Salvador Dali… the Opera?

Salvador Dalí never worked small. In fact, he was downright operatic in everything he did—colorful, bombastic, and loud. Now, Dalí the painter is finally Dalí the Opera. Yo, Dalí ("I, Dalí" in English) recently opened at the Theatre of the Zarzuela in Madrid, Spain, and will move on to Barcelona’s Gran Teatre del Liceu in October. Originally meant to celebrate the centennial of Dalí’s birth in 2004 but delayed until now, Yo, Dalí begins in 1929, when the arch surrealist met his muse and soul mate, Gala, and ends with his death in 1989. This opera tries to capture all the passion and tragedy of the six decades in between. Please come over to Picture This at Big Think to read more of "Salvador Dali… the Opera?"

Good Connections

There are those who are called to greatness and those who are called to stand next to greatness. Although a fine painter in his own right, Emile Bernard is best known for befriending bigger stars such as Van Gogh and Gauguin in their heyday and Cézanne in his twilight years. Born April 28, 1868, Bernard painted Self-Portrait with Portrait of Paul Gauguin (above, from 1888) in the midst of their close friendship and professional association, both of which would later fall apart under unhappy circumstances. In 1888, Van Gogh and Gauguin lived briefly together in a tempestuous artists’ colony that concluded with Van Gogh’s infamous ear-cutting incident. Bernard often added another side to that relationship, forming a triangle in which Bernard would incorporate different elements of Van Gogh and Gauguin’s work into his own. His admiration for Gauguin mirrored that of Van Gogh’s, perhaps setting Gauguin up on a pedestal that he never asked for and longed to come down from. That Bernard painted this self-portrait and portrait combination in Gauguin’s own style makes the work both a fitting tribute and almost a scary stalker’s love letter.

Bernard painted a different kind of “love letter” for Van Gogh—his Brothel Scene (above, 1888), which he dedicated to Van Gogh in the corner. Clearly, Bernard and Van Gogh shared an intimate relationship in which they both freely walked on the wild side. Van Gogh loved to talk shop with Bernard, filling his letters to Bernard with references to Goya, Velazquez, Rembrandt, Vermeer, Hals, and other greats. “It is possible that these great geniuses are only madmen, and that one must be mad oneself to have boundless faith in them and a boundless admiration for them,” Van Gogh confesses to Bernard with eerie foreshadowing. “If this is true, I should prefer my insanity to the sanity of the others.” The insights shared between Van Gogh and Bernard in their letters rank second only to those shared between Vincent and his brother Theo in letters by Van Gogh that survive. Bernard deserves a lot of credit for recognizing the value of Van Gogh’s work when others shied away from both his style and his personality.

Unfortunately, the Arles circle eventually broke up, first between Van Gogh and Gauguin and later between Gauguin and Bernard. Bernard continued to paint in a “Gauguin-like” style with “Gauguin-like” content in works such as Breton Women at Prayer (above, from 1892), but Bernard began to challenge Gauguin as to how much Gauguin had taken from him. Bernard claimed that the cloisonnism technique of clearly outlining the contours within a painting was his and not Gauguin’s idea initially. By this time, Bernard had also been talking closely with Cezanne. Unfortunately for Bernard, the threat of being drafted into the French military forced him to flee to Egypt, where he remained for the next ten years. Separated from the maelstrom of French art at the beginning of the twentieth century, Bernard has also been erased from many histories of that period. In many ways, Bernard is the Vasari of Post-Impressionism—an artist brilliant enough to recognize genius in others but not brilliant enough to create art on the same level. Bernard’s good connections, however, will always keep his name linked with that of Van Gogh and Gauguin and that brief shining moment in 1888.

Family Man

Of all the painters of the Dutch Golden Age, Jan Steen seems like the one who had the best time without destroying himself. Buried on February 3, 1679, Steen, born 1626, excelled at painting genre scenes that celebrate the everyday life of the family, such as his The Feast of Saint Nicholas (above, from 1665-1668), which shows the December 5th holiday in which St. Nicholas comes to visit Dutch children and leaves gifts for those who have been nice and coal for those who haven’t. You can feel the joy of the little girl in the center tightly clutching the little doll she has just received. A boy on the right sobs because he has received coal, while another boy points at him and gloats. In the background, the father of this clan sits quietly and soaks in the moment. I imagine Steen doing likewise in his own life. Unlike Rembrandt, Steen’s older contemporary, Steen never took students, but he did develop a lucrative business of painting to the tastes of contemporary buyers, but without compromising quality. The frenzied, complicated composition of the painting perfectly captures the chaos of a Christmas morning full of excited and disappointed children.

Steen studied the works of Frans Hals, another older contemporary, hoping to reproduce the same great combination of studied technique and spontaneous liveliness. Steen’s The Morning Toilet (above, from 1663) hints at the risqué moment when a curvy young woman pulls off her stocking. Her direct stare at the viewer suggests that she’s not some innocent babe. Clues such as the Cupid appearing above the archway may hint at her profession as a prostitute, but if she is, Steen has placed her in a high-class setting. The illusion of the archway framing the young woman in the distance creates a sense of dignity not usually associated with the oldest profession. Hals would have made the woman’s role more distinct, but Steen instead adds a layer of mystery that allows him to show off his skills in rendering fabrics and the tiled floor. The skull acts as a memento mori, reminding us that the pleasures of the flesh are momentary, but death is forever.


Steen loved to add proverbs to his paintings, sometimes even inscribing them onto his paintings. In The Artist's Family (above, from 1663), the old woman sings a song reading the lyrics on the paper. In Dutch, it reads “I lead, all follow suit.” Steen paints himself handing a boy a pipe, instructing him to follow his example in enjoying a good smoke. Everything in the painting follows suit, a vast chain of cause and effect—the very essence of a family. Parents beget children, who, in turn, beget grandchildren, with each generation patterning itself on those that went before. As in The Feast of St. Nicholas above, The Artists’s Family swirls in a kind of tumult, but the tumult of life rather than strife. I much prefer these movable feasts of bodies over the dry, still as statues brand of group portraiture. Steen captures the actual life of his family in motion and interaction. It remains poised without being posed. Anyone who’s tried to take a family picture and waited for everyone to hold still knows it’s impossible. Action shots are always the best, anyway, and the most true to life.

Dutch Mistress

I remember as a kid looking at advertisements for Dutch Masters cigars and thinking, “Where were the women?” One woman, Judith Leyster, broke up the boys club of Rembrandt, Frans Hals, and others and found a place for herself in the hyper-male world of seventeenth-century Dutch art. Baptized July 28, 1609, Leyster confidently painted her Self-Portrait in 1630 (above), around the age of twenty-one, as she began to achieve renown as a portrait and genre painter. The portrait shows the influence of Hals, who was a teacher and great influence. Within a few years, Leyster became the only member of the Haarlem painters’ guild. Leyster even began to take students. When her former teacher Hals stole one of her students, Leyster sued Hals, and won! The same exuberant lust for life that characterizes Hals painting appears in Leyster’s work, clearly mirroring her feisty spirit and underdog mentality as a woman in a man’s world.

Another great influence on Leyster at this time was Caravaggio. Like many of the other “Caravaggisti,” or imitators of Caravaggio, scattered across Europe, Leyster tried to recreate the amazing light effects of the Italian master. In The Proposition (above, from 1631), Leyster shows a man and woman lit by lamplight. The woman attends to her sewing as the man places a hand upon her shoulder, perhaps as part of the proposition. Perhaps due to the shadiness of the image we read shady intentions in the man’s act. We can’t be sure what’s going on. Such scenes were common in Dutch painting as emblems of lust in action as well as innocence unswayed. Historians love to use such paintings to read hints into the nature of the relationship between Hals and Leyster, but we really don’t know enough to extend it past the roles of teacher and student. Leyster’s style followed Hals’ so closely that many of her paintings were mistaken for those by Hals, whose more famous name brought higher prices. In some cases, forgers would paint Hals “signature” over that of Leyster to pass it off as a work by Hals. Fortunately, enough faux Hals were discovered to be by Leyster that she herself was rediscovered in the 1890s in the same mania for Dutch art that lifted the reputation of Vermeer and other Dutch painters.

Leyster’s paintings show a great love for life in all its forms. Her Serenade (above, from 1629) shows a young man singing while accompanying himself on a lute. Such musical scenes made up a common genre in Dutch painting of the time, but what separates Leyster’s painting from the crowd is the Carvaggisti light effect of the light source from below, as if a lamp or fire sat just below the bottom edge of the frame. When the Robber Barons of late nineteenth-century America looked for art to invest in, the Dutch market seemed the surest bet. That buying frenzy led unscrupulous dealers to pass off lesser-known names with great talent as Rembrandt, Vermeer, Hals, and others, creating a tangled web of misattribution that still plagues art historians today. Out of that chaos, fortunately, some of those “lesser” names, such as Leyster, were saved from the dustpan of history, finally allowed membership posthumously in the club denied to them in life.

From Left to Right

Critics dissect many artists into almost different people based on “periods.” I know of only one artist differentiated by which hand he painted with—Lovis Corinth. Born July 21, 1858, Corinth painted realist works with an almost sinister Symbolist feel such as Self-Portrait With Skeleton (above, from 1896) up until 1911, the year he suffered a stroke (perhaps hastened by his chronic alcoholism). Left with a partially paralyzed left side, including his painting hand, Corinth learned to paint with his right hand within a year with the love and support of his wife Charlotte Berend, herself an artist and Corinth’s former student. Painting with his naturally dominant left hand, Corinth worked in a mostly realistic style that borrowed from other movements such as Symbolism and Impressionism. Along with his friend, Max Liebermann, Corinth brought some of the first stirrings of Impressionism to Germany. Unlike Liebermann, however, Corinth saw the world in darker tones, recognizing the pain of life he experienced so closely firsthand.

The right-handed, post-stroke Corinth began to paint in a highly Expressionist style. Although almost an entire generation older than most other Expressionist artists in Germany, especially the artists of Der Blaue Reiter and Die Brücke, Corinth felt compelled to play the younger man’s game of angst and outrage. Corinth’s Cain (above, from 1917) strikingly depicts the pain and the defiance of the Biblical character. Painted in the midst of Germany’s involvement in World War I, it may also serve as a symbol of Germany’s own fratricidal guilt in ginning up the war fever that soon consumed all of Europe in the flames. Corinth watched an entire generation of young men, including many of the fine young Expressionist painters, die in the war. Already manic-depressive, Corinth’s natural pessimism grew even deeper during the war years.

Corinth died in 1925 while making a pilgrimage to Holland to see the works of Rembrandt, Rubens, Hals, and many other beloved influences. In that final year, Corinth painted his son in Thomas in Armor (above, from 1925), perhaps a satiric comment on a world that sends young men to battle. Trapped in an ailing body, Corinth turned inward and turned his art upside down, replacing finish with raw emotion. Like his beloved Rembrandt, Corinth painted himself over and over throughout his career, in all kinds of settings and in all moods, from bacchanalian to bleak. Corinth died before the Nazis’ ascension in Germany, so we’ll never know his judgment of them, but we know their judgment of him. When the Nazis wrote up the list of “Degenerate Art,” only those works by Corinth after 1911 were deemed improper, as if the paralysis from his stroke had actually killed the artist rather than freed him in a whole new way.

In Vino Veritas

While Rembrandt painted introspective self-portraits and Vermeer designed quiet, meticulously lit interior scenes, Jan Steen painted the partying side of seventeenth century Dutch life and art. Between his birth in 1626 and his death on February 3, 1679, Steen crammed plenty of life into his fifty-three years on this earth. His Self Portrait as a Lutenist (above, from 1660 to 1663) shows how he always was the life of the party. Like his slightly earlier contemporary Frans Hals, Steen painted scenes of domestic happiness for the growing middle class market. About 350 of the 800 paintings he was known to have finished survive, giving us a healthy look at this joyful artist.

Steen’s grew up surrounded by alcohol in the household of his father, who was a brewer. Intoxication is clearly the theme of The Drinker (above, from 1660). Interestingly, Steen chose to paint himself and his wife, Margarete, as the tipsy couple. Steen looks directly at the viewer, smiling almost idiotically with pipe in hand, over the unconscious form of his wife, whose one shoe has fallen off and lays in the foreground. Self-portraits such as this led to legends that Steen himself drank too much, but no facts back up that argument. It’s a remarkable portrait for the sheer unflatteringness of the depiction of himself and his wife. Steen rejects any glamour in getting drunk, choosing instead to depict the human frailty at the source of seeking solace in the bottle.

As wonderfully lively as Steen’s party pictures are, there is always a moral tucked within. The Life of Man (above, from 1665) shows a typical tavern interior full of people of all ages enjoying themselves with food and drink. Everyone seems to be eating oysters, the famous aphrodisiac, revealing that more than playful flirting was on their minds. At the top of the painting, a curtain is pulled back, making the scene seem more theatrical than real. Beneath the curtain, in the attic above the partiers, a young boy blows soap bubbles while sitting next to a human skull. The skull and soap bubbles symbolize the reality of death and the fragility of life, respectively, something the revelers below have momentarily forgotten. In showing both sides in this tableau, Steen runs the whole gamut of human existence—both the joy and the sorrow. Steen clearly knew how to party, but also knew the score when the party was over.

New York, New York

Over the holidays, Annie, Alex, and I visited Annie’s parents and took advantage of being so close to New York City to venture out to see some of the great art on exhibition there. Leaving Alex with his Gung Gung and Pau Pau at their office in New York, Annie and I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see The Age of Rembrandt: Dutch Paintings in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The show promised all the great works by Rembrandt, Vermeer, Hals, and others along with a bunch of works normally not on view. It was fascinating to see works such as Rembrandt’s Man in Oriental Costume (aka, The Noble Slav) (above, from 1632), but it was a bit disconcerting to see it with the name “VANDERBILT” hung prominently over it. If you didn’t know better, you’d have through that someone named Vanderbilt was the artist.

I enjoyed seeing all the great Dutch works together and seeing the “in the style of” works emulating Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Hals. One tiny “wannabee” Vermeer still had the “Vermeer” plaque on the gilded frame, a historical marker showing that some collector once paid for a Vermeer and didn’t get one. The Met separated the show into two parts, the first containing most of the famous works and the second the lesser works that seemed more like an unnecessary appendage. (I had more fun getting sidetracked by works by David and Thomas Lawrence while traveling between he parts.) Throughout, however, the obtrusive and downright fawning acknowledgement of the original collectors of these works (and later donators to the Met) rankled with me. Annie doesn’t appreciate Rembrandt’s works as much as I do, wondering why everyone’s nose is so unattractively done, but she, too, felt that the homage to the donors went overboard.

(Philippe de Montebello, the current director of the Met, recently announced his retirement. I’d like to take this opportunity to declare myself interested in the position. I would be willing to do it for half of what Philippe was raking in, too. If appointed, I promise that never again would a show at the Met fawn all over the donors like The Age of Rembrandt. The Age of Butt-kissing would be over. I’m sure the board of trustees, composed mainly of wealthy donors, would welcome my new approach. My e-mail’s over on the right, if the Met is listening.)


Gustav Klimt (1862-1918), Adele Bloch-Bauer I, 1907; Oil, silver, and gold on canvas; Neue Galerie New York; This acquisition made available in part through the generosity of the heirs of the Estates of Ferdinand and Adele Bloch-Bauer.

A few days later, Annie and I and friends Tatjana and Kyle headed out to the see the Gustav Klimt exhibition at the Neue Galerie. (My earlier review of the Klimt exhibition catalogue is here.) After touring Hoboken for 30 minutes in search of parking (finally winning a spot by basically intimidating someone else from taking it) and then descending into the labyrinth of New York public transportation, we finally arrived at the museum—a grand old mansion facing Central Park. I was surprised at how crowded the museum was on a Sunday afternoon, but Klimt’s appeal shouldn’t surprise me any more. Anyone who loves Klimt should venture to the Neue Galerie before the show ends this June. You’ll never have such a chance to see so many Klimt drawings, paintings, and artifacts in one place together.

Seeing a work such as Adele Bloch-Bauer I (above) in person made the whole trip worthwhile. Rightfully the focus of the show, Adele Bloch-Bauer I drew a huge crowd around her, all trying to get close enough to see the intricate workings in gold and silver that composed her dress, something no reproduction can do justice to. Fortunately, Adele Bloch-Bauer I will remain at the Neue Galerie after the show concludes, but seeing her in the context of Klimt’s other works only enhances the experience.

I had never been to the Neue Galerie before and loved the experience, so different from the feel of the larger survey museums such as the Met. We ate a quick, delicious lunch in the basement Café Fledermaus of authentic German food. I could have wandered around the amazing, sharply focused bookstore for hours, but left content with calendars of work by Klimt and Franz Marc for my office walls. The only bone of contention that Annie and I had with the Neue Galerie was their policy of no children under 12, which forced us to leave Alex again with his grandparents and uncles for the afternoon. It rankled even more when we saw two other couples with very small babies in tow, which I guess is allowed. (What are you going to do, make them put the baby in a locker?) I wish the Neue Galerie would reconsider their policy. If not, Alex will be visiting them in the Spring of 2018, and that’s just not right.

All in all, it was a wonderful time to be in New York City to enjoy family, friends, and great art.

P.S.—To the nice lady who approached me in the Neue Galerie with the words “You seem to know a lot…” before asking what the words “Gustav Klimt Nachlass” that appeared on many of the drawings meant. I didn’t know then, but I did some research when I got home. Those words were part of a stamp of authentication placed by the Gustav Klimt Estate on works left unsigned at Klimt’s death. After a famous artist dies, drawings are the toughest type of forgeries to fight, especially rough preliminary studies, unless you literally place a stamp of approval on the actual works.


[Many thanks, again, to Gung Gung, Pau Pau, and Uncles Johnny and Gary for taking care of Alex while Annie and I were at the museums. Special thanks also to Tatjana and Kyle for helping guide us through the arcane passageways of the New York subway system and for a great day in the city.]

The Immigrant Experience

Growing up in the coalmining town of Pottstown, Pennsylvania amidst Eastern European families such as his own, George Luks clearly understood the nature of the immigrant experience in early 20th century America. Although born himself in America, on August 13, 1867, Luks’ parents clearly impressed on him the hardships of coming to America and fitting in. Luks’ father, a physician, and the rest of the family did their best to help their fellow immigrants get by. In works such as In the Steerage (above), from 1900, Luks brings to life the feeling of second-class citizenship on the passage over the Atlantic in his empathetic representation of the passengers as well as the electricity and excitement surrounding the promise of a new life in his bold colors and brushwork.

Luks began his art career as an illustrator for The Philadelphia Press in 1894, his brash and braggadocious reputation already cemented by his early dropout from the PAFA and his (false) claims of once being a middleweight boxing champion. He soon met like-minded illustrators and artists such as John Sloan, William Glackens, and Robert Henri and followed them to New York City, where they formed the school known as The Eight or The Ashcan School. Works such as 1905’s Hester Street (above), which shows a burgeoning Eastern European Jewish community forming in New York City, soon won Luks critical success and lucrative sales.

Success spoiled Geoge Luks from a social consciousness perspective. The Spielers (above), also from 1905, represents the softer side of Luks, who loved painting children, such as this dancing pair, in the spirit of Frans Hals, one of his great influences. Luks soon turned to portraits of wealthy patrons, pushing his portrayals of the masses aside. Sadly, his alcoholism grew worse, costing him his marriage. In 1933, police found Luks’ dead body slumped in a speakeasy’s doorway, the remnant of a drunken bar fight the night before. The pretend champion of the world had lost his final bout. Luks work continues to stand out for its amazing amalgamation of old master and modernist technique as well as his empathetic presentation of the “yearning masses longing to be free.”