Tag Archives: Italian art

Salvaging Art in L’Aquila

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Italy conjures up images of rolling vineyards and piazzas full of cafes. Yet as the tragic recent volcanic eruption in Aquila reminds us, Italy has a history of disasters that have destroyed cities. From the flooding of Florence in 1966 to the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius that fossified Pompeii and Herculaneum, Italians are not strangers to natural disasters, or the havoc they wreak on people and their cultural heritage.
After the most pressing needs of survival are taken care of, L’Aquila and the surronding area now have a situation similar to Florence after it’s flooding had stabilized: how to recover its artistic heritage. This is not the high-tech process you would imagine. I am still suprised by how simple the process is:

  • Bring a flashlight, two way radio, and camera.
  • Climb into the rubble and start digging with your bare (or gloved) hands.
  • Hope you see something that resembles art. (Although it is unlikely you will have much idea what you are looking for, since archives tend to be housed with their artworks)
  • Stabalize the work, e.g. wipe the mud off of paper or remove the tapestry from water.
  • Try to find all the pieces and take them somewhere safe.

Among other works, a Della Robbia’s altarpiece, which is still somewhere inside Church of San Bernardino di Siena with its crumpled bell tower, is missing. Berlusconi, the prime minister of Italy, has pledged about $40 million toward art relief, and teams are starting works at the most damaged sites today. While I have just spoken of art objects, architects will also be called in to restore ancient facades and rebuild domes. They have a big project ahead of them.

For more information, see the New York Times and Wall Street Journal’s articles on that topic.

Stendhal Syndrome and the Uffizi

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Where medicine and art align, from my friend Sarah (and the Wall Street Journal):

“Stendhal Syndrome. The tendency to develop a rapid heartbeat, dizziness and hallucinations when exposed to great art seems like a great exit line for tired museum-goers. But it seems particularly prevalent in Florence, Italy. An Italian psychiatrist observed it in more than 100 visitors in the 1970s and named it after the French author, who described similar symptoms upon visiting Florence in 1817. More than 100 additional cases have been documented, including some in which a particular detail of a painting seemed to bring on acute anxiety. Effects are usually temporary.”

Anxiety like in Stendhal Syndrome isn’t the emotion I would have imagined a trip to some museum in Florence would impart, unless it was because of the crowds of tourists.

Florence is where I had one of my best museum experiences. I reserved a ticket in line exactly when the Uffizi opened on a Sunday. I was the first person in the U-shaped museum and rushed to the other end in a mad dash. Then I made my way through the galleries backwards, so methodically room by room I was alone with Rebramdts, Rubens, and Raphaels. It felt deliciously illegal and private–not at all anxiety inducing. Yet I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to see a guard or someone. My solitude lasted for one glorious wing, and then I met the crowd again in that wide corridor that overlooks the Arno. Those Medicis knew how to live–being alone with the foundations of the Western canon was incredible.

I wonder what sort of hallucination art would inspire in the case of Stendhal Syndrome. Would you get drawn into the world of the painting, or would they reach out to you from beyond the frame? If I had only had both wings of the museum to myself, I could probably tell you.

Artemisia Gentileschi and her violent Judiths

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Judith and Holofernes, Artemisia Gentileeschi, 1612

Judith beheading Holofernes was popular subject matter in the Baroque period. Judith, a Jewess, is sent with her attendant to the invading army camp of Holofernes, the general, who she charms and inebriates before she chops of his head, thus saving her people. Charming subject matter, no?

It is often theorized that the artist of the painting above, Artemisia Gentileschi (1593-1652) depicted the subject so forcefully because she was raped. Rape no doubt had its effect on Gentileschi, but her life is remarkable for many other reasons.

This talented woman was trained by her father Orazio in the style of Caravaggio and came to be a professional artist, a rare woman among men. She was the first woman to be a member of Academia del Designo and a painter whose historical scenes (a genre thought to be beyond women) enabled her work to be featured in the houses and churches of Florence and Venice. You can see why she is a treat for contemporary feminist theorists, both for her accomplishments and her sufferings.

Her biography is often given as a series of male-dominated events. First she was her father’s daughter. She was raped by a student of his. She was married to another painter to save her honor after the rape. After, her work is often difficult to tell from her fathers, and of her 34 extant paintings, some have only recently been attirbuted to her. Her non-feminist art historical reputation often refers to her as a Caravaggesti, one of the many followers of Caravaggio.

Yet just look at another treatment of the Judith and Holofernes below:

Judith and Holofernes, Artemisia Gentileschi, 1620

The above painting is read into as Gentileschi releasing her anger and rebelling against patriarchy by portraying a strong and vengeful female character. She was raped at 19 in 1612, and she painted the top image in 1612-3 and the one immediately above in 1620. Note how she developed her theme with a larger and more detailed treatment. The violence was not unprecedented. She was a student of Caravaggio and he too painted this subject, as it was a popular one of the period.

Judith Beheading Holofernes, Caravaggio, 1598-9

Look at Caravaggio’s portrayl, painted in 1598-9, compared to Gentileschi’s treatment of the subject. This Judith Beheading Holofernes depicts the same moment of beheading with blood spurting, but Gentileschi’s women are more active than this Judith who leans away from the blood. Caravaggio’s painting seems staid after Gentileschi’s physical treatment, despite the immense skill with which Caravaggio creates the severed head’s grimace.

Perhaps one shouldn’t view Gentileschi’s oeuvre through the lens of rape entirely, as it limits our understanding of context and the credit one can give to her accomplishments, which amount to so much more than a by-product of inflicted violence. But it can hardly help informing our perspective of her Judiths, fearlessly conquering generals. In many ways, her long and successful career can be seen as a triumph over her early rape.