Valentine's Day

The Story of Valentines Day---it's not what you think.

Elena del Rivero

In the latest edition of The Secret History of Art, professor of art history and best-selling author Noah Charney discusses the work of Elena del Rivero
 

Frank Gehry's Guggenheim Museum

In the latest edition of The Secret History of Art, professor of art history and best-selling author Noah Charney discusses Frank Gehry's Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain
 

The Secret History of Art is moving to ArtInfo

Dear Readers,
I'm pleased to announce that this blog will shortly be moving to a new host, the excellent daily art magazine ArtInfo (www.artinfo.com).  ArtInfo is the best source for news and features about the art world, with over a million monthly readers.

I have been asked to become a regular columnist, continuing The Secret History of Art as a regular feature on ArtInfo.  The blog will be expanded in its scope, and in the future I will cover not only art historical mysteries, as I have thus far, but also will include my articles and analysis on art crime, art travel adventures, and relevant book, film, and exhibition reviews.  Future visits will be redirected to The Secret History of Art on ArtInfo.

Thank you for reading and I hope that you will continue to do so in our new, larger venue.  Best wishes, NC

Velazquez "Las Meninas": Secret History of Art Podcast

Today's Secret History of Art podcast explores what is quite possibly the greatest painting ever made, Velazquez' masterpiece, "Las Meninas."

Guernica : Secret History Of Art Podcast

In this episode of The Secret History of Art, Noah Charney takes you on a guided tour of Pablo Picasso’s masterpiece, “Guernica,” which hangs in the Museo Reina Sofia in Madrid.  The painting’s devastating abstraction of the horrors of war has spoken to generations, and is so powerful that it inspired an art lover to an atrocious act of vandalism against it.

Carpaccio : Secret History Of Art Podcast

In this episode of The Secret History of Art, Noah Charney takes you on a guided tour of Vittore Carpaccio’s “Young Knight in a Landscape,” a large painting which hangs in Madrid’s Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza.  Learn why this knight’s identity was hidden in symbols and code, which symbols have been deciphered, and how a forger managed to trick centuries of owners of this work into thinking that it was by Albrecht Durer.

Petrus Christus : Secret History Of Art Podcast

In this episode of The Secret History of Art, Noah Charney takes you on a guided tour of a tiny painting in Madrid’s Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza entitled “Our Lady of the Dry Tree” by Petrus Christus.  The painting contains a unique set of symbols found nowhere else in the history of art, and involves a secret Renaissance brotherhood whose existence, before the decoding of this painting, was all but unknown.

Carpaccio "Young Knight in a Landscape"

Vittore Carpaccio

Young Knight in a Landscape

(1510)

Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza

The Venetian painter Vittore Carpaccio (1460-1525) takes his place alongside fellow resident of La Serenissima, Giovanni Bellini, as one of many great artists after whom a culinary delicacy is named.  Thinly-sliced beef or tuna served with lemon was invented at Harry’s Bar, in Venice, as the ideal accompaniment for a Bellini (a peach and champagne cocktail), also created at the legendary café and now available throughout the world. 

Although such a statement may seem like a silly aside, it is in fact worth noting because many non-art historians in the world will have encountered beef carpaccio long before they ever see a painting by the dish’s namesake.  This is an example of how fame and name recognition can precede the appreciation or even understanding of what the named individual actually did.  One wonders what a great painter like Carpaccio would think, to know that his name is known by millions around the world—but as an Italian hors d’oeuvre?

            The painter Carpaccio was a life-long resident of Venice, who likely trained with Giovanni Bellini (insert lunch-related joke here), although as is the case for so many artists of this period, no documentary evidence has been found from the start of Carpaccio’s career.  His paintings are not quintessentially Venetian, the way one can see a continuum from Giovanni Bellini, to his pupils, Giorgione and Titian, whose work influenced Palma Vecchio, his son Palma Giovane, and the other great Venetians, Veronese and Tintoretto.  Within that group we can see distinctive stylistic consistencies.  The way faces and bodies are formed, a sense of roundness to faces, a reliance on color over line, and the paintings laid out in blocks of color rather than drawn with lines that were then colored in, all distinguish this Venetian style, as opposed to contemporary paintings from central Italy. 

In Carpaccio we find hints of Antonello da Messina, the great early proponent of oil painting who worked primarily in Sicily, and the painting style that developed in Ferrara, with the likes of Cosme Tura, Dosso Dossi, and Garofalo.  Stylistic precedents can provide important clues as to the biography of a young artist.  Could Carpaccio have studied in Ferrara?  By the looks of his paintings, certainly.  But likewise could a Ferrarese painter have been working in Venice?  Sure.  It is a favorite game for art historians to play, filling in the gaps in documentary evidence with a geography of style, but one must always exercise caution when documentary evidence is absent, and also consider what benefit the inferred knowledge might bring us.  The rather complex iconography of this, Carpaccio’s monumental allegory, may indeed be clearer for our understanding of his background.

            Carpaccio first appears in records for a series of paintings for the various religious confraternities of Venice, from 1490-94, when he painted eight large works on the life of Saint Ursula for the confraternity named in her honor.  Carpaccio liked to work large, and to include a great many details that would draw the eyes of his viewers and spark debate as to what they represented. 

It is important to keep in mind that most paintings of the Renaissance were meant to be interactive—to be prayed through, spoken to, discussed with friends.  Details would be noticed only after time and careful study, and potentially enigmatic allegories or iconographic choices were part of the fun, permitting scholarly discussion or erudite observations among friends.  Paintings were not static objects to be admired once and then to serve as wall decoration.  For this reason, a wealth of details and interesting diversions from traditional presentation were desirable, giving the viewer a lot to admire, a lot to consider, and many years of interaction.

            And so we come to this work, of enormous size and verdant detail.  Unusually, the canvas is signed and dated, on the little painted paper slip in the grass: VICTOR CARPATHIUS / FINXIT / MDX (Latin for “Vittorio Carpaccio made it 1510”).  On a sheet of paper to the knight’s left, is another phrase: MALO MORI / Quam / FOEDARI, which is a family motto translating as “Better to die than to be disgraced.”  A fitting motto for an idealistic young knight, like the subject of this painting.

            This painting was purchased from a collection in the rather random location of Yorkshire, England, where it was attributed in the 19^th century to Albrecht Dürer.  Dürer’s famous monogram signature, a large capital “A” over a small capital “D,” had been added at some point by a forger, who had also covered over the two painted pieces of paper containing the Latin legend mentioned above.  It was as late as 1958 that the canvas was cleaned and the signature, legend, and date were uncovered.

Scholars have had difficulty identifying the knight.  It was originally thought to be Saint Eustace, a knight who saw a stag in the woods with antlers in the form of a crucifix.  There is a stag in the back right of the painting, but its antlers do not seem to form a cross.  The discovery of the motto led scholars to think that this was an identifiable individual, a knight of the Order of the Ermine, an honorary order of knights modeled on the famous Order of the Garter, which was founded by Jean IV of Brittany in 1448.  Count Ludovico Sforza of Milan was a member of this Order of the Ermine, as was Ferdinand II of Aragon.  Leonardo’s wonderful painting, Lady with an Ermine, refers to this Order.  This then begs the question: shouldn’t there be an ermine in this painting?  There is: just to the left of the knight’s right foot.

So, if we can agree that this knight is a member of the Order of the Ermine, then who might it be?  Various studies have suggested a number of knights, all members of the Order, who lived at the correct time to have posed.  Of these, the most widely accepted subject is Francesco Maria della Rovere, the third Duke of Urbino.  Perhaps the landscape or animals depicted provide clues to the identity of this mysterious knight?  It certainly doesn’t look like a Venetian landscape, which is the first surprise, as Carpaccio’s career is documented in Venice.  Could he have traveled to Urbino, with no documentary evidence surviving? 

The flora and fauna that populates this grassland is ripe with symbolism.  To provide a key to each symbol would require several more pages of text, but some basic links will provide a taste: a dog symbolizes loyalty, a white lily stands for purity, while the peacock is a traditional symbol of royalty, but also has a religious association, related to the uncorrupt body of Christ.  There is so much more, and it would be easy to sit before this one painting for hours, as have many art historians.  Why is the castle in the background a ruin?  Why is there the sign of a horse hanging off the battlements?  Who is the other knight, dressed in ceremonial garb, in the middle-ground?  Symbolic readings of the landscape in which the knight stands, and the animals found throughout it, may be interpreted to corroborate the theory that this is the Duke of Urbino—but other scholars have made convincing arguments for other identities of this young knight, so his identity remains an intriguing mystery.

Pablo Picasso "Guernica"

Pablo Picasso

Guernica

(1937)

Museo Rena Sophia

Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso (1881-1973), to quote his full name, was born to a middle class family in Malaga.  His father was an art teacher, curator, and a painter specializing in naturalistic depictions of birds.  Young Pablo began formal training in art at age seven.  By age thirteen his family had moved to La Coruña, where his father took a position as an art teacher.  Pablo was sketching a pigeon, when his father happened to glance at the drawing.  His father was so impressed with the sketch that he acknowledged that his son had surpassed him in draughtsmanship, even at that young age.  Picasso’s father was offered a teaching position in Barcelona, and the family moved back south.  Pablo took the entrance exam for the School of Fine Arts in Barcelona and gained entrance, years younger than the other students.  In 1897, Picasso’s father determined to send Pablo to Madrid’s Royal Academy of Fine Arts, the nation’s foremost art school.  Picasso excelled, but refused to take the suggestions of his teachers seriously.  He was undisciplined, and eventually stopped attending class.  What drew his admiration was the riches of Madrid’s museums, particularly the work of Velazquez and El Greco, whose Mannerist hyper-extension of limbs and human body distortions would influence his later work.

            On 26 April 1937, during the Spanish Civil War, a swarm of fighter planes attacked the Basque town of Guernica, killing hundreds of civilians.  The town was an important strategic center for the Republican forces, who were fighting against the Nationalist forces, the ultimate victors, led by General Franco.  Guernica was the traditional meeting place for a Basque governmental body, but it was also the last defensible town for the Republicans, standing between Franco’s forces and the Basque capital, Bilbao.

            Franco’s Nationalists were aided by German and Italian Fascists, and it was planes of the Italian Fascist Aviazione Legionaria and the German Luftwaffe Condor Legion that provided the aerial assault ahead of Franco’s infantry, in an attack that was called Operation Rügen.  In terms of military history, this was an important strike because the target was not military.  It was, rather, a terror bombing assault on civilians, with no military presence in the town.  The world looked upon the action with horror, recognizing that innocent civilians would not be exempt from war.  It provided a frightening foretaste of the Second World War, showing that the Fascists, particularly the Luftwaffe, had no scruples about killing civilians.  The attackers even chose Monday, the local market day, for the strike, to maximize potential civilian casualties.

            Picasso created this monumental work, considered by many to be his greatest painting, for the Exposition Internationale des Arts et Techniques dans la Vie Moderne at the Paris International Exposition, part of the 1937 World's Fair in Paris.  The painting was then sent on a brief world tour, displayed in Scandinavia, London, and New York.  It helped to raise international awareness of the Spanish Civil War, and in the process spread Picasso’s fame.

            The chaotic nature of the scene depicted can make it difficult to pick out specific figures.  The chaos is intentional, and wonderfully evokes the horror and disarray of the attack by disorienting the viewer into sympathy with the victims.  The scene is a room that is open at the left side.  Animals and people are involved in the commotion, and it is often difficult to distinguish one from the other.  A horse has fallen, after being harpooned with a spear, and a bull stands beside a weeping mother and her dead child.  Some details of interest to note include: tongues replaced by daggers, a bull’s tail transforming into smoking flame, the severed arm of a soldier still holding a sword that sprouts flower petals, a wound in the open palm of the dead soldier (referencing the stigmata), and a light bulb that resembles the Evil Eye, a gypsy curse.  There are two images hidden within the body of the fallen horse: a human skull that may be seen in the horse’s body, and a bull’s head, ready to gore the horse’s belly (the bull’s head is formed by the horse’s front leg, with its knee on the ground—the knee cap forms the nose on this hidden bull’s head, while the bull’s horn is formed within the horse’s breast).

            Art historians love to seek interpretations in art that may or may not have existed in the initial concept of the artists.  For instance, much has been written about the symbolism of horses and bulls in Spanish culture (referencing bull fighting, for instance), and about Picasso’s tendency to use the Minotaur (half man, half bull) as a sexual symbol.  When asked about the symbolism, Picasso said, "...this bull is a bull and this horse is a horse... If you give a meaning to certain things in my paintings it may be very true, but it is not my idea to give this meaning. What ideas and conclusions you have got, I obtained too, but instinctively, unconsciously.  I make the painting for the painting. I paint the objects for what they are."  That sums up nicely the general approach to finding symbolism in 20^th century art.  It might be there, it might not.  Your personal interpretation is what counts, what you the individual viewer feel the work is about.  In this painting, over-interest in symbolic meaning can miss the point.   The overall feeling of horror and chaos is more important than what the component parts symbolize.

Picasso shifted through a number of stylistic periods, his work growing ever more abstract.  His concept of Cubism, in which naturalistic images (such as still-lifes or portraits) are broken up into constituent basic geometric forms that are then shuffled like a dropped deck of cards, later shifted into putty-like shapes and bodies, without weight, with elastic boundaries that could be altered and twisted at Picasso’s will.  The goal was to create a work more dynamic, absorbing, and inspiring of wonder than any realistic painting could achieve.  For this work, a realistic image of the bombing of the town of Guernica, with corpses and screams in the night, would likely have felt melodramatic, saccharine, difficult to look at.  It might have been Romanticized or it might have been so gritty that our reaction would be to shut down our ability to sympathize, as a defense mechanism.

Throughout its existence, this painting has been at the heart of drama and controversy.  While living in Paris during the Nazi occupation, Picasso was harassed by the Gestapo.  One officer is said to have seen a photograph of Guernica in Picasso’s apartment and asked, with disgust, “Did you do that?”  Picasso responded, “No, you did.”

Like all great art, its power transcends time, and can symbolize something current and topical for individuals of any era.  During the Vietnam War, the painting became the backdrop for anti-war vigils in the museum.  These were quiet, poignant protests against the horrors of war.  But in 1974 an Iranian political activist, who claimed to be protesting Richard Nixon’s pardon of William Calley after his role in Vietnam’s My Lai massacre, vandalized the painting, using red spray paint to write “KILL LIES ALL” across it.  The paint was easily removed and the work undamaged.  The vandal, who ironically later became an art advisor, waxed philosophical when interviewed six years after his attack.  When asked why he did it, he said: "I wanted to bring the art absolutely up to date, to retrieve it from art history and give it life.  Maybe that's why the Guernica action remains so difficult to deal with.  I tried to trespass beyond that invisible barrier that no one is allowed to cross; I wanted to dwell within the act of the painting's creation, get involved with the making of the work, put my hand within it and by that act encourage the individual viewer to challenge it, deal with it and thus see it in its dynamic raw state as it was being made, not as a piece of history."  In this quote, he shows the slanted rationale of so many aggressive political protesters.  He does not possess the subtlety to recognize that Guernica has been alive and pertinent to every generation since its creation, and has never been relegated to mere history.  And while his action was damnable and, for all he knew, could have ruined the masterpiece forever, the fact that Guernica inspires such passions is a testament to its power and its enduring resonance in all eras.

There is a reason why painting is not photography.  But it was not always known.  There have been times when painting strove for naturalism.  To reproduce, as accurately as possible, what the eye sees in life.  There have been times when what the eye sees is soiled, obscure, tainted by inhumanity.  At this time, painting strove to show the perfection that must surely exist only in Heaven.  That was the High Renaissance of Raphael.  When that perfection had been captured, painting strove to distort what the eye sees, to distort that perfection for dramatic effect.  That was the Mannerism of late Michelangelo.  This is the true essence, the true power of painting.  When photography arrived, painting no longer needed to reproduce our vision.  And painting once again retreated from naturalism toward where it was most effective.  Welcome Picasso’s Cubist abstraction.  No naturalistic scene could be as true to the real sensations and feelings of destruction, death, and war as the broken shards of life in Picasso’s Guernica.  A portrayal of the gratuitous bombing of the Basque historical town, Picasso’s bent and shattered creatures are made of concentrated pain, which passes on to the viewers, trapped in blocks of line and color, for us always to remember the capability of man to hurt man.

Petrus Christus "Our Lady of the Dry Tree"

Petrus Christus

Our Lady of the Dry Tree

(1462)

Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza

Petrus Christus (1410-1475) was born in Flanders in the town of Baerle-Duc, and lived most of his life in Bruges.  As with so many artists of the pre-Modern era, little or nothing is known of Petrus’ life before his first commission, which may be documented in contracts that have survived the ages.  Many scholars think that Petrus was likely a pupil of Jan van Eyck, the greatest painter of northern Europe in the 15^th century (and many would say of the world, during that time). 

The first mention of Petrus Christus comes from 1444, when he was officially awarded citizenship of Bruges.  From 1446-1454, Petrus worked on a number of commissions for wealthy citizens of Bruges, both religious works and portraits, where Petrus’ ghostly delicacy and detail really shine.  In 1462-63, he was commissioned to construct elaborate decorations to celebrate the triumphal entry into Bruges of the Duke of Burgundy, Philip the Good (who was a great patron of the arts, including of Jan van Eyck).  Most of the greatest artists of the Renaissance were employed, at one time or another, to construct decorations for weddings, parties, masquerades, triumphal entries, religious holidays, and more—works that were essentially meant for use on one occasion and which were then disposed of.  Almost none survive.  It’s a shame, because it would be marvelous to see what artists from Petrus Christus to Michelangelo to Raphael and on would have made of this unusual event-specific art form. 

This painting proved particularly important for historians as well as for Petrus himself, because it commemorates his entry into a religious confraternity called the Confraternity of Our Lady of the Dry Tree, a club of which he and his wife were members between 1458-1463.  Religious confraternities abounded throughout the Middle Ages and Renaissance.  They were essentially societies of friends who engaged in charitable and social activities together (much like the Knights of Columbus or the Rotary Club or Lions Club today).  Occasionally the societies were rather more secret, and would engage in Masonic-style rituals.  But in the main, members would pool resources to build orphanages or hospitals for the poor, or hold feasts in honor of patron saints.

The imagery in this painting is unique as far as art historians are aware, making it particularly interesting.  It was copied in later works, such as the seal of the Municipal Archive in Bruges and the seal of the Royal Library of Albert I in Brussels.  Because of its unique nature, it is safe to assume that the imagery comes from the rituals or specific belief-sets of the Confraternity of Our Lady of the Dry Tree, rather than any published source in literature, Biblical apocrypha, or mythology.

The confraternity is first mentioned in a 1396 document, and counted among its notable members the Dukes of Burgundy themselves, as well as most of the movers and shakers of Bruges high society.  No one knows the true story of the foundation of the confraternity (which must have been established on or before 1396), and therefore historians are uncertain as to how this painting should be interpreted.  In the 17^th century there was a legend that the confraternity had been founded by Duke Philip the Good.  The story goes that the Virgin and Child appeared to Philip in the trunk of an old, dead tree just before a critical battle against the French.  Philip prayed for victory before this miraculous arboreal image.  After he won the battle, he established the confraternity in thanks for the victory.

A nice story, but it if we know that the confraternity was in place in 1396, then something doesn’t jive, as Philip the Good was born in 1396.  However, it’s entirely possible that this 17^th century legend took the confraternity’s story of origin and conflated it with Duke Philip, its most famous member.

This tiny painting presents the message of the Redemption in a unique manner that appears nowhere else in known art history.  The iconography is inspired by the Book of Ezekiel, wherein the Prophet Ezekiel says, “I the Lord have dried up the green tree, and have made the dry tree to flourish.”  Theologians interpret this as a reference to Original Sin, with Mary replacing Eve as the “mother of the world.”  Eve, in the Garden of Eden, was once the “green tree,” flowering and flourishing.  But God made her wither and instead granted favor to the dry tree (Mary as a childless woman), allowing her to bring forth fruit from her womb.  The parallel analogy is that the Tree of Knowledge is the dry tree, which died after Original Sin and the expulsion from Eden, but which would flower once more with the virginal conception of Christ.  A book by Guillaume de Deguileville, written in 1330, conveys this concept of the green and dry trees, and some feel that de Deguileville was a member of the confraternity, or that his writings inspired the beliefs of the members.

Christ holds a crowned globe, showing himself to be the redeemer and spiritual leader of the world.  The dry branches of the tree are cleverly bent and interlaced so as to form a crown that recalls the crown of thorns.  Fifteen gilded letter “A”s hang from various branches of the dead tree: the “A” is the first letter of “Ave Maria,” and fifteen is the number of the Mysteries of the Rosary, the prayer in which rosary beads are used as a meditative tool to pray to Mary.  This complex, intricate, wholly unique painting still holds many secrets about this powerful confraternity and the specifics of its belief system. 

There is pleasure in the immersion into a sense of wonder and mystery.  This painting holds hidden secrets, lost to historians.  It is a puzzle which, if decoded, could shed light on a secret society that boasted some of the leading artists and rulers of Europe among its members.  But for now, it remains an unsolved puzzle.

Welcome to The Secret History of Art

The Secret History of Art is a guide to seeing art in an entirely new way. 


This blog, and its accompanying videos, takes you on a private guided tour of a special selection among the greatest artworks in the world.  International best-selling author and professor of art history Noah Charney presents the history, symbolism, and importance of each work selected.

The Secret History of Art is a series of lessons in miniature on great works of art around the world.  By spending just a few minutes per masterpiece, you can learn the mysteries, stories, and secrets of some of the world’s greatest art treasures.

This blog is an extension of Noah Charney’s acclaimed Museum Time (De Museos) series, guidebooks to the museums of Spain, published in Spanish and English by geoPlaneta. 

The museums of the world can be daunting.  The art presents a strange new language, one that certainly intrigues but is often intimidating and foreign.  Museum-goers often like to know what they should see and why.  This blog and its accompanying videos offer an answer. 

The history of art is full of unsolved mysteries.  Art historians have spent centuries trying to decipher paintings whose exact meanings have been lost to Modern man.   Before the Modern period, educated men understood a visual language of symbol and allegory which is no longer used today.  Learning this visual vocabulary of allegory and symbol allows us to interpret and decode these masterpieces, which are renowned for their beauty, but the interpretation and understanding of which has remained elusive.  Real art history is full of coded messages and hidden meanings, which require a guide to illuminate.  But most of all, great works of art speak in universal truths about the human condition, about love, fear, death, jealousy, and faith.  Though these masterpieces were created centuries ago, human beings have changed remarkably little—only modern man has lost the ability to read the mysterious and beautiful language of symbols that are the key to understanding art history’s mysteries.  Together, we will unlock the puzzles and learn the stories behind the artworks.

Join us for this series of illuminations of the secret history of art.