscript (manuscript transcript of the Rubens Pocketbook), mid-18th century,
Courtauld Gallery, London, MS.1978.PG.1, fols 4v-5r, cited in Muller 2004, 19.
See also Muller 1982, 235–36 and Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 72–73. Van der
Meulen 1994–95, 1, 73. Ms de Ganay (formerly Paris, Marquis de Ganay), fols
22r–23r, transcribed and translated in Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 254–58. In
addition to the Madrid painting (Georgievska-Shine and Silver 2014, 136, 5.3),
the pose of the sculpture was utilised in other drawn and painted composi-
tions by the artist (Van der Meulen 1994–95, 1, 239, note 9). De Piles 1708, 139–48;
De Piles 1743, 86–92. . Haskell and Penny 1981, 221. However, due to the demand
for casts the Borghese tried to stop moulds from being made (Haskell and Penny
1981, 221). Liverpool 2007, 132, no. 10; Clayton 1990, 236, no. 154, P3.
Tassaert and Pether, both members of the Society of Artists, had a disagree-
ment over the latter’s proposed exhibition fee for fellows (Hargraves 2005, 141–42).
Landford’s, London, among lots 1–77. It has been suggested that Rembrandt
worked from draped plaster casts, especially during his Leiden years
(Gyllenhaal 2008, 51). 24. William Pether (Carlisle 1731–1821 Bristol) after
Joseph Wright of Derby (Derby 1734–1797 Derby) An Academy 1772 Mezzotint, 579 ×
458 mm Inscribed l.l.: ‘Iosh., Wright, Pinxt.’; and l.r.: ‘W. Pether, Fecit.’;
on the boy’s portfolio in the centre: ‘An / Academy / Published by W Pether, /
Feby, 25th / 1772’; td and l.c., at the foot of the seated artist: ‘Done from a
Picture in / the Collection of the R . Hon. / L . Melburne.’ provenance: The
Hon. Christopher Lennox-Boyd (1941–2012), from whom acquired by the British
Museum in 2010. literature: Chaloner Smith 1883, 2, 46, not repr.; Clayton
1990, 240, no. 159, P9, this impression listed under II, not repr.; Liverpool
2007, 159–62, no. 33. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. The British
Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London, 2010,7081.2228 In 1769
Joseph Wright of Derby exhibited An Academy by Lamplight (private collection)
at the Society of Artists in London.1 The painting depicted six young boys
drawing from casts of antique sculpture in a vaulted space lit only by a
concealed lamp. Wright repeated the composition the following year for his
patron, Peniston Lamb, 1st Viscount Melbourne (Yale Center for British Art, 1)
and it was from this second version that William Pether took the present
mezzotint, renamed simply An Academy, published in its first state in February
1772.2 The subject-matter is related to Wright’s earlier painting, Three
Persons Viewing the Gladiator by Candlelight (private collection, 2),3 but, by
showing a group of students at work, addresses more directly the theme of
education by studying casts of antique sculpture by candlelight. Artistic
education was of paramount importance to Wright. In December of 1769, the year
he settled in Liverpool, twenty-two men in the burgeoning city formed a Society
of Artists that gathered at a member’s house to make drawings from a
substantial collection of prints and, more signifi- cantly, thirty-five plaster
casts.4 These casts had been pur- chased from John Flaxman senior, a plaster-cast
salesman in Covent Garden, for £8.8.3, and were intended specifically for
furnishing an academy.5 While Wright is not listed as a member of the Society
of Artists, his friend, the engraver Peter Perez Burdett (c. 1735–93), was its
first President and Wright’s landlord in Liverpool, Richard Tate (1736–87), was
an amateur painter who showed works at the Society’s first public exhibition in
1774, so he was certainly aware of the group’s aspirations. Wright seems also
to have had at least one student in Liverpool, Richard Tate’s brother, William,
who was described by Wright in a letter in 1773 as ‘a pupil of mine’.6 Artistic
education would therefore have been a pressing concern when he was conceiving
An Academy by Lamplight. Wright no doubt encouraged William Tate to take the
same route that he had followed as a pupil of Thomas Hudson (1701–79): first
copying drawings by accomplished masters (which for Tate would have included
works by Wright him- self) as well as prints, before moving to the study of plaster
casts and, ultimately, the life model.7 In 1774 Tate exhibited ‘Venus with a
Shell, a drawing in black chalk’ at the first 1. Joseph Wright of Derby, An
Academy by Lamplight, 1770, oil on canvas, 127 × 101 cm, Yale Center for
British Art, Paul Mellon Collection, New Haven, inv. B1973.1.66 2. Joseph
Wright of Derby, Three Persons Viewing the Gladiator by Candlelight, 1765, oil
on canvas, 101.6 × 121.9 cm, private collection 188 189
Liverpool Society of Artists exhibition, and a sheet in the Derby Museum and
Art Gallery of this subject has been recently been identified as Tate’s
drawing.8 This title of that drawing is highly suggestive as it is pre- cisely
the so-called Nymph with a Shell that the students are shown drawing in
Wright’s painting and Pether’s mezzotint. Housed in the Borghese collection
during the 18th century, the sculpture is now in the Louvre (fig. 3).9 While a
cast of this statue is not listed among those purchased by the Liverpool
Society of Artists, one was probably owned by Wright himself. The other statue
shown in the background on the right is the familiar Borghese Gladiator (see 41,
54 and cat. 23) – the sculpture being studied in Wright’s earlier Three Persons
Viewing the Gladiator by Candlelight (fig. 2). Wright’s composition depicts
young students in different attitudes, some at work drawing the Nymph, which is
illumi- nated by a hanging lamp, from varying angles, while others merely
admire her. Wright has created an ideal representation of an academy of young
men, precisely the environment which his contemporaries were attempting to
create in Liverpool. The students’ visible drawings are in black chalk similar
to Wright’s own and those of his ‘pupil’, Tate. The varying ages of the
students, from young boys to young men, also suggests an ideal academic
establishment. The date of the work has further resonance: 1769 was the year
after the foundation of the Royal Academy in London, where a precise programme
of artistic education, which included drawing from antique sculpture, was being
formulated (see cat. 25). The composition continues a theme Wright addressed in
Three Persons Viewing the Gladiator by Candlelight (fig. 2), the first painting
he exhibited in London, showing it at the Society of Artists in 1765. Such was
its popularity that Pether produced a mezzotint of it in 1769 and we can
suppose that our 3. Nymph with the Shell, Roman copy of the 1st century ad
after a Hellenistic type of the 2nd century bc, marble, 60 cm (h), Louvre,
Paris, inv. MR 309-N 247 (Ma 18) mezzotint, published three years later, was
conceived as a pendant.10 Wright’s Three Persons Viewing the Gladiator by
Candlelight depicts three men – traditionally identified as Wright himself,
Peter Perez Burdett (c. 1735–93) and John Wilton – comparing a reduced model of
the Borghese Gladiator with a drawn copy of it in black chalk. We know Wright
made drawings of the sculpture; and a study in pen and brown ink on brown paper
by him is preserved at Derby.11 Dating from before his journey to Italy, it
seems likely to have been made from a reduced model. Whilst there is no
evidence that Wright owned a model of the Gladiator, it seems likely that he
did: reduced models of it appear in numerous artists’ sales during the 18th
century and they were also readily available in Derby at the time.12 Viewing
and drawing sculpture by candle-light was a feature of many European academies
as for example those of Bandinelli and Tassaert (see cats 1 and 23).13 This was
intended to emphasise the contrast of the sculpture’s anatomy and facilitate
its copy. There were many perceived artistic benefits in owning models. William
Hogarth noted in his Apology for Painters: ‘the little casts of the gladiator
the Laocoon or the venus etc. if true copies – are still better than the large
as the parts are exactly the same [–] the eye [can] comprehend them with most
ease and they are more handy to place and turn about’.14 It therefore seems
likely that Wright’s picture depicts an evening viewing of his own cast.
Burdett was an amateur draughtsman and printmaker, and the comparison between
Wright’s own drawing and the model is the probable topic of their conversation.
This was the theme that Wright developed more fully in An
Academy. Liverpool 2007, 159, no. 31. For Yale version of the painting
ibid., 159, no. 32. Nicolson 1968, 1, 234, no. 188; London 1990, 61–63, no. 22;
Liverpool 2007, 132, no. 10. For a discussion of the foundation of the Society
of Artists and a list of the casts it acquired see Mayer 1876, 67–69. Ibid., 5.
Joseph Wright to William Thompson, Derby 25 March, 1773, in Barker 2009, 72.
Wright’s work in Hudson’s studio is remarkably well documented in an archive of
his drawings as a student preserved in Derby Museum and Art Gallery: see Derby
1997, 49–65. Liverpool 2007, 162, no. 34. For the relationship between Tate,
Wright and the Liverpool Society of Artists see Barker 2003, 265–74. For the
Nymph with the Shell see Haskell and Penny 1981, 281–82, no. 67; Rome 2000b, 2,
335, no. 10 (F. Rausa); Gaborit and Martinez 2000–01; Paris 2000–01, 327–28,
no. 147 (J.-L. Martinez); Rome 2011–12, 402–05 (I. Petrucci, M.-L.
Fabréga-Dubert, J.-L. Martinez). Clayton 1990, 236, no. 154, P3. Derby 1997, 88,
no. 152. An Italian plaster-modeller based in Oxford, ‘Mr Campione’ is recorded
selling: ‘a large and curious collection of statues, modelled from the Antiques
of Italy ... in fine plaister paris work’ in the Red Lion in Derby. See Barker
2003, 25. On this see Roman 1984, 83. See also cat. 1, 80, note 8. Kitson
1966–68, 86. 190 191 25. Edward Francis Burney (Worcester 1760–1848
London) The Antique Academy at Old Somerset House 1779 Pen and grey ink with
watercolour wash, 335 × 485 mm Signed recto, on the portfolio depicted in the
drawing at l.c., in pen and black ink: ‘E.F.B. 1779’; and inscribed verso, in
pen and black ink, with a key identifying the casts and objects shown on recto,
numbered 1–43: ‘View of the Plaister Room in the Royal Academy old Somerset
House / 1. Cincinnatus / 2. Apollo Belvedere / 3. Meleager / 4. Biting Boy / 5.
Foot of the Laocoon / 6. Arm of M. Angelo’s Moses / 7. Paris / 8. Faun / 9
Anatomy of a Horse / 10. Head of Antinous / 11. A young Orator by M. Angelo /
12. Antoninus Pius / 13. Bacchus / 14. PompeyAlexander Model of a Cow Agrippa /
18. Nero / 19. Augustus / 20. Cicero / 21 Other Roman Emperors / 22. Door of Mr
Mosers little Room / 23. Heads. Casts from Trajans pillar / 24. Table for
Drawing Hands Heads etc. on / 25. Screens to prevent Double Lights / 26.
Modelers stands / 27. Large chalk Drawing of the Virgin etc. by Leon: da Vinci
/ 28. Homer / 29. Laocoon / 30. Esculapius / 31. Proserpine / 32. Carracalla /
33. Mithridates / 34. Bacchus / 35. Antinous / 36. River Gods from M. Angelo /
37. Boys by Fiamingo / 38. Dying Gladiator / 39. Lamps for lighting the figures
in Winter / 40. Antique Bass Relieves / 41. Laughing Boys / 42. Head of a Wolf
/ 43. Legs cast from nature etc. etc. etc.’ provenance: From an album of
drawings in the possession of the Burney family; et D. Colnaghi, London, from
whom acquired 5 July 1960. literature: Byam Shaw 1962, 212–15, figs 54–55;
Hutchison 1986, 192, 27; Wilton 1987, 26, 25; Rossi Pinelli 1988, 255, 4;
Nottingham and London 1991, 63, under no. 39, 3; Fenton 2006, 98–99, 100–01,
repr.; Kenworthy-Browne 2009, 45–46, pl. 16; Wickham 2010, 300–01, 14; Brook
2010–11, 158, 5. exhibitions: London 1963, 34, no. 87, not repr.; London 1968b,
211–12, no. 651, not repr.; London 1971, 18, no. 71, not repr.; London 1972, 316,
no. 521, not repr. (R. Liscombe); York 1973, 40, no. 98, not repr.; London
2001, 46, no. 85. Royal Academy of Arts, London, 03/7485 With its
companion The Antique Academy at New Somerset House (fig. 1), this drawing
constitutes one of the best and most evocative visual records of the Antique or
‘Plaister’ Academy at the Royal Academy of Arts in London.1 The Academy was
founded in 1768 and initially occupied rooms in Pall Mall before moving to
Somerset House in 1771. The rather chaotic early records of the Academy means
that Burney’s detailed drawings are fundamental in establishing precisely which
antiquities were available to the first generation of students at the Academy.
Although copying after casts had been a practice fol- lowed in previous British
academies and schools of art – such as the Duke of Richmond’s Academy – it was
only with the foundation of the Royal Academy that it became part of an
extended curriculum modelled on the Roman and Parisian Academies.2 The first
Academicians draughted surprisingly few rules governing the education of
students, other than the requirement that a student have a ‘Drawing or Model
from some Plaister Cast’ approved for admission to the Antique Academy, and
again to progress into the Life Academy.3 For at least the first fifty years of
its existence there was no stipulation about the length of time students should
spend in either School. The timetable itself was fairly minimal, follow- ing
the traditional model in which the purpose of an Academy was to provide
instruction in draughtsmanship and theory whilst the student learned his chosen
art of painting, sculpture or architecture with a master. The Antique or
Plaister Academy was open from 9 to 3 pm with a two-hour session in the
evening, while the Life Academy consisted of only a two- hour class each night.
Until 1860, both were attended by male students only. The collection of casts
was under the control of the Keeper, while a Visitor attended monthly to
examine and correct the students’ drawings and to ‘endeavour to form their
taste’.4 Following the theoretical model of continental academies, the main
didactic purpose of drawing from plaster casts was to teach young students to
become acquainted with and to internalise ideal beauty before being exposed to
Nature in the Life Academy. As Benjamin West (1738–1820), president of the Royal
Academy for almost thirty years from 1792, put it, pro- ficiency was ‘not to be
gained by rushing impatiently to the school of the living model, correctness of
form and taste was first to be sought by an attentive study of the Grecian
figures’.5 Edward Francis Burney studied at the Royal Academy Schools from 1777
and left in the 1780s to become a suc- 1. Edward Francis Burney, The Antique
Academy at New Somerset House, c. 1780, pen and grey ink with watercolour wash,
335 × 485 mm, Royal Academy of Arts, London, cessful book illustrator.6 As a
young pupil of the Antique Academy, he recorded in the present drawing of 1779
and its companion the rebuilding of Somerset House begun in 1776 by Sir William
Chambers (1723–96). This drawing shows the Academy before Chambers’
intervention in a room that was probably designed by John Webb in 1661–64, on the south side of the building
facing the Thames. These rooms had windows exposed to direct sunlight and
therefore may have required the ‘Screens to prevent Double Lights’, visible in
the upper left corner of the drawing and annotated on the verso. The drawing
depicts four students at work, the one on the right in the middle distance
being guided by George Michael Moser (1706–83), the first Keeper of the Royal
Academy Schools, including the Antique Academy.7 In the room everything was
moveable. Boxes could be used as seats or as supports for drawing boards, as
one is by the student in the foreground on the left, while rails were used for
holding the individual students’ candles (see cat. 26). Even the pedestal of
the casts could be moved on castors, so that the Keeper could change their
position weekly. The collection of plaster casts was one of the largest
assembled in Britain in the 18th century.8 Many came from the second St
Martin’s Lane Academy, brought by Moser who had been one of its directors.9 The
collection was then expanded considerably thanks to donations from aristocratic
collectors and acquisitions on the London market.10 Among the most easily
identifiable casts are those ubiqui- tous in European workshops and academies
from the 17th century onwards, all listed in the long inscription on the verso
of the drawing: the Apollo Belvedere (p. 26, 18) at left centre, behind, in the
background, the Faun with Kid, and on the far right, the Dying Gladiator (p.
41, 55), which a student is copying, as innumerable other students had done
before him (see cat. 20).11 In addition, a series of peculiarly ‘English’ casts
are on display, some donated, others copied from origi- nals recently brought
to England from Rome. Partly obscured in shadow on the left is a cast of
Cincinnatus – which still survives in the collection of the Royal Academy (fig.
2) – close 6. Relief from an Honourary Monument to Marcus Aurelius: Triumph,
176–180 ad, marble, 324 × 214 cm, Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. MC0808 7.
Relief with Warriors, Roman, 1st or 2nd century ad, marble, 93 × 82 cm, San
Nilo Abbey, Grottaferrata, inv. 1155 Academy’s collection (figs 8–9). Finally,
between the shelves and the door on the right, it is possible to discern
Leonardo’s cartoon of The Virgin and Child with St Anne and St John the
Baptist, today one of the most celebrated works in the National Gallery in
London – the present drawing is the earliest to document its presence in the
collection of the Royal Academy.16 The cast collection was of paramount
importance to the Royal Academy during its first decades, but the ad hoc nature
of its accumulation and the inclusion of casts of ‘Grand Tour’ souvenirs – such
as Lord Shelburne’s Cincinnatus – left it open to criticism. In 1798 the
Academy’s Professor of Painting, James Barry (1741–1806), launched a stinging
public attack complaining that the Academy was ‘too ill supplied with materials
for observations’ lamenting ‘the miserable beggarly state of its library and
collection of antique vestiges’.17 As a direct result, the sculptors Flaxman
and Bacon were charged with purchasing new casts from the sale of George
Romney’s (1734–1802) collection.18 Flaxman spent much of the rest of his career
attempting to improve the Academy’s cast collection; after 1815, he finally
convinced the Prince Regent to sponsor the 8. Plaster Cast of Head of a Roman
Soldier in Helmet, from Trajan’s Column, 15.7 × 15.4 × 4.4 cm, Royal Academy of
Arts, London, inv. 10/3267 9. Plaster Cast of the Head of Trajan, from Trajan’s
Column Royal Academy of Arts, London, iaa&jy
FortheearlyhistoryoftheRoyalAcademysee Hutchison1986,pp.23–54. For drawing
after casts in Britain before the foundation of the Royal Academy see esp.
Postle 1997; Coutu 2000; Kenworthy-Browne 2009. Hutchison 1986, 29–31. For the
full admission process see London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1, Council
minutes, 1, 4, 27 Dec. 1768; Abstract, 18–19.
Hutchison1986,p.27.Forthe‘RulesandOrders,forthePlaisterAcademy’, see London,
Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1 Council minutes, 1, 6, 27 Dec. 1768, and 17, ;
Abstract 1797, 22–23. For the role of the visitors see ibid., 8. Hoare1805,p.3.
SeeRogers2013. The identification of the teacher with Moser is confirmed by
other like- nesses: see Edgcumbe 2009. The only other collection that could
compete in numbers of casts was the Duke of Richmond’s Gallery: see Coutu 2000;
Kenworthy-Browne 2009. On the Royal Academy collection of casts see Baretti
[1781], esp. 18–30. See Thomson 1771, 42–43; Strange 1775, 74. We would like to
thank Nick Savage for pointing out these two sources to us.
OnplastershopsandtradersinBritaininthesecondhalfofthe18thcentury see Clifford
1992. Among private donors, Thomas Jenkins, the Rome based dealer, sent a cast
of the so-called Barberini Venus shortly after the Royal Academy’s foundation:
London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 38, 9 Aug. 1769.
Jenkins in turn encouraged many of his clients in London to donate casts, including
John Frederick Sackville, Duke of Dorset who sent in 1771 ‘a Bust of Antinous
in his collection’ and ‘a cast of Pythagoras’: ibid., 111, 25 Oct. 1771, and 118,
18 Dec. 1771. Other early donors were Sir William Hamilton, the Rome-based
dealer Colin Morrison and the Anglo-Florentine painter Thomas Patch.
FortheFaunwithKidseeHaskellandPenny1981,pp.211–12,no.37. The Council Minutes
record on 11 June 1774: ‘Resolved that casts be made from three statues in the
possession of Lord Shelburne, viz the Meleager, the Gladiator putting on his
sandals, et the Paris, leave having been already obtained from his lordship’,
London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 179. The three
sculptures had recently been sup- plied by Gavin Hamilton (1723–98) from Rome
and were largely recently excavated pieces: the Meleager had been found at Tor
Columbaro; the Paris and the so-called Cincinatus had both come from an
excavation at Hadrian’s Villa near Tivoli, called Pantanello. See Bignamini and
Hornsby 2010, 1, 321–22 for Shelburne; for the excavation and purchase of the
Cincinnatus and Paris see 1, 162–64, nos 1 and 12; for the excavation and
purchase of the Meleager see 1, 180–81, no. 7. London, Royal Academy of Arts,
PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 38, 9 Aug. 1769 ‘Charles Townly Esq. having
presented the Academy with a cast of the Lacedemorian Boy ... ordered that
letters of thanks should be wrote.’ On the original relief see Boudon-Mauchel
2005, 251–52, no. 43 and on Duquesnoy’s fame as a ‘classical’ sculptor ibid., 175–210.
The cast of the relief had been sent by Sir William Hamilton, then British
ambassador to the court of Naples, in 1770 together with a cast of ‘Apollo’:
see Ingamells and Edgcumbe 2000 32, no. 25, 17 June 1770; see also London, Royal
Academy of Arts, PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 72, 17 March 1770. For the Marcus
Aurelius relief see Haskell and Penny 1981, 255–56, no. 56; Rome 1986–87. For
the relief with warriors see Musso 1989–90, 9–22. The relief was illustrated in
Winckelmann 1767, pl. 136. The same cast appears in Zoffany’s celebrated
Portrait of the Academicians of the Royal Academy, 1771–72, in the Royal
Collections. See Webster 2011, 252–61; New Haven and London 2011–12, 218–21,
no. 44 (M. A. Stevens). For Leonardo’s cartoon see London 2011–12, 289–91, no.
86 (L. Syson). Barry 1798, 7. London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/3, Council
minutes, 3, 99–100, 22 May 1801. They purchased 16 casts in total for £68.10.3.
WindsorLiscombe1987. 2. Plaster Casts of the So-Called Lansdowne ‘Cincinnatus’,
1774, 162 cm (h), Royal Academy of Arts, London, inv. 03/1488 3. Lansdowne
Paris, Roman copy of the Periodo ADRIANICO – ADRIANO (si veda), from a Greek
original of the 4th century bc, marble, 165 cm (h), Louvre, Paris, inv. MNE 946
(n° usuel Ma 4708) 4. Lansdowne Hermes/Meleager, Roman copy of the Hadrianic
Period (117–138 ad) of a Greek original of the 4th century bc, marble, 219 cm
(h), Santa Barbara Museum of Art, Gift of Wright S. Ludington, inv. 1984.34.1
to the Faun with Kid is a Paris (fig. 3), and behind Moser the so-called
Lansdowne Meleager (fig. 4). All of these were cast in 1774 from the originals
in the collection of William Petty, 2nd Earl of Shelburne (1737–1805), recently
returned from his Grand Tour.12 Behind the Cincinnatus is partly discernible a
cast of the Knucklebone Players given by Charles Townley in 1769, the antique
original of which could be admired in his London town-house at 7 Park Street
(cat. 28, 1).13 As was customary, the Academy’s collection included also casts
of busts and statuettes distributed on shelves and of ‘dismembered’ body parts
– arms, legs and feet – hung on the wall, so that students could learn how to
draw anatomical details before approaching the whole human figure. Pupils were
also required to draw from reliefs, to become acquainted with the composition
of historie, or narrative scenes, based on classical models. Above the
chimneypiece is a large cast of a relief with music-making angels by François
Duquesnoy (1597–1643) – the Boys by Fiamingo identified on the reverse of the
drawing – whose most classicising works had, by the end of the 17th century,
acquired the same status of antique statuary (fig. 5).14 Above was displayed a
reduced version of one of the Marcus Aurelius reliefs in the Capitoline Museum
(fig. 6), and a comparatively obscure relief with warriors, which had clearly
gained fame because of its inclusion in Winckelmann’s Monumenti Antichi
Inediti, published in 1767 (fig. 7).15 Further identifiable casts included a
series of heads from Trajan’s Column, which we can see hanging from the shelves
on the end wall, many of which remain in the 5. François Duquesnoy, Relief with
Music-Making Angels, 1640–42, marble, 80 × 200 cm. Filomarino Altar, Church of
Santi Apostoli, Naples commissioning of a series of new casts from Antonio
Canova (1757–1822) in Rome.19 Burney’s image illustrates both the Royal
Academy’s aspiration to offer an ‘academic’ education in line with great
Continental examples, but also its differ- ences from them, as a private
organisation sponsored by the monarch rather than a state-run academy.
194 195 26. Anonymous British School, 18th century A View of the
Antique Academy in the Royal Academy c. 1790s Pen and brown ink and grey wash,
with watercolour, over graphite, 294 × 223 mm Stamped recto, l.l., in brown
ink: ‘J.R’; on separate piece of paper now attached to the reverse of the
mount, in pen and black ink: ‘Henry Fuseli R A / 1741–1825. / Bought at Sir J.
Charles Robinson’s sale 1902 / E.M.’ provenance: Robinson; Robinson (not listed in his sales: Christie’s 12–14
May 1902; or Christie’s 17–18 April 1902); Sir Edward Marsh (1872–1953); his
bequest through The Art Fund (then called National Art Collection Fund), 1953.
literature:None. exhibitions: London 1969, no.1 (unpaginated), not repr. The
British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London, 1953,0509.3 This
satirical drawing, probably made by a distracted student who ought to have been
studying diligently from one of the casts, shows an imposing, heavy-set man
towering physi- cally and psychologically over three young seated pupils
drawing in the Antique Academy. While traditionally he has been identified as
the painter Henry Fuseli (1741–1825), Keeper of the Royal Academy Schools from
1803 to 1825, given the style of the drawing and the subject’s dress he is more
likely to be either Agostino Carlini (c. 1718–90), Keeper between 1783 and
1790, or Joseph Wilton (1722–1803) who held the position between 1790 and
1803.1 The view shows one of the end walls of the Antique, or ‘Plaister’
Academy, housed from 1780 in a purpose-built room in Somerset House.2 The same
wall, with a similar arrangement of casts, appears in the evocative candlelight
view of the room by an anonymous British artist (see 60, 105). The young
students are busy at work, copying from casts of the Belvedere Torso (p. 26, 23),
the Apollo Belvedere (p. 26, 18) and the Borghese Gladiator (p. 41, 54), models
of different ideal types of beauty, masculinity and anatomy, repeatedly praised
by Sir Joshua Reynolds in his third Discourse of 1770. It is likely that the
three moveable casts were often set side by side by the Keepers to reflect
Reynolds’ conception of ideal beauty and of the ‘highest perfection of the
human figure’, which ‘partakes equally of the activity of the Gladiator, of the
delicacy of the Apollo, and of the muscular strength of the Hercules’, as
expressed in his third Discourse.3 On the wall behind the casts, are two
cupboards possibly containing students’ drawings, which support smaller casts
and busts. Whilst the Antique Academy was a serious, professional space, it was
naturally the focus of humour from the students, who ranged in ages from
fourteen to thirty-four. Several other caricatures exist testifying to the
lighter side of academic life, including an earlier study by Thomas Rowlandson
(1756–1827) showing a bench of students at work in the Life Academy in 1776 and
including mocking depictions of Rowlandson’s fellow students (fig. 1).4 In
terms of its public image the cast collection was an important symbol of the
Academy’s prestige but this view does not seem to have been shared by some of
the students, many of whom must have considered the long hours spent copying
after the Antique as a constraining and repetitive exercise. Joseph Wilton was
a crucial figure within the acad- emy in promoting a rigid curriculum based on
the classical ideal. He never abandoned his firm belief in the didactic value
of plaster casts, established while he was director of the Duke of Richmond’s
Gallery in the late 1750s.5 His strict teaching methods must have generated
discontent and considerable derision, brilliantly visualised in a satirical
print by Cruikshank (fig. 2) which shows Wilton – trans- formed into Bottom
with the head of an ass – inspecting the drawing of an irritated student in the
Antique Academy.6 Wilton’s exacting standards, as the lines below the cartoon
make clear, would prevent him from seeing the genius of a modern day Raphael
and it is clear that some students of the Academy saw him as a ‘formal old
fool’. Unlike the Life Academy, where the Visitor presided, setting the model
and frequently drawing from it himself, the Antique Academy was presided over
by the Keeper of the Schools. Each week the Keeper would set out specific casts
and direct and comment on the students’ work. According to 1. Thomas
Rowlandson, A Bench of Artists, 1776, pen and grey and black ink over pencil,
272 × 548 mm, Tate Gallery, London, inv. T08142 196 197 2. Isaac
Cruikshank, Bless The Bottom, bless Thee-Thou art translated – Shakespere,
1794, hand-coloured etching, 295 × 212 mm, G. J. Saville the rules, students
did not choose which casts to draw and they were not allowed to move them
without permission.7 But depictions of the Antique Academy suggest that the
situation was probably more flexible and may have allowed for individually
tailored study. Several anecdotes point to the unruly life of the Academy and
its students, who were allowed to choose their own seats, with utter chaos
resulting. Joseph Farington (1747–1821) noted in 1794, that they behaved like
‘a mob’: Hamilton says the life Academy requires regulation: but the Plaister
Academy much more. The Students act like a mob, in endeavouring to get places.
The figures also are not turned so as to present different views to the 8 The
reason for the commotion was that once a student had a seat, he was expected to
retain it for the week. The atmos- phere seems to have been generally
boisterous and there are numerous reports in the Council Minutes of the Academy
of misbehaviour, high spirits and students throwing at each. It would be
productive of much good to the Students to deprive them of the use of bread; as
they would be induced to pay more attention to their outlines; and would learn
to draw more correct, when they had not the perpetual resource of rubbing
out.11 aa&jy For the traditional attribution of the sitter see the entry on
the collection online database of the British Museum. The identification of the
sitter with Joseph Wilton has been proposed already by Andrew Wilton in London
1969, no. 1. For a list of Keepers of the Royal Academy see Hutchison 1986, 266–67.
Both Carlini and Wilton presented similar physical character- istics as the man
in the drawing. For a list of their likenesses see respectively Trusted 2006
and Coutu 2008. See Baretti [1781], 18–30. See Reynolds 1997, 47. London 1997, 170–71,
no. 67. See Coutu 2000; Kenworthy-Browne 2009. George 1870–1954, 7 (1793–1800),
118, no. 8519. See ‘Rules of the Antique Academy’: Royal Academy of Arts
PC/1/1, Council Minutes, 1, 4–6, 27 Dec. 1768, quoted in Hutchison 1986, 31.
Farington 1978–98, 1, 281. Pressly 1984, 87. Farington 1978–98, 2, 461–62.
Ibid., 2, 462. These two drawings by Turner epitomise the two principal stages
of education provided by the Royal Academy Schools during the late 18th
century: the Antique, or Plaister, Academy and the Life Academy. Turner
enrolled as a student in the Schools in December 1789 as a boy of fourteen,
spent more than two years in the Antique Academy, and then progressed to the
Life Academy in June 1792, presumably after presenting a drawing for inspection
by the Visitor.1 Although there is no record of the drawing Turner submitted,
it may well have been this finished study of the Belvedere Torso (see 26, 23) a
sculpture of enduring popu- larity among artists as demonstrated by Goltzius’
drawing made almost exactly two hundred years earlier (cat. 8). Turner copied
the same cast of the Torso shown in the satiri- cal view of the Academy (cat.
26). He is recorded as having visited the Antique Academy on 137 separate
occasions during his studentship but only some twenty of his drawings after the
Antique survive (figs 1–4) – many from the casts seen in Burney’s drawing (cat.
25) – and none as highly ren- dered as the present study.2 Turner’s signature
at the lower right also suggests it was esteemed by the artist himself and
prepared for some formal purpose. Whilst the surviving Academy Council Minutes
do not record in detail the process of progression from the Antique Academy to
the Life Academy, contemporary accounts offer some insight. Turner’s
contemporary, Stephen Rigaud noted: I was admitted as a Student in the Life
Academy by Mr Wilton the Keeper, and Mr Opie, the Visitor for the time being,
on the presentation of a drawing from the Antique group of the Boxers, in which
I had copied the strong effect of light and shade in the whole group coming out
by strong lights on one side, and reflected lights on the other, with which Mr
Opie expressed himself much pleased.3 The study of the Torso has all the
characteristics of a presenta- tion drawing. It is on better, more regularly
cut paper than Turner’s other drawings after the Antique and the figure is
highly worked and boldly modelled with hatching and cross- hatching in chalk to
convey the ‘strong effects of light and shade’ mentioned by Rigaud. This is in
keeping with the established tradition of copying casts by candlelight to
enhance contrast, so that the students could learn how to render planes and
anatomical details. Unlike Goltzius’ Torso, being copied in daylight after the
original in the Belvedere Courtyard in Rome, Turner’s cast is strongly lit from
above by an oil lamp and set against a neutral screen to provide a uniform
background – as clearly visible in the view of the Antique Academy (p. 60, 105).
Furthermore, this is the only drawing from the Antique where Turner employed
trois crayons, adding red to black and white chalk, a technique he usually
reserved for studies from life. Might it be that Turner was attempting to turn
marble into flesh, the practice 198 199 students. other the lumps of bread they
were given to erase their draw- ings. Stephen Francis Rigaud (1777–1862), son
of the Royal Academician, John Francis Rigaud (1742–1810) and a student in the
early 1790s, wrote that the Schools were also the forum for political
agitation: The peaceable students in the Antique Academy being continually
interrupted in their studies by others of an opposite character, who used to
stand up and spout forth torrents of indecent abuse against the King One evening I rose and protested that if they
continued to use such abominable language in a Royal Academy I would denounce
every one of them to the Council and procure their expulsion [. . .] this
threat checked them a little; but they shewed their spite by pelting me well
with [. . .] pieces of bread.9 This incident reached the ears of the Academy
Council from which the Keeper was excluded. Wilton told Joseph Farington in
1795: The Students in the Plaister Academy continue to behave very rudely; and
that they have a practise of throwing the bread, allowed them by the Academy
for rubbing out, at each other, so as to waste so much that the Bill for bread
sometimes amounts to Sixteen Shillings a week.10 The Council took the decision
to stop the allowance of bread altogether, as the President, Benjamin West,
noted: 27. Joseph Mallord William Turner (London 1775–1851 London) a. Study of
a Plaster Cast of the Belvedere Torso c. 1792 Black, red and white chalk, on
brown paper, 331 × 235 mm Signed recto, l.r., in pen and black ink: ‘Wm
Turner.’ literature: Postle 1997, 91–93, repr.; Owens 2013, 102–03, pl. 76.
exhibitions: Nottingham and London 1991, 51, no. 18 (M. Postle); Munich and
Rome 1998–99, 49, 50, 164, no. 62 (M. Ewel and I. von zur Mühlen); Munich and
Cologne 2002, 414, no. 192 (J. Rees); London 2011 (no catalogue). Victoria and
Albert Museum, Prints et Drawings Study Room, London, 9261 b. The Wrestlers c.
1793 Black, red and white chalks, on brown paper, 504 x 384 mm Signed recto,
l.r., in pen and black ink: ‘Wm Turner.’ literature: Wilton 2007, 16, repr.
exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Victoria and Albert Museum, Prints et Drawings
Study Room, London, 9262 provenance: Both drawings purchased by the Museum in
1884 from R. Jackson with four other academic drawings by different artists
(Victoria and Albert Museum Register of Drawings 1880–1884, 171, 174).
200 201 prescribed by Rubens (see Appendix, no. 8), something
he may have thought would demonstrate that he was ready to progress to the Life
Academy? The Torso would have been a clever choice for a presentation drawing,
since the antique fragment held a position of great prominence in the mission
and the iconography of the Royal Academy. According to Reynolds the Torso was
the greatest exemplar of classical art. ‘What artist’, he asked in his 10th
Discourse of 1780, ‘ever looked at the Torso without feeling a warmth of
enthusiasm, as from the highest efforts of poetry?’ For him only ‘a MIND
elevated to the contemplation of excel- lence perceives in this defaced and
shattered fragment the traces of superlative genius, the reliques
of a work on which succeeding ages can only gaze with inadequate admi- ration’
(see Appendix, no. 17).4 The muscular figure featured prominently under the
words ‘STUDY’ on the obverse of several medals annually distributed as premiums
to the students and in Angelica Kauffman’s Design for the ceiling of the
Council Chamber, which served also as a second room of the Antique Academy (see
60, 107).5 In Turner’s time as a student, the Academy possessed two casts of
the Torso, one of which we know was presented by the dealer Colin Morrison in
1770, and significantly Turner himself donated a further cast in 1842.6 The
second drawing exhibited here was made from posed models in the Life Academy.
The model would be set by the Visitors and Turner studied under a number of
them, including Henry Fuseli, James Barry and Thomas Stothard (1755–1834). This
drawing possibly dates from 1793 and may represent an unusually elaborate pose
set by the sculptor John Bacon (1740–99). Stephen Francis Rigaud, who entered
the Life Academy a year after Turner, noted: I remember Mr Bacon once setting a
well composed group of two men, one in the act of slaying the other; or a
representation of the history of Cain and Abel, which was continued for double
the time allowed for a single figure, and which gave general satisfaction to
the students.7 This precisely accords with the present group, which shows
specific models engaged in combat. Although designed to represent a biblical
subject, the pose of the two figures was reminiscent of antique groups,
especially the Wrestlers (see 30, 33) which had already served as inspiration
for posing the live models in the Italian and French academies – as seen for
instance in Natoire’s imaginary view of the Académie Royale (cat. 16). Turner
continued to attend the Schools throughout the 1790s until he was awarded
Associateship of the Academy in 1799; he would continue to visit the Life
Academy intermit- tently for the rest of his life.8 He was made inspector of
the cast collection of the Royal Academy in 1820, 1829 and 1838 and served as
Visitor in the Life Academy for a total of eight years between 1812 and 1838.9
In the latter role he became famous for setting the live model in postures
reminiscent of classical sculpture, clearly recalling what he had learned
during his time as a student. Lauding this practice and lamenting its decline,
the artists and essayists Richard (1804– 1. Joseph Mallord William Turner, Study of a
Plaster Cast of the Apollo Belvedere, c. 1791, black and white chalks on brown
laid wrapping paper, 419 × 269 mm, Tate Gallery, London, inv. D00057 (Turner
Bequest V D) 2. Joseph Mallord William Turner, Study of a Plaster Casts of
Marquess of Shelbourne’s Cincinnatus, c. 1791, pencil with black and white
chalks and stump on laid buf paper, 425 × 267 mm, Tate Gallery, London, inv.
D00055 (Turner Bequest V B) 4. Joseph Mallord William Turner, Study of a
Plaster Cast of a Helmeted Head from the Trajan Column, with Other Studies, c.
1791, black, red and white chalks and stump on dark buf paper, 337 × 269 mm,
Tate Gallery, London, inv. D40220 (Turner Bequest V R, verso) 88) and Samuel
(1802–76) Redgrave noted: When a visitor in the life school he introduced a
capital practice, which it is to be regretted has not been contin- ued: he
chose for study a model as nearly as possible corresponding in form and
character with some fine antique figure, which he placed by the side of the
model posed in the same action; thus, the Discobulus (sic) of Myron contrasted
with one of our best trained soldier; the Lizard Killer with a youth in the
roundest beauty of adoles- cence; the Venus de’ Medici beside a female in the
first period of youthful womanhood. The idea was original and very instructive:
it showed at once how much the antique sculptors had refined nature; which, if
in parts more beautiful than the selected form which is called ideal, as a
whole looked common and vulgar by its side.10 aa et jy For Turner’s attendance
at the Academy see Hutchison 1960–62, 130. Finberg 1909, 1, 6–8. See also
Wilton 2012. Pressly 1984, 90. Reynolds 1997, 177–78. On the medals see
Hutchison 1986, 34; Baretti [1781], 28; see also London, Royal Academy of Arts,
PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 24, 20 May 1769. For the Council Chamber see
Baretti [1781], 25–26. On the two copies of the Torso in the Royal Academy see
Baretti [1781], 9, 28. On Colin Morrison’s donation of a cast of the Torso,
together with ‘Cast of a Bust of Alexander’ in 1770 see London, Royal Academy
of Arts, PC/1/1, Council minutes, 1, 70, 17 March 1770; on Turner’s donation
see Gage 1987, 33. Pressly 1984, 90. Hutchison 1960–62, 130. See Gage 1987, 32–33.
Redgrave and Redgrave 1890, 234, quoted in Gage 1987, 33. 202 203 3.
Joseph Mallord William Turner, Study of a Plaster Casts of the Borghese
Gladiator, c. 1791–92, black and some white chalk on buf wove paper, 580 × 457
mm, Tate Gallery, London, inv. D00071 (Turner Bequest V S) 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
10 28. William Chambers ( fl.1794) The Townley Marbles in the Dining Room
of 7 Park Street, Westminster 1795 Pen and grey ink with watercolour and
touches of gouache, indication in graphite, heightened with gum Arabic, 390 ×
540 mm provenance: Charles Townley (1737–1805); by descent to Lord O’Hagan (b.
1945); Sotheby’s, London, 22 July 1985, lot 559; Frederick R. Koch; Sotheby’s,
London, 12 April 1995, lot 90, from whom acquired by the British Museum.
literature: Cook 1977, 8–9, fig.1; Cook 1985, 44–45, 41; Walker 1986, 320–22,
pl. A; Cruickshank 1992, 60–61, 5; Morley 1993, 228, 285, pl. LVII; Webster
2011, 425, 321. exhibitions: Essen 1992, 432–36, no. 360a (C. Fox and I.
Jenkins); London 1995 (no catalogue); London and Rome 1996–97, 258–60, no. 214
(I. Jenkins); London 2000, 229–30, no. 167; London 2001, 42, no. 72;
London. The British Museum, Department of Prints and Drawings, London,
1995,0506.8 Charles Townley (1737–1805) was the most influential collec- tor of
antique sculpture in Britain during the second half of the 18th century.1 From
1777 Townley’s considerable collection was arranged in his London residence, 7
Park Street (now 14 Queen Anne’s Gate), a proto-house-museum praised both for
the strength of its collections and their display. It was to become one of the
principal tourist sites in London. Writing about the house, James Dallaway
claimed that ‘the interior of a Roman villa might be inspected in our own
metropolis’.2 Park Street was also a centre of antiquari- anism and Townley –
particularly after 1798, when wars with France curtailed travel to the
Continent – was a hugely 1. Johann Zofany, Charles Townley and Friends in His
Library at Park Street, Westminster, 1781–90 and 1798, oil on canvas, 127 ×
99.1 cm, Towneley Hall Art Gallery et Museum important figure in promoting the
study and interpretation of classical sculpture in Britain initiating numerous
publica- tions, including the Society of Dilettanti’s Specimens of Antient
Sculpture (1809). Townley also formed a famous library and an immense archive
of drawings – in effect a ‘paper museum’ – recording antiquities in both
British and European collections. To complete this ‘paper museum’ and to
prepare publications such as the Specimens, Townley employed numerous young
artists to record his own collection. It is clear from the surviving portions
of his diary and other records that 7 Park Street became, in effect, an
alternative academy in London. Writing in 1829, the then Keeper of Prints and
Drawings at the British Museum, J. T. Smith, published a description of 7 Park
Street and its contents, observing: I shall now endeavour to anticipate the
wish of the reader, by giving a brief description of those rooms of Mr
Townlye’s house, in which that gentleman’s liberality employed me when a boy,
with many other students in the Royal Academy, to make drawings for his
portfolios.3 Townley’s surviving drawings, housed, along with his sculp- ture
collection, in the British Museum, testify to the range of artists he employed
and demonstrate the popularity of Park Street as a venue for artists both to
meet and to draw. Records show that William Chambers – not to be confused with
the architect of the same name – was one of the draughtsmen employed by Townley
to prepare drawings for his ‘portfo- lios’. A payment of £5.5.0 to Chambers is
recorded on 21 October 1795 for the pendant to this drawing, a view of sculp-
ture in the hall at 7 Park Street, also in the British Museum.4 Townley’s diary
records the comings and goings of painters, particularly his friend, Johann
Zoffany (1733–1810) who painted the iconic, largely imaginary view of Townley’s
library filled with his sculpture collection and with the owner in conversation
with his unofficial curator, the Baron d’Hancarville, and two other friends
(fig. 1).5 204 205 The dining room was one of the principal public
spaces of the house and contained some of the largest sculptures in the
collection. These included the Townley Venus, the Discobolus (fig. 2), the
Townley Caryatid, the Townley Vase, and the Drunken Faun, which Chambers places
in the foreground. The modish decoration reflected both advanced neo-classical
thinking and Townley’s own passions; the walls were articulated by simulated
porphyry columns surmounted by capitals whose design came from Terracina; as
d’Hancarville explained: ‘the ove is covered with three masks representing the
three kinds of ancient drama, the comic, tragic and satyric the
choice and disposition of these ornaments leave no doubt that this capital was
intended to characterise a building con- secrated to Bacchus and Ceres’.6
Visitors are shown admiring the collection while a woman seated in the
foreground is drawing from the Drunken Faun. A drawing attributed to Chambers
of the same sculpture, taken from the same angle, made for Townely’s
portfolios, is also in the British Museum (fig. 3). Townley’s wide circle of
acquaintances included a number of amateur and professional female artists,
includ- ing Maria Cosway (1760–1838), whom Townley first met in Florence in 1774.
His interest in encouraging young artists led to the publication by Conrad Metz
of a drawing manual based on studies of the sculpture in Park Street: Studies
for Drawing, chiefly from the Antique. 30 plates (1785). Townley’s support of
artists resulted in his taking an active role in the Royal Academy of Arts from
its foundation. He donated casts of his own sculpture and solicited dona- tions
from friends. The Academy’s Council Minutes record his first donation in August
1769 of a ‘cast of the Lacedemonian Boy’ the so-called Knucklebone Players
which appears in Edward Burney’s view of the RA’s Antique Academy on the far
left, behind the Cincinnatus (cat. 25).7 One of the artists who appears
regularly in Townley’s diary was the sculptor Nollekens who is recorded
donating to the Academy a ‘cast in plaister of the head of Diomede’ belonging
to Townley in 1792.8 Townley also donated casts of sculptures in other
collections, among them, in 1794 one ‘of the celebrated Bas relief in the
Capitol, of Perseus et Andromeda’, a cast still in the collection of the
Academy.9 Townley’s solicitude for the Royal Academy and the educa- tion of
young artists continued throughout his life; in 1797 the painter and diarist
Joseph Farington noted: ‘Townley thinks the Academy should have additional
rooms for Statues &c’.10 29. Joseph Michael Gandy (London 1771–1843
Plympton) View of the Dome Area by Lamplight looking South-East 1811 Pen and
black ink, watercolour, 1190 × 880 mm selected literature: Lukacher 2006, 132–33,
fig.150 exhibitions: London 1999a, 160, no. 68 (H. Dorey); Munich 2013–14, 43;
London 2014, (unpaginated). Sir John Soane’s Museum, London, For Townley see
particularly Coltman 2009. Dallaway 1816, 319, 328. Smith 1829, 1, 251. In
February that year he had also paid Chambers £2.2.0. for some unspeci- fied
drawings, and in August £1.1.0. for ‘drawing gems’: see London 2000, 229.
Townley’s diary records Chambers returned in May 1798 when he began to make a
record of an altar of Lucius Verus Helius which Townley had recently acquired
from the Duke of St Albans; he finished the study on Sunday 7 July: London,
British Museum, Townley Archive, TY/1/10. For William Chambers’ pendant to this
drawing see London 2001, 42, no. 71 (with previous bibliography). Webster.
London and Rome 1996–97, 258–60. London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/1, Council
minutes, 1, 38, 9 Aug. 1769. It arrived with a cast of a Venus donated by
Townley’s principal antiquities dealer in Rome, Thomas Jenkins. The original
Knucklebone Players is in the British Museum, Department of Greek et Roman
Antiquities, inv. 1805,0703.7. London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/2, Council
minutes, 2, 173–4, 3 Nov. 1792. The original marble bust is in the British
Museum, Department of Greek et Roman Antiquities, inv. 1805,0703.86, now called
the Head of a follower of Ulysses. London, Royal Academy of Arts, PC/1/2,
Council minutes, 2, 201, 7 Feb. 1794. The cast is in the Royal Academy, inv.
03/2018. The original is in the Capitoline Museums, Rome, inv. 501: see Helbig
Farington 1978-98, 3, 840. 2. The Townley Discobolus, Roman copy of the 2nd
century ad after a Greek original of the 5th century bc by Myron, marble, 170
cm (h), British Museum, Department of Greek et Roman Antiquities, London, inv.
1805,0703.43 3 Attributed to William Chambers, Drawing of a Statue of an
Intoxicated Satyr, 1794–1805, black chalk and grey wash, 280 × 193 mm, British
Museum, Department of Greek et Roman Antiquities, London, inv. 2010,5006.87 The
Royal Academy School of Architecture was central to the formation of the
professional career and teaching of Sir John Soane (1754–1837), who is chiefly
remembered today as architect to the Bank of England, of Dulwich Picture
Gallery and of his incomparable house-museum at No. 13 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London.
The unique installations of antiquities and casts after the Antique in the
Museum, which he built at the back of the house, and which J. M. Gandy so
atmospherically evokes in this drawing, also attest to the influence of the
Academy on Soane’s pattern of collecting and his own role as a teacher. Soane
entered the Academy in 1771 at the age of eighteen; he was the 141st pupil
since the Academy’s foundation in 1768 and amongst the first students of the
School of Architecture, the earliest institution in Britain to teach
architecture in a formalised way. The School was modelled by Sir William
Chambers (1723–96) on his own experience of studying architecture in
Jean-François Blondel’s École des Arts in Paris, in 1749–50, when the status of
the architect and teaching methods in Britain were then very different from
those in France. The Académie Royale d’Architecture, of which Chambers became a
member in 1762, had been founded in 1671 and was followed, in 1743, by
Blondel’s more progressive École. The École’s curriculum was rigorous; it was
open for study from Monday to Saturday and from eight in the morning until nine
in the evening. The students’ day began with formal discussion of various
topics, followed by lectures on set matters relating to drawing such as mathe-
matics, geometry, perspective, or to building types such as military
architecture, or to practical issues such as drainage and water supply. In the
spring, students would undertake site visits to notable buildings in Paris and
its environs.1 In Britain, by contrast, the professional status of architect
was ill-defined, and was not always distinguished from that of the builder or
mason. The ambiguous status of architecture was not entirely clarified by the
time Soane entered the architecture school. It was the smallest of the
departments at the Royal Academy and Soane was one of only nine pupils admitted
in 1771. And although inspired by Blondel’s École, the programme of the
architecture school was nothing like so rigourous. Students of architecture
were required to attend only six lectures per year.2 The reason for this very
limited formal teaching was that most students were attached to a professional
archi- tect’s office during the day; when Soane enrolled at the Royal Academy
he was working for George Dance the Younger (1741–1825).3 Nor were the teaching
collections available to students at all extensive. The collections of plaster
casts after the Antique (and antiquities) were dominated by the requirements of
painters and sculptors; in the 1810 inventory of 385 casts, only nineteen can
be identified as being architec- tural.4 It is against this backdrop that we
must understand Soane’s own founding of an ‘academy of architecture’ in his
house-museum. The history of Soane’s collections of casts and the manner in
which they were installed, deinstalled and reinstalled over a period of time
and over three different properties belonging to Soane (two at Lincoln’s Inn
Fields and one in Ealing, London) is not straightforward. From the 1790s, Soane
started collecting and displaying casts for the use of the young pupils and
assistants working in his first office in No. 12 Lincoln’s Inn Fields.5
However, as his collection grew and as his career as an architect developed,
the function of the collection of antiquities and of casts after the Antique
changed. Gandy’s drawing shows the Dome Area of Soane’s Museum as it appeared
in 1811 (a year after the 1810 Royal Academy inventory of casts was com-
piled).6 In this view, atmospherically lit from below by an undisclosed light
source, we can readily identify a number of casts of antique sculpture and of
architectural fragments. The largest casts are the Corinthian capital shown on
the south wall, and a fragment of entablature, shown on the east wall, both
taken from the Temple of Castor and Pollux in Rome, which Soane had purchased
in 1801 from the sale of the architect Willey ‘the Athenian’ Reveley.7 Below
the capital, and forming part of the parapet of the Dome we see a cast of one
of the panels, decorated with a festoon, from the portico of the Pantheon,
purchased from the sale of the architect James Playfair.8 Sculpture is also
represented in the casts, and a number of well-known antiquities can be
206 207 described. Just visible through the arch in the lower
right- hand corner, is an arrangement of four casts taken from the base of one
of the so-called Barberini Candelabra, among the most prized antiquities in the
Museo Pio-Clementino, Rome, which shows the gods Minerva, Jupiter (twice), and
Mercury in low relief.9 On the east wall, below the entablature of the Temple
of Castor and Pollux, is a cast of a relief of two of the ‘Corybantes’, taken
from the marble original in the Vatican Museums and also purchased from the
Playfair sale.10 Although Soane would rearrange these casts and antiquities as
his ‘Museum’ expanded, most are still to be found at No. 13 Lincoln’s Inn
Fields and the general impression of a dense, ‘romantic’ arrangement remains.
If, originally, Soane’s collection of casts and antiquities was intended to
provide exemplars for the architects training and working in his office, by the
time Gandy drew the arrangements as they appeared in 1811 a shift in their
purpose had occurred. In 1806, Soane became Professor of Architecture at the
Royal Academy and, as a former student, he was well aware of the relatively
meagre resources allocated to the School. He comments on this in his 6th
lecture, given to his students at the RA.11 The arrangement of casts shown by
Gandy was installed between 1806 and 1809, when Soane was preparing his Royal
Academy lectures, of which he gave the first in 1809.12 It has been argued that
they are a three-dimensional analogue of the lectures and their drawn
illustrations.13 Indeed, Soane saw the casts as being central to his teaching:
... I propose in future that the various drawings and models, shall, on the day
before, and if necessary, the day after the public reading of each lecture, be
open at my house for the inspection of the students in architecture, where at
the same time, they will likewise have an oppor- tunity of consulting the
plaster casts and architectural fragments.14 Shortly after Gandy completed this
view of the Dome Area, the European Magazine and London Review described
Soane’s house-museum as an ‘... Academy of Architecture’.15 At the same time as
he was responding to the lack of architectural casts and fragments in the
collections of the Royal Academy, Soane’s ‘academy’ should also be seen as
Soane’s reflection on the ways in which he himself had come to experience Roman
architecture. Unlike the Royal Academy lectures, which Soane arranged
programmatically, the ‘Piranesian’ displays of antiquities, casts and
architectural 16 to recreate the experience of visiting Rome and to recall the
excitement of viewing there the disorganised remains of antiquity.17 However,
another reason why Soane rejected a rational academic approach to the
arrangements of antiquities in his house-museum might lie in the way that Soane
used the collections to form his own identity as an architect. In our drawing
Gandy includes a portrait of Soane who is illuminated from the same undisclosed
light source as his casts, gesturing in, by 1811, the slightly archaic manner
of an interlocutor. He is at once teacher, architect and collector.18 The arrangements
of casts and antiquities are not just for the use of his students and pupils
but also, as he put it, ‘... studies for my own mind’.19 They reflect one
individual’s view of art and architecture through the idiosyncratic
juxtapositions that he created. However, there is yet another level of
self-identification in Soane’s collection and display of antiquities and
architec- tural fragments. In Gandy’s drawing, far above Soane on a shelf, can
be seen a row of Roman antique cineraria and cinerary vases. That at the far
left, decorated with Ammon masks, came from the ‘Museum’ of the great Italian
architect and etcher, Piranesi, as did the cinerary vase decorated with
griffins seen on top of the cinerarium in the middle, and the cinerarium
decorated with genii on the far right. Though it is not seen in this view, in
1811, a full-size cast of the Apollo Belvedere would join the collections of
the ‘academy’. Dating to 1717, it had formerly been owned by Lord Burlington
and displayed in his villa at Chiswick. In 1818, further antiquities – this
time from the sale of the effects of Robert and James Adam – would enhance the
installations. The names of these prominent antiquaries and architects are
significant: they create an intellectual genealogy for Soane, who was born the
son of a bricklayer. Sir John Soane’s Museum is a very rare survival of an
early 19th-century private ‘academy’ in which his collections of casts and of
antiquities can be experienced much in the same manner as his own pupils and
his Royal Academy students experienced them. It also demonstrates how Soane
drew upon the Antique to create his intellectual persona. fragments are
set out idiosyncratically and imaginatively. Why did Soane reject a more
conventional arrangement of casts and antiquities in his ‘academy’? Perhaps he
wished 208 1 2 3 4 j k-b See Bingham 1993, p.5. ‘In regard to the students in
architecture, it is exacted from them only that they attend the library and
lectures, more particularly those on Architecture and Perspective...’.
Reprinted, La Ruffinière du Prey 1977, 47. Soane subsequently entered the
office of Henry Holland in 1772. Bingham 1993, 7. The lack of collections of
casts or of architectural fragments in public collections in Britain, until Sir
John Soane formed his collection, was also commented upon by John Britton in
the preface to his 1827 ‘guide’ to Soane’s house-museum, Britton 1827, p.viii.
209 5 Soane had originally started collecting and displaying casts for
the use of the architects working in his first office in No.12 Lincoln’s Inn
Fields in the 1790s. He also hoped to inspire his eldest son – John Soane
Junior – to become an architect and arranged antiquities and casts at his
country villa, Pitzhanger Manor in Ealing, acquired in 1800 and rebuilt by
Soane, to act as an ‘academy’ for John. For a full description of Soane’s
acquisition and installation of casts in his house-museum and his use of them
see: Dorey 2010. 6 This part of the house was in fact behind No. 13 Lincoln’s
Inn Fields. 7 Reveley had collected these casts in Italy and Soane purchased
every cast from this sale. Dorey 2010, 600. 8 Dorey 2010, p.600. 9 These were
found in the remains of Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli in 1730 and were heavily
restored by Bartolomeo Cavaceppi. The British antiquary Thomas Jenkins acted as
agent for the Pope when negotiating their acquisition. 10 This had been found
in 1788 near Palestrina. The subject of the relief is also sometimes identified
as the Pyrrhic Dance. 11 ‘...I have often lamented that in the Royal Academy
the students in architecture have only a few imperfect casts from ancient
remains, and a very limited collection of works on architecture to refer to.’
Reprinted in Watkin 1996, 579. 12 As Soane explained in his 6th Royal Academy
lecture: ‘On my appoint- ment to the Professorship I began to arrange the
books, casts, and models, 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 in order that the students might
have the benefit of easy access to them. Reprinted in Watkin. See: Dorey 2010, 606.
Watkin 1996, p.579. Observations 1812, 382. In fact, Soane does seem to have
entertained the idea of creating a more ‘rational’ Museum where casts,
antiquities and fragments would be arranged according to academic taxonomies. A
drawing by George Bailey, also dating to 1811 and showing the Dome Area (SM
14/6/3), includes a plan relating to a scheme of c. 1809–11 whereby both Nos 12
and 13 Lincoln’s Inn Fields would be used by Soane. In this proposed scheme,
the whole of No. 13 would become the Museum with the collections displayed
according to type. As Soane explained in a rejected draft of his sixth Royal
Academy lecture, No. 13 would incorporate: ‘... a gallery exceeding one hundred
feet in length for the reception of architectural drawings and prints, another
room of the same extent over it, to receive models and parts of buildings
ancient and modern’. Reprinted in Watkin 1996, 356. Soane even used plain
yellow glass in the skylights that illuminated the Dome Area, perhaps to evoke
the light of the Mediterranean world rather than that of London. Soane explores
the use of architecture as a type of ‘self-portrait’ in notes he made when
preparing his Royal Academy lectures. See: Soane. J., Extracts, Hints, Etc. for
Lectures, 1813–18, SM Soane Case 170, f.135. Soane, Gijsbertus Johannus Van den
Berg (Rotterdam 1769–1817 Rotterdam) The Drawing Lesson c. 1790s Black and red
chalk, 483 × 375 mm. Framing lines in black chalk. Signed recto l.r. in black
chalk: GVD Berg. fecit provenance: Paris, Drouot, 26 March 1924, part of lot
55, La Leçon de Dessin (sold as a pair with another drawing, La Marchande de
frivolités); Private collection, France; Private collection, England; Florian
Härb, London, from whom acquired. literature:None. exhibitions: Not previously
exhibited. Katrin Bellinger collection, inv. no. 2011-013 Born in Rotterdam,
Van den Berg was a pupil of Johannes Zaccarias Simon Prey (1749–1822), a
leading portrait and decorative painter in that city.1 In the 1780s, he studied
for three years in Antwerp where he received special recogni- tion for his drawings
after live models and casts; he also resided for a time in Düsseldorf and
Mannheim.2 In 1790, he returned to Rotterdam where he established himself as a
portrait painter and miniaturist. The same year he was appointed ‘Corrector’, a
judge and arranger of poses for live models, of the Rotterdam Drawings Society,
whose motto was Hierdoor tot Hooger (‘From Hereby to Higher’).3 For the
remainder of his career, he devoted himself to teaching. His pupils included
his son, Jacobus-Everardus-Josephus (1802–61), who also became a professional
painter and from 1844, director of the Teeken-Akademie in the Hague.4 One of
Van den Berg’s biographers makes special mention of the finished portrait
studies in black and red chalk that he made after his return to Rotterdam; the
present drawing is certainly one of them.5 Berg preferred studying female
models, usually posing two together: here, two elegantly dressed women in a
panelled interior focus their attention on an idealised head, probably a
variant of the head of an antique Venus.6 The seated draughtswoman holds up her
chalk-filled porte-crayon above an angled drawing-board, intently appraising
her subject. She engages with it much in the same way as Hubert Robert did some
thirty years earlier in his self-portrait with the Faustina bust (cat. 17). The
second woman appears to be commenting on the work in progress. A portfolio
leans against a table leg on the floor below. Comparably attired women –
possibly the same ones – are shown reading a letter in a sheet by Van den Berg
in a private collection.7 The present composition is similar in style and
format to several other chalk studies by the artist of the 1790s. It is
especially close to his drawing of a female artist seated at a table in the
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (fig. 1). But instead of holding a porte-crayon, this
young woman operates a zograscope, an optical device invented in the mid-18th
century that included a magnifying lens to enhance an image’s depth and relief;
the subject of her scrutiny remains out of view.8 Another comparable drawing,
signed and dated 1791 (Royal Collection, Windsor Castle; 2), shows an elderly
man, perhaps a drawing instructor, inspecting a portrait study from a
portfolio.9 He is seated at a table which is nearly identical to that in the
Bellinger example, but Berg shows him in a less formal attitude, holding a long
clay pipe and resting his feet on a portable stove, in a manner reminis- cent
of Dutch 17th-century genre subjects. This drawing, plus a number of other
figure drawings by Van den Berg preserved at Windsor, were probably obtained as
a group by 1. Gijsbertus Johannus Van den Berg, Study of a Woman Seated at a
Table, with an Optical Mirror, black and red chalk, 396 × 303 mm, Rijksmuseum,
Amsterdam RP-T-1997-10 210 211 2. Gijsbertus Johannus Van den Berg, A
Connoisseur Examining Drawings, 1791, black and red chalk, 407 × 284 mm, Royal
Collection, RL 12865 King George III around 1810.10 Most are probably studies
after live models set in poses determined in advance in classes at the
Rotterdam Drawings Society.11 Draped plaster casts were used when models were
unavailable.12 As with the Bellinger drawing, their style, with their sensitive
employment of black chalk and red accents for the skin, is strongly reminiscent
of portrait drawings by the English artist Richard Cosway (1742–1821) and no
doubt register the prevailing taste for English art in Rotterdam at the time.13
It is possible that Van den Berg intended his figure studies to be engraved,
perhaps for a series on the art of drawing.14 Women artists did not begin to
acquire the same privileges and educational advantages as men until the end of
the 19th century; as a general rule they were denied membership of academies
and were not permitted to draw after nude or anatomical models.15 They were
largely confined to producing art in private studios and especially in
aristocratic houses, where drawing tutors were sometimes hired to supplement
the education of young women.16 For the most part, they were restricted to
producing non-histor- ical, non-mythological and non-biblical subjects, such as
portraits and still-lifes, as their exclusion from study of the live model and
anatomy was thought to – and generally did 3. Georg Melchior Kraus, Corona
Schröter Drawing a Cast of the ‘Eros of Centocelle’, 1785, watercolour, 380 ×
315 mm, Klassik Stiftung Weimar, KHz/01632 – prevent them from acquiring full
mastery of the human form.17 Instead, they studied sculptural models and espe-
cially antique casts, often ones deemed thematically appro- priate for their
gender, such as the ideal head featured in the Van den Berg drawing catalogued
here. A comparable situa- tion is depicted in a watercolour close in date by
Georg Melchior Kraus (1737–1806), then director of the Weimar drawing school,
in which a beautiful and smartly dressed young lady, Corona Schröter, draws
after a cast of the girlish son of Venus, the Eros of Centocelle (1785; Klassik
Stiftung Weimar; 3), a statue known through Roman copies – namely, the example
discovered by Gavin Hamilton in 1772 in the outskirts of Rome and now in the
Vatican – after a lost bronze original by Praxiteles.18 The tradition of women
drawing from antique plaster casts in Holland, which began in the 17th
century,19 was well advanced by the first quarter of the 18th century,
evidenced in Pieter Van der Werff’s portrayal of a girl draw- ing after the
Venus de’ Medici (1715; Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam; 40, 53). Van den Berg’s
drawing, and others like it, confirm that the practice developed further during
the latter part of the century, and became still more widespread in the 19th.
The importance of plaster casts in artistic training in 212 213 Holland
at this time is indicated by the activities of the Rotterdam Drawing School,
but also by Van den Berg’s own self-portrait of 1794, where a reduced model of
the Dying Gladiator and others are given prominence of place on the shelf
directly behind the artist (Museum Rotterdam).20 avl 1 For his life and work,
see Van der Aa 1852–78, 2, 368–69; Thieme- Becker 1907–50, 3, 387; Scheen Van der Aa 1852–78, 2, 368–69. 3 Ibid., 2, 369;
For the society and his involvement therein, see Amsterdam 1994, 2–3
[unpaginated]. 4 Ibid. 5 Ibid.; Amsterdam 1994, 3 [unpaginated]. 6 Amsterdam
1994, 3 [unpaginated]; Berg also oversaw private classes where students drew
after nude female models. 7 Ibid., 3–4 [unpaginated], no. 9. 8 Bulletin van het
Rijksmuseum, 45, no. 3, 1997, 239, fig. 9. For an in-depth study of this
device, known in the 18th century as an ‘optical machine’, see Koenderink 2013,
192–206. 9 Puyvelde 1944, 20, no. 81, pl. 142; Amsterdam 1994, 2 [unpaginated].
10 Puyvelde 1944, 20–21, 75–83. See also on-line collections database:
http://www.royalcollection.org.uk 11 For the society’s use of posed models, see
Amsterdam 1994, 2 [unpagi- nated]. 12 On the role of casts, see Amsterdam 1994,
2 [unpaginated]. An intrigu- ing view of the society’s drawing room, on the
upper floor of the Delftse Poort in Rotterdam, was published in Plomp 1982, 11–12
(drawn by an anonymous artist, 1780, whereabouts unknown). Casts of the
Laocoön, the Apollo Belvedere, and L’Ecorché (Figure of a Flayed Man), 1767 by
Jean-Antoine Houdon (1741–1828) are clearly visible. For the latter, see
Washington D.C., Los Angeles and elsewhere 2003–04, 62–66, no. 1 (Poulet). It
has also been suggested that the finished quality of Van den Berg’s drawings
are reminiscent of engravings by George Morland (Amsterdam 1994, 3
[unpaginated]; Bulletin van het Rijksmuseum, 45, no. 3, 1997, 239). As proposed
by Florian Härb, unpublished fact sheet on the Bellinger drawing, c. 2011. For
essential reading on the subject of women artists from the Renaissance to the
mid-20th century, see Los Angeles, Austin and elsewhere 1976–77 and especially the
authors’ introductory essay, 12–67. See also Goldstein 1996, 61–66. A very
small number of women artists managed to get elected to the French academy
including Adélaïd Labille-Guiard (1749– 1803) and Elisabeth Vigée Lebrun
(1755–1842) in 1783. But from 1663 to the dissolution of the Academy in 1793,
only fourteen in total were accepted (Montfort 2005, 3, 16, note 8). The French
Salon in Paris was not open to non-Academy members until 1791, when women were
permitted to exhibit their work. Goldstein 1996, 62–64. See Los Angeles, Austin
and elsewhere 1976–77, especially 13–58; Goldstein 1996, 62–63. Söderlind 1999,
23. For the statue, see Spinola 1996–2004, 2, 61, fig. 11, 63, no. 85; Piva
2007, 48–49, fig. 7. See for example, A Young Woman Seated Drawing, 1655–60, by
Gabriel Metsu (1629–67) in the National Gallery, London (NG 5225; Waiboer 2012,
205–06, A-62) and A Lady Drawing, c. 1665, by Eglon van der Neer (1635/36–
1703) in the Wallace Collection, London (inv. no. P243; Schavemaker 2010, 462,
no. 29). Dordrecht 2012–13, no. 64A (F. Meijer). 31. Wybrand Hendriks
(Amsterdam 1744–1831 Haarlem) The Haarlem Drawing College 1799 Oil on canvas,
63 × 81 cm Signed and dated lower left: ‘W. Hendriks Pinxit 1799’ provenance:
Wybrand Hendriks (1744–1831); his sale, R.W.P. de Vries et C.F. Roos, Amsterdam,
27–29 February 1832, lot 30; private collection, Paris; Adolph Staring
(1890–1980), Vorden; given to the Teylers Museum in 1987 by Mrs. J.H.M.
Staring-de Mol van Otterloo. literature: Knoef 1938, repr.; Knoef 1947a, 11–13;
Staring 1956, 174, fig. LIV; Van Regteren Altena 1970, 312, 316; Praz 1971, 37;
Van Tuyll 1988, 17–18, fig. 21; Haarlem 1990, 35–36. exhibitions: Rotterdam
1946, 8, no. 13; London 1947, 4, no. 2; Amsterdam 1947–48, 8, no. 10; Haarlem
1972, 25–26, no. 29, fig. 44; Munich and Haarlem 1986, 96–97, no. 13. 214 215
Teylers Museum, Haarlem, KS 1987 002 exhibited in haarlem only In this painting
we have been admitted to a gathering at the Haarlem Drawing College. In the
18th and early 19th century every self-respecting Dutch town had its own drawing
‘college’ or ‘academy’. It was where artists and wealthy amateurs met, drew
together from the nude or draped model, and where they looked at drawings
together during so-called art viewings or ‘kunstbeschouwingen’. In 1799, the
year this picture was painted, the Haarlem Drawing College had twenty-six
working (as opposed to honorary) members, and this is very probably a group
portrait of them and their committee (leaving aside the boy playing marbles on
the left, who may be the son of one of the members). The setting is a house
that the Haarlem artists rented in Klein Heiligland. The question that
immediately arises is: ‘who’s who?’ Although the label listing the sitters that
was still with the painting at the sale of Hendriks’s estate in 1832 is no
longer preserved, many of the figures can nevertheless be identified with a
fair degree of certainty. The two in the middle are very probably the
secretary, Jan Willem Berg who gestures to the viewer’s left, and the balding
treasurer, Pieter S. Crommelin. On the far right, beneath the bas-relief on the
wall, is Hendriks himself.1 The man in the left background, pointing at one of
the plaster casts on the mantelpiece, has been recognised as Adriaan van der
Willigen (1766–1841), author and art historian avant la lettre.2 Prominently
displayed against the chimneybreast are various plaster casts. The large head
of the famous Apollo Belvedere in the middle is the most eye-catching (see 26,
fig. 18). To the right of it is the classical Callipygian Venus and to the
left, the crouching Nymph Washing Her Foot after Adriaen de Vries (1556–1626).3
Of the two male casts seen frontally, that on the right is after the classical
Farnese Hercules (see 30, fig. 32), while that on the left is probably after a
Mercury by François Duquesnoy (1597–1643).4 Hanging on the wall above
Hendriks’s head is Vulcan’s Forge, also after Adriaen de Vries, and in the
corner on the left is the life-sized cast of another classical statue: the
Venus de’ Medici (see 42, 56).5 The casts displayed, therefore, reproduce as a
whole or in part, statues from classical antiquity and from 16th- and
17th-century Netherlandish sculpture, which in turn reference the Antique. The
casts depicted belonged to the Haarlem Drawing Academy, the forerunner of the
College. Hendriks had bought them and the rest of the inventory in 1795 to help
pay off the academy’s debts, and he donated everything to the Drawing College
when it was founded the following year. The prime mover behind the gift was
probably the Teylers Foundation, a Haarlem body that had been set up in 1778 to
stimulate the arts and sciences. The foundation subsidised art education in
Haarlem for decades, and Hendriks was the curator of its art collection, which
was housed in the Teylers Museum.6 The fact that these plaster casts were
transferred immediately to the Drawing College indicates how impor- tant they
were for a society that promoted drawing, and this is confirmed by the
prominence they are accorded in this group portrait. On the other hand, it
should be appreciated that the supremacy of classical art and the rules of
classicism, which in fact had never been applied very strictly in the Dutch
Republic, were no longer so sacred in the Netherlands by 1800. Members of some
drawing academies often argued that genres like landscape and scenes from
everyday life in which nature was imitated literally and not idealised, should
be valued as highly as history paintings, which were generally inspired by
classical or neo-classical principles. The idea that Adriaan van der Willigen
is the man point- ing at the casts is intriguing. He was a learned amateur and
the best-versed person in the gathering when it came to the history of the
arts. He was very well aware how much they owed to the example of ancient Greece
and Rome. A few years after this painting was executed he wrote an essay
in the Verhandelingen uitgegeven door Teyler’s Tweede Genootschap (Discourses
published by Teylers Second Society) discussing ‘the cause of the lack of
superior history painters in the Netherlands, and the means suitable for their
training’. He praised his countrymen for their colouring, chiaroscuro, fidelity
to nature and brushwork, yet accused them of impre- cise drawing, inelegant
compositions and bad taste. What, Van der Willigen asked, could be done to
overcome these defects? To draw from the ‘purest casts in plaster of the finest
classical statues, busts and bas-reliefs’! And he then gave a list of the
well-known canon of classical sculpture, which included the Apollo Belvedere,
the Laocoön, the Venus de’ Medici and the Belvedere Torso.7 In short, he was
utterly convinced of the importance of classical sculpture and its formative
nature. For him, it was clearly still of paramount importance. mp 1 2 3 4 5 6 7
For the various identifications see Haarlem 1972, 25 and Haarlem 1990, 35–36.
The Van der Willigen identification was made by A. Staring and has been adopted by other authors (see
above, note 1). According to Staring, some of the portraits were added later,
when the composition had already been determined, including that of Van der
Willigen, who was not yet living in Haarlem in 1799. Van der Willigen is best
known today for writing a comprehensive collection of biographies of artists
living in the Netherlands from 1750 onwards, together with Roeland van Eynden:
Van Eynden and Van der Willigen 1816–40. For the Callipygian Venus see Haskell
and Penny 1981, 316–18, no. 83; Gasparri 2009–10, 1, 73–76, no. 31 and repr. on
267–69. For the Nymph Washing Her Foot after Adriaen de Vries: Amsterdam,
Stockholm and elsewhere 1998, 131–33, no. 10. For Duquesnoy’s Mercury, of which
there are several versions, some of them slightly different, see Boudon-Mauchel
2005, 264–70. For the Farnese Hercules see Haskell and Penny 1981, 229–32, no.
46; Gasparri. For the Venus de’ Medici see Haskell and Penny 1981, 325–28, no.
88, and for De Vries’ Vulcan’s Forge see Amsterdam, Stockholm and elsewhere
1998, 187–89, no. 27. The plaster casts stood in the top front room of the
house in Klein Heiligland. For a description of the house and of Hendriks’
involvement with the casts, see Sliggers 1990, no. 26, 16–17. Van der Willigen
1809, 282 (colouring etc.), 298 (plaster casts). 216 217 32.
Woutherus Mol (Haarlem 1785–1857 Haarlem) The Young Draughtsman c. 1820 Oil on
canvas 52.3 × 42.6 cm provenance: A. Pluym; his sale, R.W.P. de Vries, A.
Brondgeest, C.F. Roos, Amsterdam, 24 November 1846, 7, no. 22; sold to Gerrit
Jan Michaëlis (1775–1856) for the Teylers Foundation (f 400,-) literature: Van
Eynden and Van der Willigen 1816–40, 4, 244; Huebner 1942, 69, 63; Knoef 1947b,
8–10, repr.; Van Holthe tot Echten 1984, 60–63, 4; Jonkman 2010, 35; Geudeker
2010, 60, 78, 74. exhibitions: Amsterdam 1822, no. 222; Moscow and Haarlem
2013–14, 50 (not numbered). Teylers Museum, Haarlem, KS 015 exhibited in
haarlem only A young draughtsman sitting by an open window is engrossed
in his work. He seems to be copying the object leaning against the wall in
front of him, but whether it is a drawing or a bas-relief is not entirely
clear. The tree visible through the window and the building beyond it stand in
a garden or by a narrow canal-side street. The colourful flowers in a vase on
the windowsill bring a touch of that outside world indoors. The leaded windows,
ceiling beams, whitewashed walls and above all the ornately carved cup- board
show that this is an old Dutch interior. Standing on the cupboard are imposing
plaster casts of famous classical statues: the Dancing Faun, the Venus de’
Medici (p. 42, 56) 1. Woutherus Mol, Painter and Draughtsman in a Studio, c.
1820, oil on canvas, 43.5 × 37 cm, present whereabouts unknown and an
unidentified statue of the Apollo Citharoedus type.1 It is difficult to make
out whether the other objects also record classical prototypes: a bas-relief, a
baby’s head, a couching lion and a vase with prominent handles. The interior is
bathed in a serene calm, so much so that the song of the little bird in the
cage high up on the wall is almost audible. One scholar recently put forward a
fascinat- ing argument that the picture is a commentary on the Classicist view
of art.2 If the tree and the bouquet of flowers are interpreted as ‘nature’,
and the plaster casts as ‘classical antiquity’, then the young draughtsman is
occupying a special position, mid-way between them. According to that view of
art, nature had to be idealised with the aid of beautiful examples, and such
examples were available in abundance in classical antiquity. Statues like the
Venus de’ Medici, the Apollo Belvedere and the Dancing Faun had been for
centuries part of the canon of the most treasured sculptures. At the same time,
however, Mol is remaining true to his Dutch origins, for he has very clearly
set The Young Draughtsman in a traditional Dutch interior. A similar painting
by him, Painter and Draughtsman in a Studio (fig. 1), is again set in a typical
17th-century Dutch space, with a wooden cross window, ‘Kussenkast’ cupboard,
and a massive table with ball feet. It too contains a prominent display of
classical sculpture.3 The apprentice draughtsman is copying a plaster cast of
the Dancing Faun, and on the cupboard are casts of the same Apollo Citharoedus
that we see in our picture, a reproduction of the so-called Priestess in the
Capitoline Museum, and another of the Farnese Hercules (see 30, 32 and cat. 7, 3).
Standing beside the cupboard there is even a copy after a classical vase,
probably the famous Borghese Vase.4 Deliberately or not, the combination of
classical art and a 17th-century Dutch setting relates Mol’s two studio scenes
directly to the debate about the ‘national taste’ being con- ducted in the
Netherlands around 1800 and for some decades 218 219 thereafter. It
was felt that Dutch painting was in a deplorable state: essays were written
about how standards could be raised and competitions were held to encourage
improve- ments. Classical sculpture was regularly invoked: it was only logical
that Dutch painters were lagging behind, it was said, given the absence of
classical statues in Holland, and drawing academies should therefore acquire
copies after antique statues (see cat. 31), and so on.5 Reading between the
lines, though, one sees that the same writers were often great admirers of
17th-century Dutch painting. The painters of that Golden Age had paid little
heed to Classicist art theory; they imitated nature and did not idealise it.
Mol’s two studio scenes contain elements that can be associated with both
artistic theories. He was very much at home in both worlds. Born in Haarlem, he
had received an old- fashioned Dutch training with the landscapist Hermanus van
Brussel (1763–1815). In 1806, however, he went to Paris, where he worked for
several years, partly as an élève in the framework of the new arts policy of
King Louis Napoleon of Holland (1778–1846), apprenticed to none other than
Jacques Louis David (1748–1825). In other words, classicist views about art
were well-known to him. 33. Anonymous, Danish School, 19th century Two Artists
and a Guard in the Antique Room at Charlottenborg Palace c. 1835 Oil on canvas,
38.6 × 33.9 cm provenance: Private collection, Denmark; Thomas Le Claire
Kunsthandel, Hamburg with Daxer et Marschall, Munich in 2003 (as Knud
Andreassen Baade), from whom acquired. literature: Zahle 2003, 271, 117 (as
Julius Friedlænder (?)); Copenhagen 2004, 110–11, no. 8, 16 (as unknown
artist); Fuchs and Salling 2004, 3, 194–95, repr. (as unknown artist). 1 2 3 4
5 mp Haskell and Penny 1981, respectively 205–08, no. 34 (Dancing Faun), 325–28,
no. 88 (Venus de’ Medici). T. van Druten, in Moscow and Haarlem 2013–14, 50.
Mak van Waay sale, Amsterdam, 26 May 1964, lot 366. Haskell and Penny 1981, 205–08,
no. 34 (Dancing Faun), 229–32, no. 46 (Farnese Hercules), 314–15, no. 81
(Borghese Vase). For the Priestess in the Capitoline Museum see Stuart Jones
1912, 345, no. 6, pl. 86; Helbig 1963–72, 2, no. 1227. Koolhaas-Grosfeld and De
Vries 1992, 119, 128. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Katrin Bellinger
collection, inv. no. 2003-028 The Antique Room of the Copenhagen Academy of
Fine Arts, housed in Charlottenborg Palace, was a popular choice of subject for
19th-century Scandinavian art students, such as H. D. C. Martens (1795–1864),
Martinus Rørbye (1803–48) and Christian Købke (1810–48). The Academy was
founded in 1754 by King Frederik V, but an informal art school had been
established in 1740 by his predecessor, Christian VI, so that there was already
a small collection of casts for the students to study, including one of the
Laocöon, but with the older son missing.1 The Academy’s programme was modelled
on those of others across Europe, especially that in Paris, in which plaster
copies after antique models served as the basis for the instruction of artists;
in some cases casts were even valued above the originals because they made details
more readily accessible to copyists. The expansion of the collection was
primarily due to the efforts of three mem- bers of the Academy: a professor of
sculpture, Christoph Petzholdt (1708–62), who contributed twenty-five casts and
restored many others that had suffered from being moved too often;2 the
sculptor and Academy Fellow Johannes Wiedewelt (1731–1802), who in 1758 sent
three large chests of casts back to Denmark from Rome;3 and the painter and
sculptor Nicolai Abildgaard (1743–1809), who was appointed Director in 1789 and
purchased several casts, including Germanicus and the Belvedere Torso, and the
missing son of the Laocoön.4 The cast collection focused mainly on Roman
copies, and it was not until the first decades of the 19th century that casts
of Greek originals were added.5 This was characteristic of academies across
Europe, which began to recognise the value of the Greek originals over their
Roman derivations, thus diverging from Italian academic tradition. In the
painting on display, an artist in his work-robe holds up a plumb-line to check
the vertical axis of the cast that he is sketching. He draws his copy on a
sheet attached to a drawing-board that rests on his lap, and his portfolio
crammed with other drawings leans against a stool in front of him, along with
his discarded top hat and cravat. A fellow artist considers his handiwork, but
they are about to be interrupted by a museum guard bearing a scroll. When it
was acquired in 2003, this canvas was attributed to the Norwegian artist, Knud Andreassen
Baade (1808–79), whose painting of the same room now belongs to the National
Museum of Art, Architecture and Design in Oslo (fig. 1), and also features a
draughtsman at work, holding up a stylus to check the horizontal reference line
of his subject. The depic- tion of the room in the Oslo painting, which is
dated 1828, just precedes its renovation later that year when, under the
direction of the architect Hansen (1756–1845), the walls were plastered smooth,
as seen in the painting on display here.6 A comparison of the two canvases
shows the way the room was modified to accommodate the growing collection, as
casts were shifted around according to aesthetic, thematic or chronological
principles. In the Oslo painting, the Borghese Gladiator (see 41, 54 and cats
16, 23–24) is placed in the extreme left foreground, creating a diagonal
perspective. The same technique is used in the present painting, though it is
now a statue of Perseus that anchors the work, with his outstretched hand
grasping a missing Medusa’s head. The Perseus was created in 1801 by Canova, 1.
Knud Andreassen Baade, Scene from the Academy in Copenhagen, 1828, oil on
canvas, 32.4 × 23.8 cm, The National Museum of Art, Architecture and Design,
Oslo, inv. no. NG.M.01589 220 221 2. Relief of an Eagle with
a Wreath, 2nd century ad, marble, church of Santi Apostoli, Rome who donated a
cast of it to the Academy in 1804, thereby becoming a member. Another modern
sculpture hangs on the upper wall at left, which is a roundel with an allegory
of Justice, in which Nemesis reads a list of the guilty to Jupiter, who sits in
judgment. This was the work of Bertel Thorvaldsen (1770–1844), the leading
sculptor in Europe after Canova’s death, who had been trained in the Academy.7
Also modern is the bust of Frederik V at the end of the room by the sculptor J.
F. J. Saly. The remaining casts in the room are of antique statues and reliefs,
and extant inventory lists attest to the dates of their acquisition.9 The
relief of the eagle in a wreath, after the original in the church of Santi
Apostoli in Rome (fig. 2), is displayed on the wall above a reduced copy of a
frieze, taken from the Parthenon, both of which were transferred to this
southern wall as part of the 1828 reconstruction.10 Facing the viewer and
leaning on a column is a reproduction of the Marble Faun (fig. 3). This was a
relatively overlooked sculp- ture, more valued for its conjectural attribution
to Praxiteles 3. Marble Faun, Roman copy, c. 2nd century ad, after a Greek
original of the 4th century bc, marble, 170.5 cm (h), Capitoline Museums, Rome,
inv. no. S.739 4. Germanicus, Roman, c. 20 ad, after a Greek original of the
5th century bc, marble, 180 cm (h), Louvre, Paris, inv. no. MA1207 than for its
aesthetic significance. It did not achieve world- renown until the publication
of The Marble Faun by Nathaniel Hawthorne in 1860, after which it became one of
the highlights of the Capitoline Museum.11 Behind the Faun stands a cast of
Germanicus (fig. 4), which, in contrast to the Faun, was one of the most
revered antiquities almost from its discovery in the mid-17th century.12 Casts
of it were commissioned for collections across Europe, including Florence,
Mannheim, Madrid and the Duke of Devonshire’s collection at Chatsworth in
Derbyshire. The identity of this figure is uncertain, and it has been thought
by different scholars to represent Augustus, Brutus, Mercury or an anonymous
Roman general; however, its identification as Germanicus, nephew of Tiberius,
has persisted since 1664.13 Between Perseus and the Faun is the seated figure
of Mercury, cast after the bronze original discovered in Herculan- eum in 1758
(fig. 5). It was one of the most celebrated archaeo- logical discoveries of the
18th century, and its presence is critical to the dating of the Bellinger
painting because the cast was only acquired by the Academy in 1834, thus
provid- ing a terminus post quem and supporting for it a date of c. 1835.14
This precludes the authorship of Baade, who left Copenhagen in 1829 and spent
the early 1830s travelling in his native Norway. In 1836 he followed his
mentor, the landscapist J. C. C. Dahl, to Germany, where he lived until his
death in 1879.15 Jan Zahle tentatively proposed that the painter was Julius
Friedlænder (1810–61),16 who is also thought to be the artist of another
painting of the Antique Room in Charlottenborg, dated 1832 (current whereabouts
unknown).17 To commemorate the 250th anniversary of the Seated Mercury,
Roman copy, 1st century ad, after a Greek original of the late 4th century or
early 3rd century bc, bronze, 105 cm (h), Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Naples,
inv. NM 5625 Academy in 2004, the Bellinger painting was presented in the
accompanying exhibition catalogue as by an unknown artist,18 and until further
evidence comes to light, it is prudent to maintain its anonymity. While the
Academy continues to function, the cast collection was relocated and dispersed
several times; first in 1883, due to lack of space, to a new building. The
pieces by Thorvaldsen were transferred to his eponymous museum, founded during
his lifetime in 1839 and opened to the public in 1848. In 1895 the rest of the
collection was absorbed into the newly created Royal Cast Collection, which
shared a building with the newly founded National Gallery of Art, in
Copenhagen.19 These casts were neglected over the subse- quent years, as
interest in plaster copies waned in favour of original and unique works of art.
When the museum under- went renovations from 1966 to 1970, the majority of the
casts were packed away and allowed to deteriorate. Only in 1984, due to the
combined efforts of concerned art historians, classical archaeologists and
artists, were thousands of casts rescued and restorations begun. They were
rehoused in the West India Company Warehouse, 6. Antique Room in Charlottenborg
Palace recreated in 2004, curated by Pontus Kjerrman and Jan Zahle, with
sculptor Bjørn Nørgaard originally a storehouse for products of the slave
trade, and approximately 2,000 casts can be seen on display there. The Faun and
Germanicus both belong to this collection, while Canova’s Perseus was
transferred to the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek. However, in 2004, as part of the
anniversary exhibition, replicas of these casts were reunited in the Antique
Room of the Palace, just as seen in numerous 19th-century paintings, such as
this one. A visitor in 2004, therefore, could stand in the very same spot as
our anony- mous painter, and witness a nearly identical scene (fig.).
literature:None. exhibitions: Not previously exhibited. Katrin Bellinger
collection, inv. no. 1997-020 In this striking candlelight view of a
19th-century bourgeois interior by the little-known artist, Desflaches,1 a man
examines a work of art displayed on an easel but hidden from our view. In one
hand he holds an oil lamp or candle, illuminating the corner of the room in
soft, golden light and casting strong and dramatic shadows. It is exactly
10:30, according to the clock on the mantle, and the visitor, proba- bly a
connoisseur, has called on the artist at home, presum- ably to inspect his
latest work. He has removed his hat and cloak, placed on the chair on the left,
and with a pipe in hand, assumes a relaxed yet concentrated stance. Viewing and
producing art by candlelight is a tradition that hearkens back to the Renaissance
when artist-theorists, Leon Battista Alberti (1404–72), Leonardo da Vinci
(1452– 1519), Benvenuto Cellini (1500–71) and others, advised students to draw
sculpture by artificial light, to enhance the effects of relief,
three-dimensionality and shadow.2 Baccio Bandinelli put this concept into
practice, and drawing by candlelight was central to artistic training at his
academy (see cats 1–2). Others followed suit including Jacopo Tintoretto and
his followers who used an oil lamp when making studies after casts of
Michelangelo’s Medici tomb figures and other models ‘so that he could compose
in a powerful and solidly modelled manner by means of those strong shadows cast
by the lamp’.3 The practice of drawing after models, especially casts, at night
continued in the 17th century, as seen in Rembrandt’s small etching, Man
Drawing from a Cast, (c. 1641).4 Nocturnal viewings became common in the late
18th century; white casts were popularly studied by flickering torchlight
because it made them appear animated.5 Indeed, the spectators’ delight is
clearly evident in William Pether’s mezzotints, Three Persons Viewing the
Gladiator by Candlelight (1769) 6 and An Academy (1772; cat. 24), both after
Joseph Wright of Derby. The female model in the Bellinger painting is a reduced
plaster cast of the Crouching Venus – a Hellenistic original of which several
antique variations are known (fig. 1).7 The figure was enormously popular,
especially in the 17th and 18th centuries when many artists produced imitations
of her, the most celebrated being the marble completed in 1686 by the French
sculptor, Antoine Coysevox (1640–1720), also reproduced in bronze.8 She is
generally believed to represent Venus in, or emerging from, the bath, her head
turned sharply to the right and her arms sensuously and protec- tively crossing
her body, suggesting that her ablutions have been interrupted. In Desflaches’
canvas the Crouching Venus has been brightly lit and given primacy of place,
suggesting she may be the subject of the canvas displayed on the easel; her
animation is enhanced by the direct gaze with which she engages the viewer.
While the cast in our painting probably ultimately derives from the antique
marble in the Uffizi, it seems to have been idealised and modified, to reflect
a dis- tinctively Coysevesque sensibility, evidenced in the refined and
delicate features of her face.9 Other identifiable works in the Desflaches
composition include a second plaster cast – a male portrait bust – partly
visible on the covered table in the background, to the visitor’s right. He
probably derives from the marble head of a young man in the Museo
Pio-Clementino in the Vatican (Roman, 1st 1. Crouching Venus, Roman copy, 1st
c. ad after Hellenistic original, marble, 78 cm (h), Uizi, Florence, inv. no.
188 Zahle 2003, 272. For the history of
the Copenhagen Academy see Meldahl and Johansen 1904. Saabye 1980, 6 and Zahle
2003, 272 Zahle Jørnæs 1970, 52. Zahle 2003, 275. Jørnæs 1970, 58. Helsted
1972, lxxxvi. Copenhagen 2004, 201 (S85). An inventory from 1809 is especially
extensive (Fortegnelse over Marmor-og Gibs-Figurerne, samt Receptions-Stykkerne
og flere Konstsager i Den Kongelige Maler-, Billedhugger- og Bygnings-Academie
paa Charlottenborg, partially transcribed in Zahle 2003, 269) and records were
kept for several years by the art historian Julius Lange (see, for example,
Lange 1866). Copenhagen 2004, 198 (S51) and 199 (S61). Haskell and Penny 1981, 210;
La Rocca and Parisi Presicce 2010, 446–51, no. 5. Haskell and Penny 1981, 219.
Ibid., 220. Copenhagen 2004, 200 (S72). Thieme-Becker 1907–50, 2, 297. Zahle
2003, 271. Copenhagen 2004, 110, no. 7. Ibid., 110, no.
8. Zahle 2003, 278. 34. Desflaches (Christian name unknown; probably
Belgian, fl. 19th century) The Connoisseur c. 1850 Oil on canvas, 60 × 50 cm
Signed recto lower right, Desflaches provenance: Galerie Fischer-Kiener, Paris;
property of a European Foundation; their sale, Sotheby’s, New York, 26 October
1990, lot 144; Didier Aaron Inc., New York; Harry Bailey, New York; Didier
Aaron Inc., New York; Their sale, Christie’s, New York, 22 May 1997, lot 116,
from whom acquired. 224 225 2. Head of Lucius or
Gaius Caesar, or the Young Octavian (Augustus), 52 cm (h), marble, possibly end
of the 1st c. ad or later, Museo Pio-Clementino, Vatican Museums, Rome, inv.
714 3. Godfried Schalcken (1643–1706), An Artist and a Young Woman by
Candlelight, oil on canvas, 44 × 35 cm, private collection, New York
century ad; 2).10 This bust, believed to be either one of the brothers, Lucius
or Gaius Caesar, or a rare depiction of the young Octavian before he became
Emperor Augustus in 27 bc,11 enjoyed considerable popularity and was copied by
many artists, particularly in the 19th century. Its authen- ticity has
occasionally been doubted – at one point it was even attributed to the
neo-classical sculptor, Antonio Canova (1757–1822) – but the confirmation of
its discovery by Robert Fagan in the ruins of Tor Boacciana (Ostia) in 1800–02,
supports its antique origin despite it being consid- erably reworked.12 In addition
to works deriving from antique sources are others that directly reference Dutch
art of the 17th century. Immediately behind the Crouching Venus is what appears
to be a pencil drawing after Rembrandt’s celebrated etching, Self Portrait
Leaning on a Stone Sill (1639).13 It is in the same direction as the etching
though the line is faint and the lower half of the figure, with the
distinctively posed left arm, has been omitted altogether, suggesting the
source was either a later impression of the print or a further, reduced copy of
the original. To the right of the Rembrandt, is a moonlit landscape strongly
reminiscent of the work of Aert van der Neer (1603/4–77). On the opposite wall
is a portrait of a man, possibly by, or at least in the manner of, the portraitist
and genre painter, Frans Hals (1582/83–1666). Partly obscured in shadow below
appears to be a drawing, possibly by Jan van Goyen (1596–1656), or one of his
contemporaries. As the distinctive trappings would suggest, the artist may well
be Dutch, and this is supported further by a com- parison with a painting by
Godfried Schalcken (1643–1706) in a private collection, New York (fig. 3),
which may have been known to Desflaches. A pupil of Gerrit Dou (1613–75),
Schalcken specialised in night scenes; here a man, drawing in hand, presumably
the artist, with his female pupil, points suggestively to a small but lively
model of the Crouching Venus, animatedly illuminated by an oil lamp; clearly
there is more 226 than just a drawing lesson at play here. An antique head lies
dormant, face-up on the table below. By the 19th century, the Antique was
readily available, even to amateur artists, via plaster casts, as Desflaches’
composition suggests. Ancient sculpture could now readily be combined with art
of different types and in diverse settings, both on the continent – seen, for
instance, in the work of Woutherus Mol (cat. 32), which also features Dutch and
antique motifs – and in England (cat. 35). As the canon became more diffuse,
the standing of the Antique also declined, as other styles, historical and
modern, became increasingly more dominant as the century progressed. The
painting bears that name at lower right. In the Christie’s catalogue, New York,
22 May 1997, lot 116, the initial of the first name is given as ‘P’, without
explanation, and the nationality, French/Belgian. A painting attributed to the
artist, Still Life with Brass Oil Lamp, Skeleton Key and Pitcher, oil on
canvas, 33 × 29.2 cm, was sold New Orleans Auction Galleries, 20 July 2002, lot
324 (as Desflaches). Weil-Garris 1981, 246–47, note 39; Roman 1984, 83; Hegener
2008, 401. Ridolfi 1914, 2, 14; Ridolfi 1984, 16. White and Boon 1969, 1, 68,
no. B130, 2, 119, repr. Borbein 2000, 31 (see also note 23 listing further
bibliography on night- time viewing of casts). Clayton 1990, 236, no. 154, P3.
Haskell and Penny 1981, 321–23, no. 86, 171. The authors catalogue the example
in the Uffizi, Florence, but discuss the other extant versions as well. See
Lullie 1954, 10–17 and Havelock 1995, 80–83. Haskell and Penny 1981, 40, 22,
323. The marble version is in the Louvre and the bronze, at Versailles (Souchal
1977–93, 1, 191–92). The cast in the painting bears a striking resemblance to
one preserved in the Salzburg Museum, Austria, another idealisation of the
original in the Uffizi, see http://www.salzburgmuseum.at/972.0.html It was in
the collection of the painter, Anton Raphael Mengs (1728–79). In 1782, the
Court of Saxony acquired it, among other casts from his estate, for the Dresden
Academy of Art. Spinola 1996–2004, 2, 131, 22, 137–38, no. 123 with previous
bibliography. Spinola 1996–2004, 2, 137. Ibid. White and Boon 1969, 1, 9–10,
no. B21, 2, 10, repr. 227 35. William Daniels (Liverpool 1813–1880
Liverpool) Self-Portrait with Casts: The Image Seller c. 1850 Oil on canvas,
feigned circle, 43.3 × 43.3 cm provenance: Richard S. Timewell, Tangier, by
descent; Timewell family sale, Brissonneau et Daguerre, Paris, 15 June 2005,
lot 56; W. M. Brady et Co., New York, 2005, from whom acquired. literature:
Bowyer 2013, 49–50, 36. exhibitions: New York 2005b, no. 13, repr.; Compton
Verney and Norwich 2009–10, 12–16, 9, 98. Katrin Bellinger collection,
inv. no. 2005-016 Born into a modest working-class family in Liverpool, Daniels
was apprenticed to his father, a brick maker, loading and arranging new stock;
in his spare time, he drew faces on the bricks and carved and modelled small
figures in wood and clay.1 His artistic talents were recognised by Alexander
Mosses (1793–1837), a local painter, who encouraged him to take evening classes
in drawing at the Royal Institution in Liverpool. The young Daniels was awarded
first prize for a large study ‘in black and white’ of the Dying Gladiator
‘drawn from the round’ which, allegedly, Mosses ‘begged ... off the lad and had
... framed’.2 Daniels later became apprenticed to the painter but was confined
to menial tasks, and could only paint at night, slyly returning the cleaned
brushes in the morning.3 The resulting night scenes or ‘candlelight pic-
tures’, primarily portraits and genre subjects, would become his trademark and
he achieved considerable local success, exhibiting at the Liverpool Academy,
Post Office Place and the Liverpool Society of Fine Arts, and then in London at
the Royal Academy in 1840, 1841 and 1846.4 He became known as the ‘Liverpool
Rembrandt’ or the ‘English Rembrandt’, according to one source reputedly
quoting John Ruskin.5 Daniels also shared with the Dutch master a life-long
preoccupation with his own image; many of his finest painting were portraits of
himself, as noted in one of his obituaries.6 And like the youthful Rembrandt he
was particularly fond of depicting those on the fringes of society with whom he
seemed to share a certain affinity, often representing himself in the guise of
the urban poor – beggars, gypsies, brigands and others.7 Described by one
biographer as ‘of fine, manly form, very handsome’ with ‘a profusion of jet
black curly hair’ and a swarthy complexion, it was sometimes said of him that
there was ‘gypsy blood in his veins’ and that wear- ing earrings only enhanced
his ‘resemblance to the wander- ing tribe.’8 In the striking example seen here,
Daniels has fashioned himself as an Italian travelling salesman of plaster
casts, a popular subject for Victorian artists.9 With the increasing demand for
images in museums, schools and academies but also as adornments in ordinary
homes, celebrated 228 sculptures from antiquity, together with portraits of
modern worthies, were mass-produced in plaster, generally in reduced form.10
The technique was simple and inexpensive: a mixture of marl and clay was poured
into a slip mould of plaster of Paris that absorbed the water, leaving a thin
layer of clay inside the mould that could be easily removed, lightly fired,
producing a brittle but light-weight and easily portable cast.11 Favourite
antique and contempo- rary subjects – including the Farnese Hercules and the
Apollo Belvedere as well as busts of Byron, Milton, Napoleon and Queen Victoria
– were now displayed and offered for sale together.12 While English firms had
been manufacturing casts since the 18th century, the market became increasingly
dominated by Italian makers, particularly from around Lucca who organised large
groups to sell their wares on the streets of London and beyond.13 Having
considerable reach through their travels, these vendors played a seminal role
in disseminating knowledge of the iconic works of antiquity through all classes
of society.14 The British public regarded the image-makers and sellers, men and
boys from forty to fifteen with curiosity and with some suspicion.15 One of the
earliest images of them is an amusing caricature by Rowlandson in the Victoria
and Albert Museum, London (c. 1799, 1). Appearing dishevelled with unbuttoned
shirt and jacket, the salesman peddles his wares to an enthusiastic family
while a woman watches a peep show in the background. A slightly later example,
accompanied by the title, Very Fine. Very Cheap, was etched by Smith, known as
‘Antiquity Smith’, the writer, poet and Keeper of Prints and Drawings at the
British Museum from 1816 to 1833 (fig.). On the seller’s board, a reduced cast
of the Farnese Hercules (see 30, 32) has been relegated to the background,
obscured by a cast of a Roman vase. With a slightly sinister glint in his eyes,
this figure was included in Smith’s Etchings of Remarkable Beggars, Itinerant
Traders and other Persons, published in London, 1815. William James Muller
(1812–45) produced a more sympathetic, even romantic portrayal of the itinerant
cast seller in 1843 (fig. 3). More closely allied to the Daniels’ 229
Copyright: Christie’s Images Limited (2012) painting than the others, this
hawker is less an object of derision than one of wonder, even admiration.17 In
the present example, Daniels, dressed in modest work- man’s attire and
silhouetted against a dark backdrop, bal- ances on his head a board fully
loaded with a casts of every shape and size, securing it with one hand. Many
were based on examples in his own collection, probably used in his studio to prepare
accessories in his portrait commissions. Immediately recognisable in the centre
right is the bust of Shakespeare, whom Daniels particularly admired. He was
said to have a deep familiarity with the poet’s work and could identify the
exact source for every quotation, ‘without a moment’s hesitation’.18 In fact,
busts of the bard are listed in Daniel’s posthumous sale of 1880, one of which
is likely to be the example seen here.19 With the other arm, he cradles a bust
of Homer, the blind epic poet of the Iliad and the Odyssey, another favourite
of Daniel’s as noted by his biographer.20 The source for this cast was a Roman
marble of the Antonine period (138-93 ad, after a lost Hellenistic original of
c. 300 bc), probably the version preserved in the Museo Archeo- logico
Nazionale di Napoli (fig. 4).21 Known in several variants after the same lost
Greek original, this is arguably the most celebrated image of Homer from
antiquity and was used by many artists; arguably the most famous example is
Rembrandt’s Aristotle with a Bust of Homer which passed through various English
private collections in the 19th century (now Metropolitan Museum of Art, New
York), and 230 which Daniels was probably referencing, reinforcing his
association with both poet and artist.22 The other casts on the tray in the
painting appear to reproduce a mixture of English and French works of the mid-
to late 18th and 19th century. They include the brightly coloured parrot,
probably based on a Staffordshire porcelain example, c. 1850, after a Meissen
original of the 18th century, and the hooded figure on the front left, possibly
an adapta- tion of ‘La Nourrice’ (Nurse and Child) modelled by Joseph Willems
at Chelsea (c. 1752–58), after a French terracotta original of the 17th
century.23 Popular images of the three 4. Bust of Homer, marble, 72 cm (h),
Roman Antonine period after a lost Hellenistic original of c. 300 bc, Museo
Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, inv. 6023 theological virtues, Faith, Hope
and Charity, made by the Wood family at Burslem in Staffordshire, 1800–10,
appear to be the inspiration behind some of the other figures on the tray: Hope
at the far right, seen in profile with hands clasped; Faith, directly behind
the parrot; and Charity, seen from the back, behind the Nurse and Child.24 It
has also been suggested that the bust of a boy seen from the back, directly
above Daniels’ right hand, might be Alexandre Brongniart by Houdon, known in
examples in marble, terracotta, bronze, plaster and biscuit porcelain.25
Daniels appears to be between thirty-five and forty years old in this painting,
slightly older than his self-portrait at the easel of c. 1845 in the Walker Art
Gallery, Liverpool (fig. 5); a completion date of around 1850 therefore seems
likely.26 The theme of the cast vendor clearly intrigued Daniels for he would
return to it again about twenty years later. In An Italian Image Seller (1870;
Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool; 6), the protagonist (probably Daniels again)
rests on the wall of an 27 English country lane. The tray is no longer present
but on the ground to his right are two casts, one, a Mercury, the other, the
nymph, Clytie (sometimes identified as Antonia, daughter of Mark Antony and
mother of the Emperor Claudius). The marble original of the nymph, acquired in
Naples by the Grand Tour collector, Charles Townley (1737– 1805) and reportedly
his favourite, is now in the British Museum.28 Copies of the popular statue
were made in porce- lain by the firm Copeland from 1855 and it has been
suggested that Daniels based his depiction on one of them.29 Daniels certainly
owned a copy of the Clytie and other busts after the Antique including a
Jupiter, Apollo, Diana and Laocoön, ‘which he treated with almost reverential
admiration’.30 As Daniels’ Image Seller shows, by the mid-19th century iconic
antique statues, once rarefied models of ideal beauty, were now commercialised
and readily available on the open 5. William Daniels, Self-Portrait, c. 1845,
oil on canvas, 91.5 × 71.7 cm, Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool, WAG 1724 6.
William Daniels, An Italian Image Seller, 1870, oil on canvas, 80 × 63.5 cm,
Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool, WAG 3114 market through mass-produced casts.
While the Antique continued to be central to the education of artists both in
the studio and in the academy, it became an ubiquitous presence in the home,
especially in middle-class interiors where reductions of famous statues were
displayed alongside works from other periods, sometimes even assuming a
secondary role to them. The amalgamation of styles and influences, in which
Ancient, Byzantine, Gothic, Renaissance and Modern were placed on equal
footing, was, by the mid-19th century, the result of an historicist aesthetic
in which the Antique had become just one of the possible artistic references,
thus losing its canonical status and aesthetic primacy. Rowlandson, An
Image Seller, c. 1799, watercolour, 326 × 264 mm, Victoria and Albert Museum,
London, no. 1820-1900 2. John Thomas Smith, Very Fine. Very Cheap, c. 1815,
etching, 192 × 114 mm (plate); 267 × 185 mm (sheet), from Etchings of
Remarkable Beggars, Itinerant Traders and other Persons, published in London,
31 December 1815, National Portrait Gallery, London, Reference collection
D40098 3. William James Muller, The Plaster Figure Seller, oil on canvas, 82.5
× 52.1 cm, sold Christie’s, London, 6 November 2012, lot 333. avl An extensive
tribute to Daniels was published anonymously in serial form in the Liverpool
Lantern (1880), by his friend, K. C. Spier, editor of the paper. It may be
consulted at: http://art-science.com/WDaniels/LLessay.html where the artist’s
obituaries and private letters and notes also are transcribed, some of which
are referred to in Spier’s essay (cited here as Spier 1880). For other accounts
of his life and work, see Tirebuck 1879; The Magazine of Art, 5, June 1882, 341–43;
Marillier 1904, 95–98; Thieme- Becker 1907–50, 8, 362–63; Fastnege 1951;
Bennett 1978, 1, 79. Spier 1880, chapter 4. The drawing, presumably after a
cast of the famous sculpture in the Capitoline Museum, Rome (see cat. 20, 2)
remains untraced. Spier 1880, chapter 4. Marillier 1904, 96–97; Fastnege 1951, 80;
Bennett 1978, 1, 79. Obituary, Liverpool Journal, 16 October 1880; Liverpool
Mercury 15 April 1884; Daily Post Liverpool, June 1908. Liverpool Journal. Representations
of the urban poor in British art was an increasingly popu- lar genre from
around the mid-18th century onwards. See Hansen 2010. Spier 1880, chapter 5.
Lambourne 1982; Compton Verney and Norwich 2009–10, 13. For the history and use
of casts, see Borbein 2000. For a translation in English by Bernard Fischer,
see http://www.digitalsculpture.org/casts/ borbein/index.html For British cast
makers and/or sellers in the 18th to early 19th c., see Clifford 1992 and for
the 19th c., Haskell and Penny 1981, 117–24; Lambourne 1982; and Simon 2011.
Lambourne 1982, 119. Ibid. Clifford 1992; Simon 2011. Lambourne 1982, 121.
Simon 2011 [unpaginated]. Ibid., 3. For other images of the subject, see
Lambourne 1982, 118–23, figs 1–10. Spier 1880, chapter 2; New York 2005b, under
no. 13. Walker et Ackerley, Liverpool, 6 December 1880, discussed in in Spier
1880, chapter 24. The present writer has not been able to locate a copy of this
catalogue. Spier
1880, chapter 2. Richter 1965, 1, 50, no. IV, no. 7, figs 70–72; Gasparri
2009–10, 2, 15–16, no. 2 (M. Caso), pl. II, 1–4. Liedtke
2007, 2, 629–54, no. 151. Kindly pointed out by Paul Crane (personal
communication), who notes the following example: Melbourne 1984–85, no. 56. As
noted further by Paul Crane, who points out their similarity to examples sold
at Sotheby’s, New York, 15 April 1996, lot 73 (personal communication).
According to Shackelford (personal communication). See Washington D.C., Los
Angeles and elsewhere 2003-04, 127–32, no. 15 (G. Scherf). Bennett 1978, 1, 80,
no. 1724, 2, 129; New York 2005b, under no. 13. Bennett 1978, 1, 83, no. 3114, 2,
134. Cook Dodero 2013. Bennett 1978, 1, 83. Spier 1880, chapter 17.
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Medici, Groeningemuseum, Bruges (eds A. Baroni and M. Sellink), 2008–09
(published 2012). Brussels 2004 Old
Master Drawings. Organization of Antique Fairs, Gallery Kekko, Thurn and Taxis,
Brussels, 2004. Brussels 2007–08 Alle wegen leiden naar Rome. Reizende
kunstenaars van de 16de tot de 19de eeuw, Gemeentelijk Museum van Elsene,
Brussels (D. Vautier), 2007–08 (no catalogue). Brussels and Rome
1995 Fiamminghi a Roma 1508–1608. Artisti dei Paesi Bassi e del Principato di
Liegi a Roma durante il Rinascimento, Palais des Beaux-Arts, Brussels; Palazzo
delle Esposizioni, Rome (eds N. Dacos and B. W. Meijer), 1995. Cambridge 1988 Baccio Bandinelli
1493–1560: Drawings from British Collections, Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge (R.
Ward), 1988. Chicago 2007–08 The Virtual Tourist in Renaissance Rome: Printing
and Collecting the ‘Speculum Romanae Magnificentiae’, Special Collections
Research Center, University of Chicago (eds R. Zorach et al.), 2007–08. Choisel 1986 Un Grand Collectionneur
sous Louis XV: Le cabinet de Jacques-Laure de Breteuil, Bailli de l’Ordre de
Malta 1723–1785, Château de Breteuil, Choisel, 1986. Cologne 1977 Peter Paul
Rubens, 1577–1640, Museen der Stadt, Cologne, 1977. Cologne and Utrecht 1991–92
I Bamboccianti: niederländische Malerrebellen im Rom des Barock,
Wallraf-Richartz-Museum, Cologne; Centraal Museum, Utrecht (eds D.A. Levine and
E. Mai), 1991–92. Compton Verney and Norwich 2009–10 The Artist’s Studio, Compton Verney and
Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts, Norwich (ed. G. Waterfield), 2009–10.
Copenhagen 1973 ‘Maegtige Schweiz’.
Inspirationer fra Schweiz. 1750–1850, Thorvaldsens Museum, Copenhagen, 1973.
Copenhagen 2004 Spejlinger i Gips, Det Kongelige Danske Kunstakademi,
Copenhagen (eds Kjerrman et al.), 2004. Derby 1997 Joseph Wright of Derby:
1734–1797, Derby Museum et Art Gallery (J. Wallis), 1997. Doha 2011 The Golden Age of Dutch Painting:
Masterpieces from the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam, Museum of Islamic Art, Doha, 2011
(no catalogue). Dordrecht 2012–13 Portret in portret in de Nederlandse kunst
1550–2012, Dordrechts Museum (S. Craft-Giepmans and A. de Vries), 2012–13.
Edinburgh 2002 Rubens Drawing on Italy, National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh
(J. Wood), 2002. Essen 1992 London
World-City, 1800–1840, Villa Hügel, Essen (ed. C. Fox), 1992. Florence
1980 Il primato del Disegno, Palazzo Strozzi, Florence (ed. L. Berti), 4 of the
exhibition Firenze e la Toscana dei Medici nell’Europa del Cinquecento, 4 vols,
1980. Florence 1987 Michelangelo e
l’arte classica, Casa Buonarroti, Florence (eds G. Agosti and V. Farinella),
1987. Florence 1992 Il Giardino di San Marco. Maestri e compagni del giovane
Michelangelo, Casa Buonarroti, Florence (ed. Barocchi), 1992. Florence
1999-2000 Giovinezza di Michelangelo, Palazzo Vecchio and Casa Buonarroti,
Florence (eds K. Weil-Garris Brandt et al.), 1999–2000. Florence 2002 Venere e amore: Michelangelo e la nuova
bellezza ideale, Gallerie dell’Accademia, Florence (eds F. Falletti and J. Katz
Nelson), 2002. Florence 2008 Fiamminghi e Olandesi a Firenze. Disegni dalle
collezioni degli Uffizi, Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe degli Uffizi, Florence (eds
W. Kloek and B. W. Meijer), 2008. Florence 2014
Baccio Bandinelli: scultore maestro (1493–1560), Museo Nazionale del
Bargello, Florence (eds D. Heikamp and B. Strozzi), 2014. Geneva 1978 Johann
Heinrich Füssli, Musée d’Art et d’Histoire, Musée Rath Genève, Geneva
Göttingen Abgekupfert. Roms Antiken in
den Reproduktionsmedien der Frühen Neuzeit, Kunstsammlung und Sammlung der
Gipsabgüsse, Universität Göttingen (eds M. Luchterhandt et al.), 2012–13.
Göttingen 2013–14 Roms Antiken in den Reproduktionsmedien der frühen Neuzeit,
Kunstsammlung und Sammlung der Gipsabgüsse, University of Göttingen (eds M.
Luchterhandt et al.) Haarlem 1972
Wybrand Hendriks 1744–1831. Keuze uit zijn schilderijen en tekeningen,
Teylers Museum, Haarlem (I. Q. van Regteren Altena, J. H. van Borssum Buisman
and C. J. de Bruyn Kops), 1972. Haarlem 1990 Augustijn Claterbos 1750–1828. Opleiding en werk van een Haarlems kunstenaar, Teylers Museum, Haarlem
(B. Sliggers) Haarlem and London 2005–06 Michelangelo Drawings: Closer to the
Master, Teylers Museum, Haarlem; British Museum, London (ed. H. Chapman),
2005–06. Haarlem, Zurich and elsewhere 2006–07 Nicolaes Berchem. Im Licht
Italiens, The Frans Hals Museum, Haarlem; The Kunsthaus, Zürich; The
Staatliches Museum Schwerin (P. Biesboer et al.), . Hamburg Johann Heinrich Füssli. 1741–1825, Hamburger
Kunshalle, Hamburg (ed. W. Hofmann), Munich, 1974–75. Hamburg 2002 Die Masken
der Schönheit. Hendrick Goltzius und das Kunstideal um 1600, Hamburger
Kunsthalle, Hamburg (eds J. Müller et al.), 2002. Hannover 1999 Künstler, Händler, Sammler: zum Kunstbetrieb
in den Niederlanden im 17. Jahrhundert, Niedersächsischen Landesmuseum, Hanover
(U. Wegener), 1999. Harvard and Evanston 2011–12 Prints and the Pursuit of
Knowledge in Early Modern Europe, Harvard Art Museums, Cambridge (MA); Mary and
Leigh Block Museum of Art, Evanston (IL) (ed. S. Dackerman), 2011–12.
Heidelberg 1982 100 unbekannte Zeichnungen
und Aquarelle des 16.-18. Jahrhunderts, Kurpfälzisches Museum, Heidelberg (S.
Wechssler), 1982. Houston and Ithaca 2005–06 A Portrait of the Artist
1525–1825. Prints from the Collection of the Sarah Campbell Blaffer Foundation,
Museum of Fine Arts, Houston; Herbert F. Johnson Museum of Art, Cornell
University, Ithaca (NY) (ed. J. Clifton), 2005–06. King’s Lynn 1985 French
Drawings of the 17th and 18th Century, Fermoy Gallery, Guildhall of St George,
King’s Lynn (ed. G. Agnew) Liverpool 1994–95 Face to Face: Three Centuries of
Artists’ Self-Portraiture, Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool (X. Brooke), 1994–95.
Liverpool 2007 Joseph Wright of Derby in Liverpool, Walker Art Gallery,
Liverpool (eds E. E. Barker and A. Kidson), 2007. London 1836 The Lawrence
Gallery, One Hundred Original Drawings by Zucchero, Andrea del Sarto, Polidore
da Caravaggio and Fra Bartolomeo Collected by Sir Thomas Lawrence, Late
President of the Royal Academy, London. London 1947 Dutch Conversation Pieces
of the 18th et 19th Centuries, The Allied Circle, London, 1947. London
1950 French Master Drawings of the 18th
Century, Matthiesen Gallery, London, 1950. London 1953 Drawings by Old Masters, Royal Academy of
Arts, London (K. T. Parker and J. Byam Shaw), 1953. London 1955 A Loan
Exhibition: Artists in 17th century Rome: to Save Gosfield Hall for the Nation
as a Residential Nursing Home Wildenstein et Co., London (D. Mahon and D.
Sutton), 1955. London 1962 A Selection of Drawings from the Witt Collection:
French Drawings, c. 1600–c. 1800, Courtauld Institute Galleries, London, 1962.
London 1963 Treasures of the Royal Academy, Royal Academy of Arts, London,
1963. London France in the Eighteenth
Century, Royal Academy of Arts, London (ed. Sutton), 1968. London 1968b Royal Academy of Arts Bicentenary Exhibition,
Royal Academy of Arts, London, 1968. London 1969 Royal Academy Draughtsmen,
1769–1969, Royal Academy of Arts, London (A. Wilton), 1969. London 1971 Art
into Art: Works of Art as a Source of Inspiration, Sotheby’s, London (ed. K.
Roberts), 1971. London 1972 The Age of
Neo-Classicism, The Royal Academy of Arts and The Victoria and Albert Museum,
London, 1972. London Fuseli, Tate Gallery, London, 1975. London Rubens. Drawings and Sketches, British Museum,
London (ed. J. Rowlands), 1977. London 1983
Bartolomeo Cavaceppi: Eighteenth-century Restorations of Ancient Marble
Sculpture from English Private Collections, The Clarendon Gallery Ltd., London
(C. A. Picón), 1983. London 1986 Florentine Drawings of the Sixteenth Century,
British Museum, London (N. Turner), 1986. London 1990 Wright of Derby, Tate
Gallery, London (ed. J. Egerton). London French drawings, XVI–XIX centuries,
Courtauld Institute Galleries, London (eds G. Kennedy and A. Thackray), 1991.
London 1992 Drawings Related to Sculpture, 1520–1620, Katrin Bellinger at
Harari et Johns, London, 1992. London 1995 Prints and Drawings, Recent
acquisitions 1991–1995, British Museum, London, 1995 (no catalogue). London
1997 British Watercolours from the Oppé
Collection, Tate Gallery, London (A. Lyles and R. Hamlyn), 1997. London 1999a John
Soane Architect. Master of Space and Light, Royal Academy, London (eds M.
Richardson and M. Stevens), 1999. London 1999b
Portraits of Artists and Related Subjects, Trinity Fine Art, London, .
London A Noble Art: Amateur Artists and
Drawing Masters, British Museum, London (K. Sloan), 2000. London 2001 Marble
Mania. Sculpture Galleries in England, 1640–1840, Sir John Soane’s Museum,
London (R. Guilding), 2001. London 2001–02
The Print in Italy 1550–1620, British Museum, London (M. Bury), 2001–02.
London 2003a Artists by Artists, Chaucer Fine Arts Inc., London, 2003. London
2003b The Museum of the Mind. Art and Memory in World Cultures, British Museum,
London (J. Mack), 2003. London 2005–06 Rubens: A Master in the Making, National
Gallery, London (eds D. Jaffé and E. McGrath), 2005–06. London 2007–08 The
Artist in Art, Colnaghi in association with Emanuel von Baeyer, London,
2007–08. London 2009–10 Rubens Drawings, British Museum, Department of Prints
and Drawings, London, 2009–10 (no catalogue). London 2011 Art School Drawings
from the 19th Century, Victoria and Albert Museum, London, 2011 (no catalogue).
London 2011–12 Leonardo da Vinci. Painter at the Court of Milan, National
Gallery, London (ed. L. Syson with L. Keith), 2011–12. London 2013–14 The Male
Nude. Eighteenth-Century Drawings from the Paris Academy, Wallace Collection,
London (eds E. Brugerolles et al.), 2013–14. London 2014 Diverse Maniere:
Piranesi, Fantasy and Excess, Sir John Soane’s Museum, London (ed. A. Lowe),
2014. London and Florence 2010–11 Fra Angelico to Leonardo. Italian Renaissance
Drawings, British Museum, London; Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence (eds H.
Chapman and M. Faietti), 2010–11. London and New York 1992 Andrea Mantegna,
Royal Academy of Arts, London; Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (ed. J.
Martineau), 1992. London and New York 2012–13 Master Drawings from the
Courtauld Galleries, The Courtauld Gallery, London; The Frick Collection, New
York (eds C. B. Bailey and S. Buck), 2012–13. London and Rome Grand Tour. The Lure of Italy in the
Eighteenth Century, Tate Gallery, London; Palazzo delle Esposizioni, Rome (eds
A. Wilton and I. Bignamini), 1996–97. London, Warwick and elsewhere
1997–98 The Quick and the Dead: Artists
and Anatomy, Royal College of Art, London; Mead Gallery, Warwick Arts Centre;
Leeds City Art Gallery (D. Petherbridge and L. Jordanova), 1997–98. London,
York and elsewhere Drawings from the
Robert Witt Collection at the Courtauld Institute of Art, London, Courtauld
Institute of Art, London; York City Art Gallery; Peterborough Art Gallery,
1953. Los Angeles 1961 French Masters:
Rococo to Romanticism, University of California, Los Angeles, 1961. Los Angeles
1999 The Early Life of Taddeo Zuccaro, The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles
(A. V. Lauder; no catalogue), Los Angeles 2000
Making a Prince’s Museum: Drawings for the Late-Eighteenth-century
Redecoration of the Villa Borghese, Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (C.
Paul), 2000. Los Angeles 2007–08 Taddeo and Federico Zuccaro. Artist-Brothers
in Renaissance Rome, J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles (ed. J. Brooks), Los
Angeles, Austin and elsewhere 1976–77
Women Artists, 1550–1950, Los Angeles County Museum of Art; University
Art Museum, The University of Texas at Austin; Museum of Art, Carnegie
Institute, Pittsburgh; The Brooklyn Museum (A. Sutherland Harris and L.
Nochlin). Los Angeles, Philadelphia and elsewhere 1993–94 Visions of Antiquity.
Neoclassical Figure Drawings, Los Angeles County Museum of Art; Philadelphia
Museum of Art; Minneapolis Institute of Arts (ed. R. J. Campbell). Los Angeles,
Toledo and elsewhere 1988–89 Mannerist Prints: International Style in the
Sixteenth Century, The Los Angeles County Museum of Art; The Toledo Museum of
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Lyon La
fascination de l’antique. Rome découverte, Rome inventée, Musée de la
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1998–99. Mantua
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di Raffaello Palazzo Te, Mantua; Graphische Sammlung Albertina, Vienna (eds A.
Oberhuber and A. Gnann), 1999. Marseille 2001 Maurice et Pauline Feuillet de Borsat
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Melbourne 1984 Flowers and Fables. A Survey of Chelsea Porcelain 1745–69,
National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne (M. Legge), 1984. Milan 1951 Mostra del Caravaggio e dei Caravaggeshi,
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Disegni e dipinti, Museo Poldi-Pezzoli, Milan (ed. L. Vitali), 1977–78. Milan
2007–08 Leonardo. Dagli studi di
proporzioni al trattato della pittura, Castello Sforzesco, Milan (eds C. Marani
and M. T. Fiorio), 2007–08. Milan 2013 La Biblioteca delle meraviglie: 400 anni
di Ambrosiana, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan (eds C. Continisio, M. L. Frosio
and E. Riva), 2013. Montreal 1992
The Genius of the Sculptor in Michelangelo’s Work, The Montreal Museum
of Fine Arts (P. Théberge), 1992. Moscow and Haarlem 2013–14 De romantische ziel. Schilderkunst uit de
Nederlandse en Russische romantiek, The Tretjakov Gallery, Moscow; Teylers
Museum, Haarlem (T. van Druten and L. Markina), 2013–14. Munich 1979–80 Zwei Jahrhunderte englische Malerei.
Britische Kunst und Europa 1680 bis 1880, Haus der Kunst, Munich, 1979–80.
Munich 2013–14 In the Temple of the Self. The Artist’s Residence as a Total
Work of Art, Villa Stuck, Munich (eds M. Brandhuber and M. Buhrs), 2013–14.
Munich and Cologne 2002 Wettstreit der
Künste: Malerei und Skulptur von Dürer bis Daumier, Haus der Kunst, Munich;
Wallraf-Richartz-Museum-Fondation Corboud, Cologne (eds E. Mai and K.
Wettengl), 2002. Munich and Haarlem 1986 Op zoek naar de Gouden Eeuw:
Nederlandse schilderkunst 1800–1850, Neue Pinakothek, Munich; Frans Hals
Museum, Haarlem (L. van Tilborgh and G. Jansen), 1986. Munich and Rome
1998–99 Der Torso. Ruhm und Rätsel / Il Torso del Belvedere. Da Aiace a Rodin,
Glyptothek, Munich; Musei Vaticani, Rome (ed. R. Wünsche), 1998–99. Münster
1976 Bilder nach Bilder. Druckgrafik und die Vermittlung von Kunst,
Westfälisches Landesmuseum für Kunst und Kulturgeschichte Münster, Münster (G.
Langemeyer and R. Schleier), 1976. Naples 2008
Salvator Rosa: tra mito e magia, Museo di Capodimonte, Naples (eds A. B.
de Lavergnée and S. Bellesi), 2008. New Haven and
London 2011–12 Johan Zoffany, RA: Society Observed, Yale Center for British
Art, New Haven; Royal Academy of Arts, London (ed. M. Postle), 2011–12. New
York 1954 Fuseli Drawings, a Loan Exhibition, organized by the Pro Helvetia
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Haverkamp-Begemann and C. Logan), 1988. New York 2005a Peter Paul Rubens. The Drawings, Metropolitan
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Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (eds C. D. Dickerson et al.). Nottingham
and London 1983 Drawing in the Italian Renaissance Workshop, University Art
Gallery, Nottingham; Victoria and Albert Museum, London (F. Ames-Lewis and J.
Wright), 1983. Nottingham and London 1991
The Artist’s Model: Its Role in British Art from Lely to Etty,
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Bignamini and M. Postle), 1991. Ottawa and Caen 2011–12 Drawn to Art. French
Artists and Art Lovers in 18th-century Rome, National Gallery of Canada,
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Vancouver and elsewhere 1996–97 The Ingenious Machine of Nature: Four Centuries
of Art and Anatomy, National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa; Vancouver Art Gallery;
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Kornell and K. B. Roberts), 1996–97. Ottawa, Washington D.C. and elsewhere
2003–04 The Age of Watteau, Chardin, and Fragonard: Masterpieces of French
Genre Painting, National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa; National Gallery of Art,
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collections americaines. French Master Drawings of the 17th and 18th Centuries
of the North American Collections, Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto; National
Gallery of Canada, Ottawa; California Palace of the Legion of Honor, San
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roi , Musée des Beaux-Arts de Tours; Musée des Augustins à Toulouse (eds P.
Rosenberg et al.), Paris. Troyes, Nîmes and elsewhere Charles-Joseph Natoire (Nîmes, 1700 – Castel
Gandolfo): peintures, dessins, estampes et tapisseries des collections
publiques françaises, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Troyes; Musée des Beaux- Arts,
Nîmes; Villa Medici, Rome, . Venice Tiziano e la silografia veneziana del
Cinquecento, Fondazione Giorgio Cini, Venice (eds M. Muraro and D. Rosand),
Venice Vienna Zauber der Medusa. Europäische Manierismen, Wiener Künstlerhaus, Vienna (ed. W. Hofmann).
Washington D.C. 1977 Seventeenth Century Dutch Drawings from American
Collections: A Loan Exhibition, organized and circulated by the International
Exhibitions Foundation, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. (F. W.
Robinson). Washington D.C. Hubert
Robert: Drawings et Watercolors, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. (V.
Carlson), 1978–79. Washington D.C. The
Drawings of Annibale Carracci, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. (eds
D. Benati et al.). Washington D.C., Los Angeles and elsewhere Jean-Antoine Houdon: Sculptor of the
Enlightenment, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.; The J. Paul Getty
Museum, Los Angeles; Musée et Domaine National du Château de Versailles (A. L.
Poulet et al.), . Williamstown, Madison and elsewhere Goltzius and the Third Dimension, Sterling and
Francine Clark Institute, Williamstown (MA); Elvehjem Museum of Art, Madison
(WI); Spencer Museum of Art, Lawrence (KS) (eds S. H. Goddard and J. A. Ganz).
Windsor Paper palaces: The Topham
Collection as a Source for British Neo-Classicism, The Verey Gallery, Eton
College, Windsor (A. Aymonino et al.), 2013. York A Candidate for Praise. William Manson
1725–97, Precentor of York, York Art Gallery and York Minster Library (eds B.
Barr and J. Ingamells). Zurich Füssli: Zur Zweihundertjahrfeier und
Gedächtnisausstellung, Kunsthaus Zürich, Zurich (ed. W. Wartmann and M.
Fischer), 1941. Zurich Johann Heinrich
Füssli, , Kunsthaus Zürich, Zurich, . Zurich 1984 Meisterwerke aus der
Graphischen eichnungen, Aquarelli, Pastelle, Collagen aus fünf
Jahrhunderten, Kunsthaus Zürich, Zurich. Zurich Füssli. The Wild Swiss, Kunsthaus Zürich,
Zurich (ed. F. Lentzsch), Royal Collection Trust/Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth
II. Royal Collection Trust/Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2015 bpk, Berlin /
Museum der bildenden Künste, Leipzig 64. bpk, Berlin / Museum der bildenden
Künste, Leipzig . The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection 66. Photo out
of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 67. The Samuel Courtauld Trust, The Courtauld Gallery, London . Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 69. bpk, Berlin /
École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts de Paris, Dist. RMN – Grand Palais bpk,
Berlin / École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts de Paris, Dist. RMN – Grand
Palais 71. bpk, Berlin / École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts de Paris,
Dist. RMN – Grand Palais 72. Photo out of copyright (The
Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) . Photo out of copyright (The
Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) . Rijksmuseum,
Amsterdam 75. Ashmolean Museum, University of Oxford 76. Su gentile concessione
del Museo Biblioteca Archivio di Bassano del Grappa 77. Photo Les Arts décoratifs 78. Photo Les Arts décoratifs. National
Library of Medicine National Library of Medicine The Metropolitan Museum of
Art, Gift of Lincoln Kirstein, metmuseum.org . Royal Academy of Arts, London 83. bpk, Berlin / École nationale supérieure
des Beaux-Arts de Paris, Dist. RMN – Grand Palais 84. Royal Academy of Arts, London Royal Academy of Arts, London 86. Private collection 87. bpk, Berlin / École nationale supérieure des
Beaux-Arts de Paris, Dist. RMN – Grand Palais 88. Philadelphia Museum of Art . Cherbourg-Octeville, musée d’art
Thomas-Henry D.Sohier . Heidelberg University Library 91. The Trustees of the
British Museum. All rights reserved . Staatsgalerie Stuttgart Foto:
Staatsgalerie Stuttgart 93. Reproduced by permission of the Provost and Fellows
of Eton College 94. bpk, Berlin / Musée du Louvre, Dist. RMN – Grand Palais /
Susanne Nagy . Musée de Valence, photo Philippe Petiot . Musée de
Valence, photo Philippe Petiot Musée de Valence, photo Philippe Petiot Courtesy
National Gallery of Art, Washington 99. Tate, London .
Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 101.
Royal Academy of Arts, London; Photographer: John Hammond Fig. . RSA, London
Fig. 103. RSA, London Fig. CSG CIC Glasgow Museums and Libraries Collection:
The Mitchell Library, Special Collections Fig. 105. Royal Academy of Arts,
London; Photographer: Prudence Cuming Associates Limited Fig. . Royal
Collection Trust/Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II 2015 Fig. 107. Royal Academy of
Arts, London Fig. 108. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) Photograph courtesy of the National Gallery of Ireland
Cat. 1 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow Fig. 1. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection) Fig. 2. Matthew Hollow. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) Cat. 2 Exhibit.
Matthew Hollow Fig. 1. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam Cat. 3 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow .
Courtesy Yvonne Tan Bunzl The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights
reserved. The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved Fig. . bpk,
Berlin / Kupferstichkabinett, SMB / Volker-H. Schneider The Trustees of the
British Museum. All rights reserved 6. S.S.P.S.A.E e per il Polo Museale
della città di Firenze – Gabinetto Fotografico Cat. 4 Exhibit a. The Trustees
of the British Museum. All rights reserved Exhibit b. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 1.
Private collection 2. Kurpfälzisches Museum der Stadt Heidelberg Cat. 5
Exhibit. Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program 1. Photo
out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 2. Vatican
Museums and Galleries, Vatican City/ Bridgeman Images 3. The Trustees of the
British Museum. 4. Digital image
courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program Digital image courtesy of the
Getty’s Open Content Program Cat. 6 Exhibit a. Teylers Museum, Haarlem Exhibit
b. The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved 1. Rijksmuseum,
Amsterdam Cat. 7 Exhibit a. Teylers Museum, Haarlem Exhibit b. Teylers Museum,
Haarlem Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection)
2. Teylers Museum, Haarlem 3. Teylers Museum, Haarlem 4. Courtesy Amsterdam
Museum Cat. 8 Exhibit. Teylers Museum, Haarlem 1. Teylers Museum, Haarlem 2.
S.S.P.S.A.E e per il Polo Museale della città di Firenze – Gabinetto
Fotografico Cat. 9 Exhibit. The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights
reserved 1. Archivio
Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni Musée des Beaux-Arts de
Dijon. Photo François Jay Cat. 10 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. Archivio
Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno
Colantoni . Courtesy of the Master and Fellows of Trinity College Cambridge 3.
Matthew Hollow 4. The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge Cat. 11 Exhibit. Matthew
Hollow 1. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 2. The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge Matthew
Hollow Cat. 12 Exhibit. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 1. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 2.
Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) . Archivio
Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno
Colantoni 4. The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection 5. Detroit
Institute of Arts, USA, City of Detroit Purchase/Bridgeman Images 6. Collection
Rau for UNICEF / Gruppe Köln, Hans G. Scheib Cat. 13 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1.
Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 2.
Courtesy Amsterdam Museum 3. Courtesy Municipal Archives of The Hague 4. Photo
out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 6. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) Cat. Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 2. 2015 The
Metropolitan Museum of Art/ Art Resource/Scala, Florence Christie’s Images
Limited Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam Photographic Credits Every effort has been made
to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of
copyright material. The publisher apologises for any errors or omissions in the
below list and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be
incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book. Ideal Beauty and the
Canon in Classical Antiquity The Metropolitan Museum of Art/Art Resource/Scala,
Florence . The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection ‘Nature Perfected’: The Theory et Practice
of Drawing after the Antique 1. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 2. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 3. bpk, Berlin / Musée du Louvre, Dist. RMN – Grand
Palais / Gérard Blot . Veneranda Biblioteca Ambrosiana – Milano / De Agostini
Picture Library 5. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) Fig.. Albertina, Vienna Photo out of copyright (The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection) 8. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection) . Comune di Milano Photo out of copyright
(The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 11. Veneranda Biblioteca
Ambrosiana – Milano / De Agostini Picture Library 12. The Trustees of the
British Museum. All rights reserved 13. Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen,
Rotterdam. Loan Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen Foundation (collection Koenigs) /
photographer: Studio Tromp, Rotterdam The Trustees of the British Museum. All
rights reserved 15. Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 16. Rijksmuseum, Amseterdam The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Bequest of
Phyllis Massar, metmuseum.org 18. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg
Institute, Photographic Collection) 19. Vatican Museums and Galleries, Vatican
City/Bridgeman Images . Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) . Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels /
photo: J. Geleyns / Ro scan 22. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 23. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) . The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights
reserved . Graphische Sammlung Albertina, Vienna, Austria / Bridgeman Images 26.
Vatican Museums and Galleries, Vatican City / Bridgeman Images 27. Courtesy
National Gallery of Art, Washington 28. Albertina, Vienna 29. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) . The Trustees of
the British Museum. All rights reserved . The Trustees of the British Museum.
All rights reserved 32. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 33. Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence, Italy /
Bridgeman Images. S.S.P.S.A.E e per il Polo Museale della città di Firenze –
Gabinetto Fotografico 35. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 36. Veneranda Biblioteca Ambrosiana – Milano / De
Agostini Picture Library. Katrin Bellinger collection 38. bpk, Berlin /
Kupferstichkabinett / Jörg P. Anders bpk, Berlin / Kupferstichkabinett / Jörg
P. Anders 40. bpk, Berlin / Kupferstichkabinett / Volker-H. Schneider 41. bpk,
Berlin / Kupferstichkabinett / Volker-H. Schneider bpk, Berlin /
Kupferstichkabinett / Volker-H. Schneider . bpk, Berlin / Kupferstichkabinett /
Volker-H. Schneider 44. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) The Metropolitan Museum of Art/ Art Resource/Scala,
Florence 46. Veneranda
Biblioteca Ambrosiana – Milano / De Agostini Picture Library . Veneranda
Biblioteca Ambrosiana – Milano / De Agostini Picture Library 48. Royal Museum for Fine Arts Antwerp Lukas-Art in Flanders vzw, photo Hugo
Maertens Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 50. Musea Brugge Lukas-Art in Flanders vzw,
photo Hugo Maertens 51. ©Peter Cox/Bonnefantenmuseum Maastricht 52. Minneapolis
Institute of Arts, MN, USA, The Walter H. and Valborg P. Ude Memorial Fund/
Bridgeman Images 53. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 54. Louvre, Paris,
France/Bridgeman Images 55. Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 56. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 57. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) . bpk, Berlin / Musée du Louvre, Dist. RMN – Grand
Palais / Richard Lambert 59. bpk, Berlin / Musée Condé, Chantilly, Dist. RMN –
Grand Palais / René-Gabriel Ojéda Royal Collection Trust/Her Majesty Queen
Elizabeth II Cat. 15 Exhibit. The Trustees of the British Museum. All
rights reserved 1. Devonshire Collection, Chatsworth / Reproduced by permission
of Chatsworth Settlement Trustees / Bridgeman Images 2. Wadsworth Atheneum
Museum of Art, Hartford, CT The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights
reserved 4. Vatican Museums and Galleries, Vatican City / Bridgeman Images Cat.
16 Exhibit. The Samuel Courtauld Trust, The Courtauld Gallery, London 1. Image
courtesy of Sotheby’s 2. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 3. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 5. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 6. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) Cat. 17 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1.
Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 2. Museum
Boijmans Van Beuningen, Rotterdam / photographer: Studio Tromp, Rotterdam 3. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Bequest of Walter C. Baker,
metmuseum.org 4. Witt Library, The Courtauld Institute of Art, London Cat. 18
Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 3. bpk, Berlin / Antikensammlung, SMB 4. Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) bpk, Berlin / Antikensammlung,
SMB / Johannes Laurentius . photo Musées de Marseille 7. Photographic Survey,
The Courtauld Institute of Art, London. Private collection Cat. 19 Exhibit.
Matthew Hollow 1. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) 2. Accademia
Nazionale di San Luca. Tutti i diritti riservati 3. The Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved . By courtesy of
the Trustees of Sir John Soane’s Museum Cat.
Exhibit. By courtesy of the Trustees of Sir John Soane’s Museum 1. Photo
out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 2. Archivio
Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 3. Archivio Fotografico
dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 4. The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection 5. Staatsgalerie Stuttgart Foto: Staatsgalerie
Stuttgart 6. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic
Collection) Cat. 21 Exhibit. bpk / Kunstbibliothek, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin
1. Image courtesy of Sotheby’s 2. Image courtesy of Sotheby’s
Cat. 22 Exhibit. 2014
Kunsthaus Zürich. All rights reserved. 1. Archivio Fotografico dei Musei
Capitolini. Photo Paulo Cipollina 2. Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini.
Photo Lorenzo De Masi 3. Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo
Lorenzo De Masi 4. Istituto Centrale per la Grafica Canoni fotografici (MIBACT)
5. bpk, Berlin / Kunstbibliothek, SMB / Dietmar Katz Cat. 23 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. Louvre, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images 2. The Trustees
of the British Museum. All rights reserved Cat. 24 Exhibit. The Trustees of the
British Museum. All rights reserved 1. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon
Collection Private collection 3. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) Cat. 25 Exhibit. Royal Academy of Arts, London 1.
Royal Academy of Arts, London 2. Royal Academy of Arts, London 3. bpk, Berlin /
RMN – Grand Palais / Stéphane Maréchalle 4. Santa Barbara Museum of Art, Gift
of Wright S. Ludington 5. Conway Library, The Courtauld Institute of
Art, London . Archivio Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno Colantoni 7. Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) 8. Royal Academy of Arts, London; Photographer: Paul
Highnam Royal Academy of Arts, London; Photographer: Paul Highnam Cat. Exhibit. The Trustees of the British Museum.
All rights reserved Tate, London 2.
Courtesy of www.gjsaville-caricatures.co.uk Cat. 27 Exhibit a. Victoria and
Albert Museum, London Exhibit b. Victoria and Albert Museum, London 1. Tate,
London 2014 2. Tate, London. Tate, London . Tate, London 2014 Cat. 28 Exhibit. The
Trustees of the British Museum. All rights reserved 1. Towneley Hall Art
Gallery and Museum, Burnley, Lancashire/Bridgeman Images . Photo out of
copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 3. The Trustees of
the British Museum. All rights reserved Cat. 29 Exhibit. By courtesy of the
Trustees of Sir John Soane’s Museum Cat. 30 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. Photo
Collection RKD, The Hague 2. Royal Collection Trust/Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth
II 2015 3. Klassik Stiftung Weimar, Bestand Museen. Photo Sigrid Geske Cat. 31
Exhibit. Teylers Museum, Haarlem Cat. 32 Exhibit. Teylers Museum, Haarlem 1.
Photo Collection RKD, The Hague Cat. 33 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow 1. The National
Museum of Art, Architecture and Design, Oslo, photographer Jacques Lathion 2.
Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) . Archivio
Fotografico dei Musei Capitolini. Photo Zeno
Colantoni 4. Louvre, Paris, France / Bridgeman Images 5. Photo out of copyright
(The Warburg Institute, Photographic Collection) 6. Courtesy of Pontus Kjerrman
Cat. 34 Exhibit. Matthew Hollow Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) Courtesy of Olga Liubimova Tomas Abad Cat. 35 Exhibit.
Matthew Hollow Victoria and Albert Museum, London National Portrait Gallery,
London Christie’s Images Limited Photo out of copyright (The Warburg Institute,
Photographic Collection) National Museums Liverpool, Walker Art Gallery
[National Museums Liverpool, Walker Art Gallery Sammlung. ZMassimo Carboni.
Keywords: tratto dalla vita, estetica, arte, icona, parola, immagine, filosofia
antica, il concetto dell’antico, l’antico – l’antico e il moderno – drawing
from the antique – antico – filosofia antica, arte antica, statuaria antica,
the lure of the antique – il gusto e l’antico --. Refs.: Luigi Speranza, “Grice
e Carboni” – The Swimming-Pool Library.
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