Smoke and Mirrors: Museum Display and Historical Accuracy

The museum is a sacred space: art lovers near and far traverse to the city capitals here, there and everywhere for entry into the latest exhibition. We purchase tickets; we process, ambulate, and circumambulate thoughtfully circumscribed galleries; we stop and gather to worship before the altarpieces of great masters of Renaissance and modern ages, if only for a brief moment.  In the gift shop, we collect our books, t-shirts, postcards – any token of our own little (sometimes arduous) pilgrimage.  However, while these museums may look and feel like modern cathedrals to art (the gothic Victoria and Albert and the colossally classical British Museum), many of the art pieces they house were not originally created for such spaces and instances of display.  This is particularly problematic when we find ourselves, as viewers, absorbing whatever visual or factual truth presented by the setting of a museum, which may or may not consider its original purpose or place of display. 

In this blog, Hannah (green) and I (Katherine-blue) will consider some of the ups and down of museum display: in some instances citing theory; in most, offering our own experiences, thoughts and questions on art works we’ve loved, exhibits we’ve hated, and gallery lay-outs we’ve found inspiring and why. 

Labels

Labelling and signage is a tricky one. Obviously, as a viewer, we want to know all about the piece in front of us. But we don’t want the description to detract from the art, encouraging us to stand too close amongst a huddle of other people all struggling to read the too-small grey-on-grey print that never seems to give quite the right amount of detail. Indeed sometimes it is possible that labels and guides don’t even give the right detail. Following a departmental seminar by Daniel Wallace Maze earlier on this week, we have become very aware of the fact that museums rarely allow for any degree of uncertainty when it comes to the attribution of a work. Perhaps this is a response to public demand for concrete knowledge, something that is understandable but perhaps not entirely useful in terms of encouraging productive engagement and research.  As art historians, chances are we will often know something about the images and objects we seek out – but what of those we don’t? Audioguides offer a solution, as do large-print guides, catalogues and swatting up beforehand on selected pieces that you intend to view on the day, or making notes to follow up afterwards. Again, none of these are foolproof but certainly encourage a more active engagement with a work of art than simple viewing. That said, there is much to gain from soaking up the art and appreciating it from an aesthetic point of view or, indeed, viewing a piece actively and engaging with colour, material, form and content before worrying about the details of who and when and where. It doesn’t always have to be about academics and I fear that sometimes we get hung up (if you’ll pardon the pun) on the hang or the labels and stop enjoying the art. Striking this balance is a thorny issue and sadly, labelling choices are unlikely to please everyone. Perhaps this is why minimalism seems to be preferred for labels in general, leaving the viewer to fill in the gaps themselves. Some will find this frustrating, others rewarding, but perhaps it is worth remembering that any experience is what you make of it – absorb or study as you will, but most importantly - enjoy it!

...

A label, unassuming and plain as it is, has power.  Often, its words determine how and why you look at a painting; sometimes many people look at a label even before considering the painting itself.  The clear-cut, didactic precision of a label gives you what seems to be the undisputed facts, leaving little room for the complexities and complications, interpretation and questioning inherent to the creation and existence of any art piece.  If a viewer does not bring any prior knowledge to the painting, words can simply explain away any curiosities that otherwise may entice him/her.  Read text – look at painting – okay, see what the text is saying, makes sense – moves on.  Off course, I am generalizing in the largest sense (and also not considering the necessary personal aesthetic choices each person makes when they choose to look at, linger, or question a painting)…but is there a better way to approach most labels? Can we, as Art Historians and Curators, work together not to just ‘tell-it-how-it-is’ at the most basic level and instead, offer places for questions; describe the art work so that it may lead people to ask ‘how-it-might-be/have-been’?  I often think back to the curiosity and excitement of the Natural Science museums of my youth in NYC, or even the child-like exuberance I feel still today in the Natural History Museum in London.  Without making galleries Kindergarten-playrooms, is there a way we can inspire even a little bit of that sense of wonder and youthful inspiration in the world of art?  I think engagement, like in the Museum of Modern Art in Middlesborough (see my blog about its curator and purpose here), is one answer, especially with contemporary art.  But what about something as simple as labels, whose sheer simplicity doesn’t lead us to question their authority…or even what they really say?  A lack of inquiry, of openness, of engagement even at that core intellectual level, can be dangerous in some circles – with art, I believe, it might threaten to cover over its beauty and historical pertinence with a layer of stale curatorial dust, separating us from that relatable fundamental act, and the essential joy, that comes with any creative activity.

Lighting

Unfortunately, one of the most memorable instances of ‘bad’ lighting was at the otherwise gorgeous Beyond Caravaggio exhibit at the National Gallery (see my blog here for further thoughts on this and other aspects of my visit).  One of the most beautiful aspects of Caravaggio-style Baroque painting is their incredible sense of contrast – brilliantly lit figures, all covered with shadow, emerging from near absolute darkness.  In their original state, they would have been displayed in the beautiful semi-darkness of a smoky, candle-lit chapel and the ‘emerging’ effect of the figures would have been even more profound.  The lighting of Caravaggio paintings I have seen in-situ in Rome, like stunning The Conversion on the Way to Damascus, is so perfect that the work has you feeling much like St. Paul must have at the hoof of that horse! 

To my disappointment, the lighting at the National Gallery seemed like exactly opposite: instead of the murky mystery of the dim Italian chapels, the exhibit paraded the paintings as if they were Vegas showgirls, lighting them with what seemed to be overly-strong, very direct, almost theatrical spots.  While it says a lot about Caravaggio’s brilliance that the profundity of his paintings still shone out against the disfiguring harshness of these lights, it leads us to deeper questions about what kind of lighting not only suits a painting, but how that suitable lighting leads to a greater historical understanding of the way that painting worked and was displayed originally.  Such inaccurate lighting, in this and other instances, does injustice to the true innovatory power of painters like Caravaggio, their significance in their own time, and an understanding of that time in ours.       

...

Lighting is another issue fraught with problems. Katherine alludes, in the introduction to this piece, to the fact that works of art in museums are outside of their natural habitat. In both of our experiences, this is particularly the case with altar pieces. Altar pieces are regularly displayed in bright lighting, which could not be more different from the softly candlelit interiors of the churches for which they were originally intended. We found this to be starkly true of the Beyond Caravaggio exhibition at the National Gallery (we might be a little biased because we heart Caravaggio). However, in my recent visit to the main body of the National Gallery, I stumbled upon a room created to complement the Caravaggio exhibition and dedicated to two altarpieces by Juan Bautista Maíno: The Adoration of the Shepherds and The Adoration of the Kings. This were dimly lit and atmospheric, inspiring an atmosphere of hushed calm that one might expect to find in a church and entirely appropriate for two altarpieces. The contrast between the exhibition and this rooms could not be more pronounced and, rather than indicative of insensitivity on the part of curators, may actually demonstrate awareness of the demands of public display and the ways in which this interacts with a desire to be faithful to original context. Unfortunately, logistics mean that paintings can’t always be hung in small, intimate spaces, and different works require different lighting, so it may be that a one-size-fits all approach is the most appropriate.

 

Through the Looking Glass: Glass Casings and Audio Tours

One thing we’ve all been frustrated with in museums: glass casings over paintings and pieces. How many times have we tried to snap a shot of our favourite Simone Martini altarpiece but only see our own reflection in the glass rather than capture an image of the gorgeously revolted face of his Annunciation Mary? (That being said, I do largely disagree with excessive photo/selfie taking in a gallery – a thousand better images of the piece can not only usually be found on the museum website but [I’m sorry] Google Images [Blasphemy!].  As Art Historians, it is useful to get an angle or note a detail with a camera, but for the most part, a lot of picture-taking just creates crowd-traffic and disturbs the flow of the gallery).  There are, of course, the obvious benefits of a class encasement for preservation, safety and security - we certainly do not want another instance of that little boy being pushed by a crowd full on into the centre of a multi-million dollar painting (watch the video here if you missed it)! However, here are just a few questions that we might think about: how much does the glass change our viewing of the picture? It certainly is a divergence from the way the piece was originally displayed, especially in older pieces like a Renaissance altarpiece. How much does it change the actual colour or overall visual coherence of a painting when, intense lighting for instance, reflects off its surface and distorts the image? These and other questions concerning its actual state of purpose and original display that glass casing, while necessary and useful, brings up.

Making Materials Matter?

At Dulwich Picture Gallery back in October (see my blog ‘Old Masters, New Exhibits’ here), I really admired the Hans van de Welde exhibit’s choice of arrangement in a certain room where a central painting was surrounded by prepatory drawings, which differed in their medium, composition, and respective stage of finish and un-finish.  As someone who heralds drawings and designs in my own thesis, I thought it wonderfully productive for the viewer to actually envision the extraordinary artistic efforts that go into the process of the ‘final work’ of a painting.  Many if not most of the drawings were extraordinarily beautiful and worthy (and no doubt collected privately in some instances) for display in their own right, and yet, to see them collectively arguably adds a level of appreciation to art that a beautiful drawing or painting could not achieve alone.  The material handling of charcoal, the mastery of graphite, the first layerings-on of wash and watercolour and oil all become apparent as the ideas of artist shift, his composition is honed, his skill is executed in the timeless mastery of a craft that took incredible amounts of time and patience, love and frustration, years of blood, sweat and tears (yes, I could also be talking about graduate theses).  I think an increased understanding of the material and mental processes, shown hand-in-hand in this way – for not only a Renaissance man like van de Welde but for later more contemporary artists as well – can truly underscore the beauty of artworks which otherwise may be problematically worshipped as a single stroke of genius.  (I believe this ‘genius’ complex is problematic in two, maybe different, but significant ways for the way we not only view but make art today.  Not only does it herald the singularity of the individual as completely outside of his historical time and context, but it also has the potential to lead to a relative ‘laziness’ among viewers and aspiring artists who may think Rothko is a just a big block of colour, Duchamp is all about toilets, and Pollock just splattered paint and ‘I could do that’ when actually so much more theorizing, conceptualizing, drafting and process was involved.  Such a mentality, devoid of an appreciation of process and effort, material or mental, leads some art of today to absolute absurdity.)

...

As Katherine says, the materiality of a work of art can have a huge impact upon the way we view it. Working on material culture, as I do, this is something very close to my heart. And in direct contrast to Katherine's comments regarding drawing and painting, what might be considered very ordinary and everyday objects can be elevated to works of fine art by the ways in which they are displayed. In the British Museum and the Victoria and Albert Museum,  whole rooms full of ceramics are to be found. It cannot be denied that these objects are beautiful, ingeniously crafted and often highly entertaining in their original function (see, for example the eighteenth-century puzzle jug in the V&A).

Their display in great class cabinets that allow a 360^o view of these objects allows us to appreciate the master craftsmanship that went into their creation, to marvel and the sheer variety of tableware available to the early modern diner and to have a giggle at someone spilling wine all over themselves whilst attempting to drink from a puzzle jug. But this display leads us away from their original purpose. Yes, silver and ceramic plate was regularly on display in the home as a symbol of the householders' status and taste, but we mustn't forget the Renaissance emphasis on beauty and utility. These objects were made for use and display, and I wonder if preserving them for display as we do, with an emphasis on whole pieces and whole sets, glosses over their essentially ephemeral nature and practical purpose. That said, however, we do encounter the occasional reminder in a museum of the connection between use and beauty: the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford contains a recreation of a dining table laid for a meal that truly emphasises the impact and effect where these two purposes collide.

Layout

I must say, one of the most striking layouts I have ever seen was the National Portrait Gallery’s exhibit, Vogue 100.  Its reverse-chronological structure, at first confusing, presented its beautiful material ingeniously, connecting past to present in a way I have not seen in any gallery before.  Beginning with towers of magazine covers from a random variety of eras, it subsequently launched viewers into rooms starting with our current era, working back to the magazine’s founding in 1892.  (As a side note, some of the magazine photographs were gorgeously displayed, blown up in all their fabulous colour, and several strikingly abstract ones back-lit in darkened rooms.)  It wrapped it all up with one long room flanked on both sides by runway-like glass cases laying out the magazines themselves in the opposite direction – beginning bringing right back to the end in the present. Coming in with the mentality that ‘standards of beauty are so different than they have been in the past,’ I was surprised to see more patterns and connections than I expected, viewing ‘Womanhood’ in all its paradoxically changeful timelessness.  

...

A layout that caused an awful lot of consternation was that of the Botticelli Reimagined exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum. Chaotic, shiny -black-walled modern art gave way to a grubby-looking nineteenth-century room followed by the stark, white-box-like, brightly lit Botticelli room. The reverse chronological order employed in this case seemed sadly to gloss over a lot of the nineteenth century art, focusing on Botticelli as the real 'goal' of the exhibition. This did seem odd, as the absence of both The Birth of Venus and Primavera made for a distinct lack of continuity, as it was these paintings that seem to have inspired so many of the artists that followed.

The first room, containing the twentieth-century work was an assault to the senses, incorporating audio-visual work and neon lighting with reflective walls and flooring and cramped conditions that meant that you could rarely step back and appreciate a work in its full glory. After this, the grey-carpeted nineteenth-century room felt like a bit of a dingy afterthought and the final room felt overly clinical and stark. I understand the concept that was being aimed at - capturing the mood of each era and moving back to the purity of Botticelli's original works. But sadly it fell so far short of this mark, it ended up feeling like three separate exhibitions and left me confused and alienated despite having been exposed to great artists such as Warhol and Rossetti and some interesting new pieces. In another layout, these may have been thrilling. I'm no student of museum theory, but this, more than anything else, really brought home the impact that layout and types of display can have on the way that we experience art. 

PhD's New Year Resolutions 2017

The start of a new year marks the start of a new term! For us first-year PhD students, it marks one of our first significant landmarks: we are now no longer 'freshers' and can look ahead to the more distant future.  What have we learned from our first term? What did we miss in the buzz of department orientations and campus maps?  With all this considered, how do we want to move forward in the remainder of our first year?  Though we might not keep them all, our New Year's Resolutions - PhD style - might help get all of us thinking of how we might move forward these first few chilly months of 2017.

Katherine: Having missed 'Fresher's Week' last term, I focused on my new apartment in the city, finding the department, and using Berrick Saul and the library.  So this year, I am hoping to join a new society or two!  I also have resolved to begin attending the SHADY pub meetings more regularly.  Starting this term, the group for us York Art Historians will be conducting short theory readings/discussions over a friendly pint.  First up: Plato's Cave! 

Hannah: Like Katherine, I have resolved to be better at attending departmental and SHADY events, especially the discussion groups, as these will help to flesh out my theoretical grounding.  I'm also really looking forward to this term's departmental lecture series.  My biggest and most important resolution, though, is to keep pushing ahead with my Italian language training in preparation for my first research trip to Florence in April!

Adam: Central to Cartesian philosophy is the concept of Dualism, whereby mind and body coexist independently. Scientifically however this has been proven otherwise, so in 2017 I will resolve to exercise more frequently, without necessarily acquiring Arnold Schwarzenegger's biceps (I was thinking more Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man, preferably without Nazi dentists on my tail). Where brain-exercise is concerned, I will seek to work harder on my Latin grammar and brush up my Dutch!

A set of Whistler fireworks to ring in the New Year - James McNeill Whistler, Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket, 1875

Epiphanies: some art and some exciting news...

In honour of Epiphany and the fact that we haven’t posted much over the festive period, I thought I’d share one of my favourite (somewhat) festive works of art – Benezzo Gozzoli’s fresco, The Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem (c.1459) in what is now Palazzo Medici Riccardi in Florence.

I first came across this work during an MA module on The Italian Domestic interior and was intrigued by the ways in which it combined religious devotion, political statement and self-aggrandisement.

At first glance, this is an extremely devout work, aligning the Medici patrons with the Magi in their journey to find the Christ child. Indeed, portraits of Cosimo and Piero de’Medici can be found amongst the faces of participants in the procession, associating them even more closely with the religious subject matter.

Benezzo Gozzoli, Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem
Detail - Piero de'Medici
(http://www.museumsinflorence.com/musei/chapel_of_the_magi.html#)

Benezzo Gozzoli, Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem
Detail - Cosimo de'Medici
(http://www.museumsinflorence.com/musei/chapel_of_the_magi.html#)

But it is so much more than this. The Medici built their brand new palace, in which this chapel can be found, as a concrete, urban symbol of their power. The chapel was not simply the locus for private family devotion, but a place for business transactions and important meetings to take place. It was one of the points within the Renaissance palazzo where public and private collided in a way that has fascinated historians for a long time, and it’s message would have been clear to see for all those admitted within its walls.

The Medici family were patrons of the Compagnia dei Magi (also known as the Compagnia della Stella), a religious confraternity that was responsible for the organisation of the very public procession in celebration of Epiphany that wound its way through the streets of Florence each year. Indeed, it seems likely that this procession, passing outside the Palazzo Medici, followed the exact path of its fictive counterpart upon the walls of the chapel. Thus, as patrons of art, architecture and religion, the Medici were able to help consolidate their power within the city over which they effectively ruled.

I have had the privilege of standing inside this chapel on a visit to Florence a couple of years ago, and it was then that I was able to realise the extent of its impact. Following restoration work that was completed in 1992, the chapel is a riot of colour and gilding that surrounds and envelops the viewer, attesting to the Cosimo de’Medici’s pride in his own artistic taste and patronage as well as his political motivations.

Benezzo Gozzoli, Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem(http://www.museumsinflorence.com/musei/chapel_of_the_magi.html#)

There is another, slightly ulterior, motive for this blog post… I am excited to have firmed up the details of my first research trip and to be returning to Florence in April! Watch this space for more lovely Florentine art and architecture over the coming months!

(This is a somewhat abbreviated account of the frescoes... if you're interested in finding out a bit more, check out Cristina Acidini Luchinat's book, The Chapel of the Magi : Benozzo Gozzoli's frescoes in the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi Florence (London and  New York: Thames and Hudson, 1994).

Rubens at King's: the elephant in the chapel?

At the East End of King’s College Chapel stands Rubens’ monumental altarpiece The Adoration of the Magi. Painted c.1634 for the Dames Blanches convent in Louvain, its luminous colours and arresting nocturnal effects are familiar to all fans of A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, broadcast on Christmas Eve, a picturesque occasion quintessentially English in spirit.

One would hardly have guessed the controversy that surrounds its installation. While the vacuous display of intellectual self-gratification that is this year’s Turner Prize challenges the viewer only in their ability to stifle a yawn, this seemingly innocent artwork has fomented the ire of many a conservationist and Edwardian enthusiast, many calling for its removal, an opinion gaining ground among the general public. Not that this is sensible: in 1968 the floor of the East End was lowered to specifically accommodate it, demolishing Tudor brick archways (apparently recycled as crazy paving) and exhuming graves dating back to the fifteenth century. The Edwardian panelling that once covered the stonework is in storage, and the altarpiece itself is challenging to manoeuvre, taking ten men two hours to carry it across the college courtyard when it was first acquired; moreover, the terms of Major Alnatt’s bequest preclude the Rubens being displayed anywhere else, the chapel’s oblong shape and altarpiece’s colossal size not allowing for a change in position. The proverbial toothpaste cannot be put back in the tube so easily.

Many of those opposing the altarpiece today apparently hold Rubens' art in some disdain. Graham Chainey cites Joshua Reynolds’ dismissal of it as a ‘slight work’, carelessly banged out in just over a week, as if Reynolds’ aesthetic judgements are somehow infallible (just like his experiments with bitumen). Writing in the Spectator, Simon Blow, grandson of Detmar Blow, who designed the chapel’s Edwardian reredos, laments how ‘the Rubens dominates’ and ‘blank stone walls stare at you’. The acquisition, lament the critics, is the fallout of titanic egos clashing, namely Michael Jaffé, a “Rubens obsessive”. Cambridge’s first lecturer in Fine Arts and later director of the Fitzwilliam Museum, he is accused in the Spectator of bisexual promiscuity and bloody-minded arrogance. Is this deserved?

‘This munificent gift and rare addition to the worship, dignity, and beauty of the Chapel’ was how King’s described the Rubens in 1961. Kenneth Clark urged its acceptance with his watershed BBC series Civilization in production; only Nikolaus Pevsner opposed its installation. Detmar Blow’s romanticised painting from the 1900s, with warm sunlight flooding the East End, fails to capture the dismal gloom of winter months that precipitated its renovation. The ‘brown Windsor soup’ of Blow’s ‘Edwardian mannerist’ panelling, as Jaffé so aptly described it, is no great loss to the Chapel’s glorious Tudor filigree stonework. As handsome as the reconstructed stained glass is, services in the East End required a focal point at eye level.

By today’s standards, the renovation of the East End in the 1960s was certainly a botched job. The naked stone walls are too austere, and the risible reframing of the Rubens as a faux triptych (the original sold to Michael Heseltine) has something of the Ikea aesthetic, to say nothing of the desecration of the chapel's crypt. Vandalised by the IRA in the 1970s, it is kept behind absurdly distant barriers to this day, keeping the hoi-polloi at a football stadium's distance. Nevertheless, the painting as it stands does great justice to the spectacular setting of King’s, and vice-versa. Rubens’ warmly luminous palette gives colour to an otherwise forbidding architectural space, its grandiose proportions comfortably accommodated by the chapel’s soaring vaults. The combination is best appreciated during services, where art, architecture and exquisite choral singing intertwine in what could be called a Gesamtkunstwerk – a total work of art. Although flawed, the special candlelit atmosphere of evensong or Christmas Eve does much to iron out the creases.

'Regeneration': The Resurrection of Ruskin in Contemporary (Post-Postmodern?) Art

Last week, I attended back-to-back evening lectures that, unbeknownst to me, 'resurrected' the ghost of undergraduate-theses-past and, through it, brought a significant issue of current art making, display and study to the forefront of my attention.

Wednesday - Berrick Saul Auditorium and a talk on 'Ecological Aesthetics' by director of MIMA, Alistair Hudson.  Admittedly,  I knew neither what the terms 'Ecological Aesthetics' nor 'MIMA' implied, but, for that very reason, thought I should go.  This is truly one of the wonderful things about our department here at the University of York: the interests of faculty and students alike are so wide-ranging that amazingly diverse discussions await not only in every-day departmental exchanges but also in all the different speakers invited to give special lectures.  As PhD students intently (and intensely) focused on a sliver of research in a certain area, I believe the opportunity to hear something new and fresh and different is one of the great benefits of being at the University of York as a student of History of Art.  

Thursday - St. Chad's College Chapel, University of Durham and a 'college conversation' on 'Holiness, Regeneration and Beauty' featuring guest speaker and businessman, Jonathan Ruffer.  Never had I been to Durham and when fellow blogger and University of Durham alum Claudia  alerted me to the title of this talk, I could not miss the chance to not only see a new and highly acclaimed historic city, but also to hear anything to do with these three words - three words highly important to my study of nineteenth century debates on art and theology.

Durham by day...

Durham in the dark (ie...4pm!!). 

In talks that (a - I didn't know too too much about initially and (b - that at the outset seemed quite different, there was a strange, serendipitous sense of cohesion that ultimately wound itself back to an old 'friend' of mine: nineteenth century art and social theorist, Oxford Slade Lecturer, John Ruskin.

Author of celebrated books like Modern Painters, Stones of Venice, and The Two Paths (just to name a few...), John Ruskin wrote prolifically about the ancient ideals of societies and their art, their respective risings and fallings-out, and argued that they - art and social virtue - were integrally intertwined.  In an age of rapid industrial change,  Ruskin believed his times to be plunged into a darkness devoid of moral and true beauty.  He argued that his contemporaries must look to and resurrect the models of the past to make art usefully beautiful in the sense that it would inspire them to live and work and do good.  Pointing to and defending artists like J.M.W Turner and the emerging young Pre-Raphaelites as current examples of this ideal, he would continue to advocate for an art 'true to nature,' for guilds and learning and scientific enquiry, and a reverence for the craftsman, his love of intricacy, his skill.  As an undergraduate, I was inspired by his poetic love of art - through his (often lengthy, archetypal Victorian) descriptions, he merged language and image in a near seamless aesthetic expression, such that his text on art became a work of art itself.  Meshing media, meshing topics, I studied his equation of an ideal art with an ideal society with an ideal woman - what he would call a 'Queen of her Garden' or a 'Lily.'  His cohesion of purposeful, virtuous Art and purposeful, virtuous Womanhood I contrasted against Aesthetic 'Art for Art's sake' James McNeill Whistler's rather different equation of Art and Femininity - one sliver of their greater disagreement that would eventually, infamously bring them to court over libel.  Their dispute represented this broader contest within Victorian society where people struggled to find meaning for beauty and art, for themselves and their new lives in a mechanised, globally imperial world.

As Alistair Hudson would point out in his Wednesday night talk, many at the time thought Ruskin was mad - and actually, later in life, he went certifiably mad.  However, despite some of the tendencies in his writings that we see today as extraordinarily sexist and backwardly traditional, he was very very progressive - so radical as to be among the first to suggest that global warming and climate change was going to be an issue for our health and the health of nature.   It is with this eye that Hudson looks to and talked about John Ruskin in the discussion of his own museum's purpose in the industrial town of Middlesborough.  In moving art away from its autonomous reign in the museum, he is instead employing the museum, much as Ruskin would have sought to in his lectures on and about education, 'toward a lexicon of user-ship.'  By creating workshops and arranging galleries that stimulate use and interaction and engagement with art that itself is made purposefully to engage with its times and viewers, Hudsom aims to make not a neutral but an 'intersubjective interface' where the 'monolithic voice' of museums past is replaced by and encourages divergent opinion.  This way, he hopes people may not ask what art 'means' but how it is 'used' and through use, creates meaning for them in their lives, as individuals and a collective, involved, and opinionated whole. Hudson's stream of examples surprised me - their newness, freshness and contemporaneity made Ruskin, this figure of the past, a figure of my past even, so pertinent in the use of art today.  It is for this reason I had chosen to study the Victorians in general - I found their issues, their questions, so useful and present for today as we deal with change second-by-second in the digital world.  To see it actually discussed and begun to put into practice by a curator at a major modern art museum, though, struck me, made me return to my readings of Ruskin from years past....

The next night Ruskin reappeared! Like from an episode of Ghost Hunters, I was tempted to call out to the world of the spirits: 'Are you there? Can you give me a sign???'  (Fortunately, I restrained myself...)  In Durham, Jonathan Ruffer, surrounded by a host of St. Chad theologians, discussed his latest project at Bishop Auchland Castle, and the other such pursuits in the Yorkshire area to bring beauty and holiness to often downtrodden, industrial areas through the inspirational art of church heritage.  Ruffer, a very successful businessman, bought the ancient castle and has thus begun his attempt to restore it and bring it to public appreciation.  Humbly 'open to the will of God,' Ruffer desires not to patronisingly do things 'for people' but instead do things 'with people.' (A fascinating discussion on the use of prepositions in Scriptural events ensued...ask me another time...)  Again, Ruskin was mentioned explicitly as they discussed events in and around Bishop Auchland that sought to engage 'with' people, their faith, and their love of beauty and holy goodness in broader society.  I was absolutely stunned.  On the train back home from Durham, I thoughtfully pondered my own work with art.  How can I make my PhD work, however relatively much smaller than these grand projects at the regeneration of art and beauty, useful?  At this point, can it be? For beauty? For goodness? For grand old Victorian words like 'virtue' and 'society'?

Ruffer ended with an inspirational quote (paraphrasing from my notes of course) I think we should all keep in mind, in one form or another, when we are attempting to find meaning in our work, and in ourselves:  'If we bring nothing, God can do nothing.  If we bring even the smallest amount, the tiniest grain of sand, He works wonders.  Mathematically, God does not add.  He multiplies.'

So, with Ruskin, Hudson, and Ruffer in mind, we all should press on - PhD students, businessmen, and curators alike. Doing our best - making meaning through 'use.'  Because by doing nothing, we will achieve nothing; by doing some good, some good will be achieved.  We just might not see it yet!

Turner's Fighting Temeraire - an inspiration to Ruskin, an inspiration to end on here.  

The art historian who came in from the cold

Okay, the Cold War is over, the Berlin Wall has been commodified into tacky souvenir fragments of doubtful authenticity, and Checkpoint Charlie is now a great place for a photograph with your girlfriend. In the current vogue for “Ostalgie” precipitated by the 2003 film Goodbye Lenin!, I take a trip across East and West Berlin, starting wherelse but Alexanderplatz. Once a bleak void of Soviet urban planning, it is now cluttered with equally tasteless new commercial developments. Yet the Weltzeituhr and similarly futuristic Fernsehturm still stand as reminders of the 1960s DDR, as do a seated Marx and Engels by the Spree, installed exactly the same year as Margaret Thatcher’s Big Bang. Lenin, however, has long said goodbye.

My visa expires at midnight, so I head back to Charlottenberg from Friedrichstrasse U-Bahn, past the lines of Red Army guards. I start the next day with West Berlin’s cultural showcase, the Kulturforum near Potsdamer Platz. 

Past the Staatsbibliothek and Philharmonie, both built in the 1960s, to the Gemäldegalerie, a vast fine art collection brought back together in 1998 after Berlin’s reunification. Highlights include Caravaggio’s Amor Vincit Omnia, several Dürers and one of the best Rembrandt collections I have encountered anywhere. Moses with the Tablets of the Law, pictured, was especially admired by Sigmund Freud, who hung a reproduction in his Hampstead house.

Enough culture – now for some Currywurst! This dish was probably invented by occupying British soldiers in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War. It combines sausages, a German (and British) staple with a sauce made of ketchup, Worcestershire sauce and curry powder. Order yours “ohne darm”, without skin, with chips or a bread roll. Curry 36 is one of the oldest in Berlin, located in Kreuzberg by Mehringdamm U-Bahn.

Next, a nice jolly down the Unter den Linden, possibly Berlin’s most elegant thoroughfare, towards the Brandenburg Gate and Norman Foster’s Reichstag, Donald Trump protest permitting. 

A day of non-stop walking requires some relaxation, and where better than the Stadtbad Neukölln? Built in 1914, this Roman-style public bathhouse has giant order columns to spare, reminding you of what civic architecture used to mean. Somewhat off the tourist circuit, its generous spa facilities are good value and well worth a visit.

The Neukölln district, the inspiration behind a track on David Bowie’s Heroes album of 1977, has a large Turkish immigrant population. Kreuzberg is said to be the birthplace of the Döner kebab, and any excuse for one is a good excuse!

After a visit to the Schloss Charlottenberg, much of which is under construction, and a lunch of Berliner Eisbein (boiled ham hock with pease pudding, mashed potato and Sauerkraut), I dress for the opera, namely Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots at the Deutsche Oper with star tenor Juan Diego Florez as Raoul. A five-hour extravaganza loosely based on the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, it is often discussed – usually disparagingly – but rarely heard. Compared perhaps to Rossini’s William Tell or Verdi’s Don Carlo it is somewhat banal, yet as spectacular theatre it remains a benchmark. Numerous airs from it stand the test of time, not least “Plus blanche que la blanche Hermine”, “Piff Paff” and “Nobles seigneurs, salut!”.

Before I head back to the airport there is still time to visit the Museuminsel, or what remains that isn’t under construction. The Pergamum Museum with its dazzlingly coloured Ishtar Gate, transported brick by brick from the site of Nebuchadnezzar II’s palace in Babylon, is a must. I then climb the Berliner Dom for the best views of the city.

To quote Boris Johnson on a recent official visit, “Ich bin nicht ein Berliner” (which should have been kein) – to which I add, “bis bald”!

Archival Adventures: Oh, the places you will go...

Archival work is among my favourite parts of research as a graduate student.  After spending long hours labouring over your texts in the library, the proximity of your materials, directly in your hands, will never cease to excite and refresh your research venture.  Along with conference presentations, it is also one of those activities that can take you incredible places in the world. (Read about fellow blogger Adam's recent trip here.)   As I expand my materials in the doctorate, my 'to-go' list is growing as I add more and more cathedrals and galleries to the archival 'haunts' of years past. 

Although I am only in my first term of my long venture, I was eager to return to the drawings, designs and sketchbooks that feature centrally in my thesis.  Train tickets ordered, bags packed and pencils sharpened, I returned to my quest for Burne-Jones material and any adventure that might ensue!    

In my happy place...

Last month I took an extended 'southern tour' through the endless abundance of London and Oxford. The trip to the Victoria&Albert Museum Prints and Drawings Room is always memorable - not only do they possess significant Burne-Jones sketchbooks for my work, but a visit includes a winding (unofficial) 'tour' through all the 'behind-the-scenes' workings of the massive museum since the traditional entry to the prints and drawings room is under construction. I will never cease to peek in the bulging cabinets and shelves in this backstage world where unseen treasures are secreted away for future organisation and use. 

Oxford is always a joy to return to: it's great 'dreaming spires' guard the infinite books and scholarship entrusted to it over the centuries.  I never was able to see all the libraries during my 9-month Masters there, but the old Bodleian, aromatic, ambient and medieval, is a humbling enough experience for any devout lover of the book.  

   

Excited to begin my day of work with books in the beautiful Oxford Radcliffe Camera.

For my archival research, I venture over to the Ashmolean Museum, the oldest public museum in the world.  

Here I spread out and settle in: I find the Ashmolean Print Room to be among the friendliest and most resourceful archives I have been to thus far.  They actually possess the largest collection of Raphael drawings in the world, and most amazingly, are open to the public! (Appointments recommended.) 

Burne-Jones Orpheus designs for the Graham Piano. His delicacy of touch is incredible - something to truly see in person.

 And research is always fun whenever the subject of my study, Burne-Jones, is involved. Despite the 'melancholy' of many of his monumental works, the abundant caricatures in archives across England show his other side and never cease to make me laugh...

And, at the end of the day, a pint is the most appropriate way to celebrate the success of your research 'quest!'