Life After Death

Is it ever possible to “know” an artist? Even artists of the present fall beneath a blanket of critical analysis that covers over their true uniqueness and individuality, if you still even believe in the concept of “truth.” Sam Smiles’ J.M.W. Turner: The Making of a Modern Artist looks at the case history of J.M.W. Turner, a nineteenth century artist who was himself aware of the vagaries of history and tried to cheat death through a bequest to his native land that he believed would shape his reputation for future generations. Instead, the directions of his will were thwarted and his reputation soon became stretched and reshaped to meet the requirements of future critics who, amazingly, enlisted him into the ranks of modern art, providing “evidence” by association of both his greatness and the greatness of the modern artists they looked to promote. Would Turner have wished for allegedly unfinished works such as Disaster at Sea (aka Fire at Sea; above, from 1835) to become the foundation of his reputation as a “modern” artist? Would it have mattered if he didn’t?

Smiles begins by analyzing Turner’s own approach to the concept of legacies and reputations. From early on in Turner’s career, he painted homages to writers such as Alexander Pope (Pope’s Villa at Twickenham, 1808) and fellow artists, such as his portrait of Raphael in Rome, from the Vatican, Raffaelle, Accompanied by La Fornarina, Preparing His Pictures for the Decoration of the Loggia (above, from 1820). In the 1820s, Turner painted works related to earlier artists such as Raphael, Rembrandt, Canaletto, and Ruisdael, “renovating the tradition they represented,” Smiles writes, and giving “a significant part of his output an art historically aware and self-reflexive quality.” Turner paints with an eye to the past while simultaneously keeping an eye on his own future. These commemorations reflect Turner’s personal sense of calling as an artist, Smiles believes, in which “the benefit of art lies in its power to engage and stimulate the mind,” with any commercial benefits being “incidental” to the greater societal good. Turner witnessed the deaths of this contemporaries Benjamin West and Thomas Lawrence (going so far as to paint a watercolor of Lawrence’s funeral) and pondered his own mortality and the posthumous fate of his work.

Smiles masterfully argues the state of Turner’s mind by painting a full picture of the state of the arts at that time, which can be described as nothing short of chaotic. The wills of both West and Lawrence, designed to protect their legacies and benefit the nation, were thwarted after their deaths, impressing on Turner even more the need to protect his own legacy and, thus, the future of British art and society. While bequeathing his oeuvre to the nation, Turner left explicit instructions that Sun Rising Through Vapour: Fishermen Cleaning and Selling Fish (above, from 1807) and Dido Building Carthage be hung in the National Gallery alongside paintings by Claude Lorraine both to show the line of influence and to show that British works could meet the standards of the Old Masters. Turner’s will also made arrangements for a charity specifically for the benefit of poor and “decayed” artists, knowing that his own material success eluded many others who had also dedicated their lives to the arts. Alas, after Turner’s death in 1851, challenges by Turner’s cousins thwarted his will as well, the first link in the chain of events that has shaped our idea of Turner ever since.

John Ruskin, who had assumed the role of Turner’s champion while alive, continued to dominate the conversation after Turner’s death. Ruskin’s “iconographical” interpretations, valuing fidelity to nature and natural effects, hinged on seeing “unfinished” works such as Disaster at Sea (top of post) as interesting as glimpses into Turner’s mind at work rather than as finished conceptions. Ruskin sees post-1845 Turner paintings as the work of an artist in “decline” both artistically and morally—inseparable concepts in Ruskin’s Victorian worldview. As Ruskin’s power waned, more formalist readings of Turner’s art arose, valuing the “unfinished” works, many of which were only being then publicly displayed as the huge bequest was catalogued and restored, as the “true” Turner, i.e., the visionary who “invents” the Impressionist style. Rain, Steam and Speed—The Great Western Railway (above, from 1844) “contains a first rate Monet,” writes one critic in 1902, “if not, indeed, more than one.” A 1906 exhibition of Turner’s late works obliterates the line between “finished” and “unfinished” works seemingly for good, opening up the critical field to adopt Turner as a Impressionist after the fact and, much later, to apply all types of modernist labels to the long-dead painter. Walter Sickert calls Turner “more modern than any living painter” in 1925, expressing the prevailing mood of Turner as more twentieth than nineteenth century artist, literally born before his time.

Smiles outlines the critical campaign for the soul of Turner with broad strokes but manages to give enough detail to keep the story both concrete and riveting. The tales of Turner’s fate at the Tate Britain made me wish I had looked at the exhibit with a more discerning eye while there. The British Council’s post-World War II exploitation of the “modern” Turner “to showcase the vitality and modernity of British culture” becomes a cautionary tale of government intervention in the arts for political ends. Lawrence Gowing’s 1966 exhibit at the MoMA, Turner: Imagination and Reality, completes the coronation of Turner as a modern artist through an installation usually reserved for modern artists and an emphasis on the most modern-looking (i.e., Abstract Expressionist-looking) paintings, completely free of any historical context that Turner himself would have experienced while working on the paintings. “Gowing’s Turner thus occupied an eternal present,” Smiles writes, “and for that reason could offer lessons to all contemporary artists wrestling with the same problems.” Turner’s desire to serve society through art lives on, but radically different from how he intended. John Gage’s 1969 book Colour in Turner: Poetry and Truth arrives on the scene as a corrective to Gowing’s designs, presenting a Turner “more obviously historically placed and intellectually responsive to his age” and “better understood when his cultural milieu was restored to him” than Gowing’s historically abstracted, time-travelling Turner.

Will the “real” Turner ever stand up and be recognized? Is it the nineteenth century living and breathing man or the twentieth century modernist icon? Turner is simultaneously all and none of these things, larger than any one idea and yet too elusive, as all great artists, to be permanently pinned down to any single label. Smiles seems to come down on the side of those looking to recover the historical Turner as much as possible. “For all its difficulty, and even while aware of its ultimate frustration,” Smiles writes, “we must still make the attempt to encounter the past in all its specificity and otherness.” While speaking of Turner in particular, Smiles raises much larger general questions for both the art historian and the non-professional art lover. For art historians, Smiles shows the consequences of curatorial decisions, which always remain choices of inclusion and exclusion that impact not only the artist but the entire fabric of art history’s larger tapestry. For the non-professional art lover, Smiles awakens us to look critically at exhibitions and ask the classic crime-story question, “Quo bono?”—who benefits? In other words, whose agenda is being served by curatorial choices, and why? J.M.W. Turner: The Making of a Modern Artist turns commonplace shibboleths of art history (Turner the Impressionist, Turner the Modernist, etc.) and makes us question them and see Turner afresh. Turner himself could wish for no greater legacy than that.

[Many thanks to Manchester University Press and their American distributor Palgrave for providing me with a review copy of Sam Smiles’ J.M.W. Turner: The Making of a Modern Artist.]

Sun and Fog

One of the second-tier figures of Impressionism, Alfred Sisley was born on this date in 1839. Sisley befriended both Monet and Renoir (who painted Sisley and his wife in 1868), painting many of the same subjects as they did, yet lacking the same spark of endless experimentation that those two used to rise to the next level. In works such as Fog, Voisins (above, from 1874), Sisley shows the influence not only of his fellow Impressionists but also that of J.M.W. Turner, whose paintings Sisley would have seen during his time living there from 1857 through 1861. The famous atmospheric fog of the late Turner seascapes appears here in the rural landscape of Sisley’s France, contrasting starkly with the usual Impressionist affinity for sunlight and clarity, a rare deviation from the Impressionist norm for Sisley, who depended on the financial support of his affluent parents through much of his life, a safety net that may have prevented him from flying too far or too high.

Another British influence on Sisley was that of John Constable. In Sisley’s Environs de Louveciennes (above, from 1873), Constable meets the Barbizon School, the generation of French painters painting out of doors around the Fontainebleau region just before the Impressionists came upon the scene. Renoir also painted around the region, attempting to recreate the landscapes of Corot, which must have influenced Sisley as well. Sisley moved to Fontainebleau in 1880, after the Franco-Prussian War of the 1870s ruined his father’s business and forced him to rely on his painting to support his family. In Environs de Louveciennes, we see Sisley’s sure, confident touch with landscape, a comfortable type of Impressionism that shows great skill but little of the boldness of Monet or Renoir.

Moret-Sur-Loing (above, from 1891) shows Sisley’s famous affinity for blue skies, which mimic those of Turner in their intensity and echo Turner’s own influence, Canaletto. The light in these skies seems more Mediterranean than French, an imaginative fancy amplifying an already beautiful scene. Sadly, Sisley’s work blends in with that of many of the second-tier Impressionists, mainly due to his choice of subject, which draws too direct a comparison with the first-tier artists of the same school. If nothing else, Sisley’s work demonstrates the link between Impressionism and the giants of nineteenth century England, especially Turner and Constable, proving that Impressionism wasn’t exclusively grown on French soil.

Living Daylights

Perhaps the greatest Dutch landscapist of the seventeenth century, Aelbert Cuyp was born October 20, 1620. Son of a painter and member of a family full of artists, Cuyp grew up knowing art and developed amazing draftsmanship at a young age. Works such as The Maas at Dordrecht (above, from the early 1650s) show just what detail Cuyp could achieve in his drawing in addition to the beautiful atmospheric effects he created. J.M.W. Turner’s early skies resemble those of Cuyp thanks to Cuyps in British collections by the nineteenth century and to some cross pollination through Canaletto, who saw Cuyp’s works as a slightly later contemporary. Turner saw Canaletto during his travels in Italy. Another cross-influence comes through Claude Lorraine, the Old Master that Turner set as his early standard to equal and surpass. Cuyp is often known as the Dutch Claude thanks to his all-encompassing skies and warm sunlight.

The Valkhof at Nijmegen from the Northwest (above, from the middle 1650s) shows a taste of Nicolas Poussin with its smooth colors and sense of peace, harmony, and balance. The same sense of quiet that permeates Poussin often resounds in Cuyp’s work. Cuyp painted primarily scenes of his native land up until the 1640s and more imaginative scenes after that. In works such as this from the 1650s, Cuyp takes some liberties to make the world glossier and more beautiful than it was. This switch from his earlier style provides the only basis for dating many of Cuyp’s paintings, few of which were ever signed or dated. This lack of provenance combined with the scarce amount of documentation about Cuyp’s life make him a bit of a cipher, as impersonal as his paintings often are.

Nineteenth century English collectors clamored for Cuyp, buying up many of the works that still remain in many prestigious British collections. Of the little known about Cuyp, one well-known fact is his marriage to a wealthy widow in 1658. After 1660, Cuyp barely painted at all, apparently living the 30 years of his life in leisure. Before even that, Cuyp’s work had begun to fall into mannerism (much like that of Canaletto), trite repeats of the same scenes, each less and less inspired to recreate the beauty of nature or add the spark of imagination. Works such as the unfortunately titled The Negro Page (above, from around 1652) show some of Cuyp’s early promise, his ability to depict the earthy elements of Dutch life gracefully and with his trademark cloud-filled skies. The living daylight that Cuyp could once shine through his works dimmed throughout his career, meekly fizzling out as he sat content in the lap of luxury.

The Canals of Venice

Giovanni Antonio Canal, better known as Canaletto, was born October 18, 1697 in Venice, Italy. Son of Bernardo Canal, a theatrical backdrop painter, Canaletto soon learned the techniques of painting beautiful scenery, which he soon translated to smaller canvases. As a young man, Canaletto painted out of doors, creating realistic scenes of his hometown such as The Grand Canal and the Church of the Salute (above, from 1730). The justly famous light of Italy shines through Canaletto’s paintings, which capture the subtle atmospheric effects that would later inspire artists such as J.M.W. Turner and the Impressionists. Over the years, Canaletto worked more in the studio, but lost little of his clear eye for the beauties of nature.

During Canaletto’s lifetime, Venice starred as one of the highlights of the Grand Tour that every respectable Englishman and woman felt necessary to take. Canaletto seized upon the opportunity to sell paintings to this burgeoning market and created picturesque works such as Rome: The Arch of Constantine (above, from 1742), which was purchased by the British Consul in Venice, Joseph Smith. Smith later sold his large collection of Canaletto’s work to King George III of England. Today, the Royal Collection still contains many works by Canaletto, including Rome: The Arch of Constantine. Canaletto’s images helped fuel the hunger for European travel in England and a love of classical history that would become a hallmark of Romanticism.

British fascination eventually drew Canaletto to England to be closer to his audience. Moving to London in 1746, Canaletto soon began to paint picturesque scenes of England itself, such as London: Westminster Abbey, with a Procession of Knights of the Bath (above, from 1749). Sadly, Canaletto’s style soon became mannered through the repeated painting of the same touristy images for the same patrons. This decline led to rumors that the Canaletto in London was not the real Canaletto, since several artists came to use that moniker. In fact, Canaletto’s nephew and student Bernardo Bellotto also became known as Canaletto, mainly in Germany and Poland, adding to the confusion. During his heyday, however, Canaletto’s style was clearly identifiable, leading Turner to pattern his own unmistakable skies after those of Canaletto’s Venice views, ensuring Canaletto a place forever in art history.