Verrocchio at the National Gallery

In November I went to Washington specifically to see the much-praised Andrea del Verrocchio exhibition at the National Gallery, and in January I went to New York primarily for the Bertoldo di Giovanni exhibition at the Frick Collection. As I await the Bertoldo catalogue, it's time to make some comments about the Verrocchio show. Both have closed.
My PhD focused on Italian Renaissance sculpture, but it has been years since I've followed the scholarship or engaged in discussions or debates about the subject. So while on the one hand I know more than a general audience, on the other I can't call myself an expert anymore. I had looked forward eagerly to the Verrocchio exhibition and was very disappointed. The catalogue has provided substantially more information about the works in the exhibition and it's very worthwhile, with several excellent essays. They explained some of my issues with the exhibition.

David, bronze with partial gilding, Museo Nazionale del Bargello,
Florence, bronzi 450 and 451

The exhibition was surprisingly small, just three galleries, one primarily sculpture, one drawings and one paintings. The centerpiece was the splendid bronze David, which looked great, but perhaps might have been easier to examine on a slightly lower pedestal. Because David's feet were at eye level, I became obsessed by his boots, which have sandal-like open toes and seem very thin, not exactly practical, but effective in showing the anatomy of his feet.
The label was informative about the process of completing such a large bronze, that casting was only a middle step and the entire work was patched, carved, hammered, polished, and gilded in order to become as smooth and detailed as it is. The catalogue discusses how Verrocchio may have used his experience casting bells and other large items in casting this relatively large free-standing metal sculpture. It also discusses Verrocchio's training as a goldsmith, an important aspect of Renaissance sculpture that is represented in the exhibition by a small agate covered vase and the terracotta study for a figure on the silver altar of Florence Baptistery.

Lady with Flowers, marble, Museo Nazionale del Bargello, Florence, 115.5

Other sculptures that caught my attention were the Putto with a Fish, a small figure that begins to twist in space, and the marble Lady with Flowers from the Bargello Museum in Florence.  The Lady with Flowers is subtly carved and polished, with a slight tilt of the head and hands that seem caught in gentle motion. She was far more beautiful than I had remembered.

Giuliano de' Medici, Andrea del Verrocchio, terracotta with traces of polychromy, National Gallery of Art, Andrew W. Mellon Collection, 1937.1.127

More sculptures include portraits of Giuliano and Lorenzo de' Medici, a marble relief possibly of Alexander the Great,, several terracotta studies, small bronzes, and a large candlestick, many of them attributed to Verrocchio and/or assistants.  The Alexander the Great is lovely white marble, perhaps a bit more precious than I like to think Verrocchio would have embraced. The portrait of Giuliano de' Medici is impressive.

Alexander the Great, Andrea del Verrocchio and Assistants? Carrara marble, National Gallery of Art, Gift of Thomas K. Straus, 1956.2.1

Like many exhibitions of Renaissance artists, this one could not include several key works, which are either too large or incorporated into the walls of buildings in Italy. The catalogue addresses several and this helps give Verrocchio his due as a sculptor. Sadly, one major work, Christ and St. Thomas, made for a niche on Or San Michele in Florence, was included in the Leonardo exhibition in Paris instead of this Verrocchio show. It alone would have given the exhibition more weight.
The paintings were more problematic. Gretchen A. Hirschauer and Elizabeth Walmsley in the catalogue identify two paintings as surely by Verrocchio, neither of which is in the exhibition and both of which are significantly collaborative productions. All the paintings in the exhibition are attributed to Verrocchio or  supposedly influenced by him or by artists in his studio. They are half-length Madonnas in a clearly late 15th-century somewhat linear style. While these Madonnas did share many similarities, it was difficult to see those given to Verrocchio as leaders or to see why the particular works were chosen for inclusion. But here's a link to some research on a couple of them. And it led me to fantasize the exhibition curators scrambling to find appropriate paintings to fill out the exhibition.
In the center of the gallery, completely outshining this parade of half-length Madonnas is Leonardo's portrait of Ginevra de' Benci, a subtly modeled image of a specific individual, with carefully calibrated and balanced colors. I always visit this painting when I am in the National Gallery and only recently have realized how condescending her expression is. Shown here among half-length Madonnas, it looks disturbingly truncated, cut off at the shoulders and missing both arms and hands. The cut-off emblem on the reverse of the painting confirms the loss, but this context really calls it to attention.

 Tobias and the Angel, Andrea del Verrocchio and assistants,
The National Gallery, London, Bought 1857, NG781

Attributing the fish and the dog in the probably-by-Verrocchio and studio Tobias and the Angel to Leonardo seemed odd, even though those particular details are remarkably well painted. From an artistic culture where collaboration was the norm, everyone seems to be trying to select out evidence of individual genius while the catalogue insists that all the production of a Florentine studio belongs to the studio head, i.e.Verrocchio.

Venice, the best part

After all the active and often political installations around the city, we found some calm relief on the island of San Giorgio Maggiore. Several years ago, the occupants of the monastery there decided to host exhibitions of contemporary art, including an installation in the center of the church crossing. This year the artist was Sean Scully. First I was surprised at the bright colors of the huge structure in the center of the church.

Looking up from inside the Scully

Then I was increasingly touched by his works in groups in various rooms of the monastery, by his stained glass windows, and by the monochrome boxy structures in various open spaces. Perhaps the juxtaposition of these abstract works with the Renaissance sculptures and paintings gave them added gravitas; I can't say; I'm not sure what it was. 

Walking around the monastery became surprisingly moving, just via paintings in blocks of richly muted colors. Even now, looking at some of my images and the details showing his brush strokes, I feel a tightening in my chest.

Next we visited the exhibition at Le Stanze del Vetro, the museum of glass on the island, of works by the important but not well-known French glass master, Maurice Marinot. Marinot's techniques evolved and developed over a career from 1911 to 1934. He lived from 1882 to 1960, but stopped making glass in 1934, when the glassworks he used closed down. He worked a lot with bubbles, carved glass, and thick, dense vessels, constantly exploring new techniques, always in the form of vessels.

Finally, toward the end of the island we saw the exhibition of works by Alberto Burri. I particularly wanted to see this exhibition because we have visited his masterpiece, the Cretto, in the earthquake-destroyed village of Gibellina in Sicily, and found it impressive.

Alberto Burri, Gibellina, Cretto, 1985-2015

Alberto Burri, Grande Sacco, 1952, with details

Earlier works make use of found objects and are abstract compositions, but as he progressed, his work became increasingly minimal and somehow also increasingly powerful, so that by the last room filled with textured black paintings, I was extremely touched. 

The guard confirmed my sense that these works are very moving, but I can't articulate exactly why. I suspect that their simplicity after all the wild and often aggressive works in the Biennale gave me some comfort. Some of the paintings made use of crackle in a way that suggested the Gibellina project, and they preceded it.

Alberto Burri, Grande Cretto Nero, 1977

There's a lovely cafe/restaurant between Le Stanze del Vetro and San Giorgio and we ended out visit with a light lunch and an Aperol Spritz there.

Venice Biennale Day 4, The Giardini

Posting about Venice has been interrupted, and reviewing my images and notes from the Giardini national pavilions and the second part of May You Live in Interesting Times really provides some clarity on what made a lasting impression, We made a point of going to the Laure Prouvost video and installation at the French Pavilion. The video was lively and the installation suggested the degradation of the sea.
Of the many engaging works in  the second stage of May You Live in Interesting Times, I single out two that reverberated for me. Teresa Margolles's Muro Ciudad Juarez, 2010, a wall transported from that city, with its razor wiring, graffiti and bullet holes, spoke to the drug violence in Mexico more emphatically than any video I can recall.

And again I was taken by Jimmie Durham. This time his work is a slab of Black Serpentine, 2019, accompanied by a panel that puts the work in the context of global commerce.

I thought the Russian Pavilion's installation based on Rembrandt's Prodigal Son was overblown and so dark I was afraid I would fall. It made me feel sorry for the painting.

The videos of indigenous people in the Canada Pavilion addressed issues of land and cultural appropriation.


The German Pavilion again was reconstructed in a way that made little impact.

We had some discussions with the guides in the Great Britain installation, who told us the artist, Cathy Wilkes, didn't want them to explain the work, that we should understand it in our own way. Honestly, I tried and I didn't.

I enjoyed exploring the reconceived tomb that was the Egyptian Pavilion, "khnum across times witness."

I also found the inside-out airplane in the Polish Pavilion fascinating. 

The Belgian Pavilion "Mondo Cane" by Jos de Gruyter and Harald Thys, was a sort of diorama of puppets portraying craftspeople in the center area and zombies and misfits behind bars on the periphery.

I very much liked the United States Pavilion this time. In the midst of video, performance, and drastic modifications of the pavilions, Martin Puryear's sculptures seemed calming and disturbing at the same time. I've always found his sculptures fascinating for their ungainly shapes and I've never been able to figure out if they had specific meanings. Peter Plagens' Wall Street Journal article on the pavilion interpreted his work in this exhibition in some detail and I wonder if all the sculptures I have seen by him over the years are also as specifically connected to the African American experience and racism. Probably so.

I wonder about the interpretation of the monumental façade that sits in front of the building, a sort of flat light-colored trellis supported by a heavy black twisting form. The light part, a circle with rays curving away from it suggests classical architectural designs, and the twisting black support is in strong contrast to it, so the idea that this is elegant white America supported by black labor makes sense, especially after reading the NY Times's 1619 Project essays. (Incidentally, my Spalding ancestor arrived in Jamestown in April 1619, just a few months before those first slaves. I believe my ancestor was an indentured servant and I would be surprised if he could have afforded slaves. By 1627 he had completed his indentureship and in 1634 he moved to Braintree, Massachusetts. Regardless, he must have witnessed the beginning of slavery in America.

The Wall Street Journal did not discuss at least  one work, the large red curved shape that I thought looked sort of like a cap. It's titled Big Phrygian and dates from 2010-14, painted red cedar. In the seventeenth century Phrygian caps were a symbol of liberty and an article on this work says that Puryear saw a print of an African American wearing a Phrygian cap, the source for this sculpture. I had no idea of that background in the exhibition, just thought the sculpture was an interesting minimal shape. And I wonder how many visitors to the exhibition would have known this story.

Most impressive to me is the central sculpture, a tribute to Sally Hemmings, positioned under the dome of the pavilion entrance, the most Jeffersonian part of the very neoclassical pavilion. It's a tall white pedestal topped by a metal form that suggests a cross and a shackle.

Venice Biennale, Day 3 Afternoon National Pavilions at the Arsenale

The Biennale catalogue lists 26 national pavilions in the Arsenale. Those are in addition to the 29 official ones at the Giardini and the scores of them in apartments, shops, palaces, warehouses, and other venues hidden across the city. I’ve selected only a few that particularly caught my attention.

Because I made a couple of trips Amazon Peru in the ‘90s, starting in Iquitos, I was quite taken by Christian Bendayán’s rather complex installation in the Peruvian pavilion, “Indios Antropofágos”. A Butterfly Garden in the Jungle. Based on “exoticized images of jungle natives,” his Spanish tile compositions depicted transgender and transvestite characters enacting exaggerated versions of early 20^th-century postcards of native people of Peru. Versions of the postcards, showing native Peruvians dancing or posing in groups are also included in this richly conceived installation.  The backgrounds of the tile compositions copied watercolors of Iquitos – on view in the exhibition - by the lepidopterist Otto Michael, who published books on Amazon butterflies after three multi-year expeditions to Peru between 1885 and 1921. Michael’s books are also on display, titled “Butterfly Hunter of the Amazon,” and Bendayán has included collages of Amazonian women with butterfly wings. This is a rich and dense installation, full of history, anthropology, socology and biology, very rewarding if one takes the time to look carefully. And the tiles, azulejos, are brightly colored and cheerful.

 

The Luxembourg Pavilion included a vast installation by Marco Godinho, Written by Water, of blank books that have been washed the water of various oceans. It is accompanied by a video documenting the books being washed by waves. The array of blank books, each a slightly different color of white and each with differently curled pages, was both peaceful and disturbing. Blank books, the ocean as a factor, and the whiteness of the pages call to mind bleaching coral and the power of the earth’s elements.

Kosovo’s Family Album is a video installation by Alban Muja that captured my attention for many minutes, as adults describe the meaning and memories they derive from photographs of themselves as children displaced by the Kosovo War of 1998-99. Their straightforward descriptions of the events they survived and their calm demeanor made the stories chilling.

The Ukraine Pavilion was somewhat ephemeral, but engaging, especially to Tom. As their entry to the Biennale, Ukraine sent the worlds largest cargo plane the Antonov AN-225 MRIYA on a flight over Venice on May 9, 2019, casting its shadow over the Giardini del Biennale.  In the cargo hold was a digital directory of all living Ukrainian artists.

brochure cover about the Antonov 224 cargo plane

The installation that touched me the most was another of multiple similar objects, this one from Saudi Arabia:  Zahrah Al Ghamdi’s After Illusion. It refers to a line from an ancient Arabic poem by Zuhayr bin Abi Sulma (520-609) referring to his attempt to recognize his home after having been away for 20 years. The installation is made up of thousands or round, sea-form like sculptures made from leather, attached to translucent lighted white shims and clustered on the floor. It was pleasant to walk through, evoking a world of peace and artistic creativity.

Layers of suspended black paper made up the installation by Joël Andrianomearisoa for the Madagascar Pavilion, that country’s first representation at Venice. It is beautifully simple, dark but not completely negative in feeling.

Latvian artist Daiga Grantina presented an installation of brightly colored forms suspended from the ceiling, leaning on the walls and resting on the floor, titled Saules Suns. They seemed playful, organic, cheerful, and a little menacing.

Ghana also had its first representation at Venice and chose to make a substantial pavilion, designed by Sir David Adjaye, the Ghanian-British architect. Among several artists included there were Lynette Yiadom-Bonkye, a very good painter, Felicia Abban, a photographer, and the famous ubiquitour El Anatsui, with several enormous wall pieces made as usual, from bottle caps and the like. They were so big I couldn't capture them in photographs.

Felicia Abban, Untitled Self-Portraits, ca. 1060s-70s

Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, The Mighty, Mighty Lines, 2019, oil on linen

El Anazui, Yaw Berko, 2019, aluminum printing plates, bottle tops, and copper wires.

Walking toward the end of the Arsenale, outdoors, we came upon a very old decrepit-looking boat, suspended near the water, obviously salvaged. We did not know at the time that this was the boat named Barca Nostra, which had sunk off the coast of Libya in 2015, drowning about 900 immigrants. The Swiss-Icelandic artist Christoph Bűchel had brought the boat to Venice. There are online images of it being transported to the lagoon.

Among the several large pavilions at the end of the Arsenale building, we were most interested in India. The installation, Our Time for aFuture Caring, is based on the memory of Mahatma Gandhi. It opens with images of Gandhi and a quotation from him, “I am not a seer, rishi or philosopher of non-violence; I am only an artist on non-violence and desire to develop the art of non-violence in the realm of resistance,” Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. The works of several younger artists and senior artists like Nandalal Bose, all refer to Gandhi’ s teachings and impact on India. I’ve chosen to focus on just two. The first installation, by GR Iranna, We Together, 2012, two walls full of single Indian sandals of the type worn by Gandhi, is another example of repeating the same element, in this instance peasant sandals, to larger effect than just a few sandals, a photograph or a painting would have. To me it spoke of all the kinds of people who wear this footwear, and all the walking Gandhi and his followers, and Indians, do.  Of Bodies, Armour, and Cages by Shakuntala Kulkarne, includes several cane dresses, headdresses and other forms, as well as photographs of women wearing the dresses. While being beautifully and artfully constructed, the works speak profoundly of women’s real and imagined constrictions.

GR Iranna, We Together, 2012

Shakuntala Kulkarni, Of Bodies, Armour, and Cages, 2010-2012

If you wonder where the Italy and China pavilions are, I did not photograph any of the works in these two very large venues. I did make a point of seeing the installation by Tomás Saraceno, an artist whose work has fascinated me since I first saw it at an earlier Biennale. On the Disappearance of Clouds, in one of my favorite parts of the Arsenale complex, relates conceptually to the effects of global warming, apparently moving with the motion of the tides, and accompanied by scores for music compositions on the same subject, these clouds were not as evocative as the webs we have seen by Saraceno in Venice and other venues. And I discovered, this installation was part of the curated exhibition. Some things were not very clear as we wandered through the spaces.