Whilst reading Donna Tartt’s art historical-themed novel The Goldfinch, I was struck and amazed by a passage of a conversation between a drug-addicted, smack dealing millionaire-son called Horst – living uptown New York – and the main character of the book Theodore Decker. By chance, Theo went along with his buddy Boris, to Horst’s place to find out whether he knew more about the selling and missing of Theo’s – unlawful – possession: Carel Fabritius’ The Goldfinch, which he took from a museum-exhibition years back in his childhood. Once inside, Theodore was surprised to find several 17th-century Dutch paintings hanging on the wall and inspected them from a distance. Spontaneously, a conversation struck up between Horst and Theo about art and especially the Dutch, old masters. When together gazing at a work by still life-painter Pieter Claesz., Horst said – quite funnily – that it was not a Willem Claesz. Heda (whose works were much more refined and not as loosely painted as Pieter’s still lifes) but that ‘it could almost be a Heda on a bad day’. On another wall hung another, loosely and rather quickly painted landscape by Jan van Goyen. Theo mistook it for 19th-century, French painting by Corot. But no, as Horst went on about the old masters and their techniques. Eventually they discussed the (once again) missing Goldfinch by Fabritius;
‘It’s a joke, the Fabritius. It has a joke at its heart. And that’s what all the very greatest masters do. Rembrandt. Velázquez. Late Titian. They make jokes. They amuse themselves. They build up the illusion, the trick – but, step closer? It falls apart into brushstrokes. Abstract, unearthly. A different and much deeper sort of beauty altogether. The thing and yet not the thing. I should say that that one tiny painting puts Fabritius in the rank of the greatest painters who ever lived. And with The Goldfinch? He performs his miracle in such a bijou space. Although I admit, I was surprised – ‘’turning to look at me- ‘’when I held it in my hands the first time? The weight of it?’
And I agree, you cannot argue with that. Central to this, I think and what I want to elaborate more on in this essay/blog-scribble, is that most and many old masters’ works are to a certain extent painted in an abstract manner’. This may not be very surprising, but I think we should emphasize more how a painting manifests itself when we take a step forward in a museum to really inspect every detail and brushstroke, until unfortunately, we come too close and the warden corrects us, slightly snobby, museum habitués. On a side note, I am still considering to purchase a pocket-loop to prevent these habitual, but justified corrections. But can we disagree with Horst? I think not. Take a look down here what he was trying to say, to this close up of The Goldfinch by Fabritius from Delft, Holland.
Closeup of The Goldfinch by Carel Fabritius, The Mauritshuis, The Hague.
Above, it is clear what Horst is trying to say. By way of an experiment, if we would show this to a stranger on the street, he’d have no clue what this is supposed to represent and would certainly consider it an abstract work of art, either ugly or sublime to his taste. However, an art-lover or historian might recognize it at first hand, because he knows the existence of this relatively small, lightweight painting. There’s quite a chance, back in The Hague in the Mauritshuis or either when this painting was on tour in States a few years back, that he or she took indeed such a step forward to see how the painting has been done and to see the very visible and clear brushstrokes which are a small part of the whole. In my experience, I absolutely agree with the fictional Horst, my passions are stirred and I get very excited when looking at paintings whereby one can clearly see the brush marks and how the artist handled his paint, in many cases in a very vibrant and decisive manner. In knowledge of The Goldfinch, I (and I hope with me many others), find this close up very exciting and it is indeed ‘A different and much deeper sort of beauty altogether’. The brushstrokes have been handled decisively and rather quickly.
Closeup II of The Goldfinch by Carel Fabritius, The Mauritshuis, The Hague.
Or take a look at the closeup above. Initially, without foreknowledge, it is hardly possibly to find out what this piece an sich is supposed to represent. Perhaps it is part of a tree or it is a twitch. But no, it represent the goldfinch’s claws. Even now, when knowing this, it might not even make sense either. But when zooming out (hooray modern, zoom technology), the part makes finally sense, as one can see below. His right claw has been handled in more subtle, lighter tones and his left claw has been painted just a bit darker, more vague and much more brown. Taking a step back, it finally makes sense because this trick, at an instance, leads the viewer to indeed distinguish between which claw is in the front and which one is in the back. Hence, the thing up close is indeed part of the thing, but it also not the thing. And I have to say, I think it is indeed beautiful and unworldly, by way of its unrecognizability at first glance.
Closeup III of The Goldfinch by Carel Fabritius, The Mauritshuis, The Hague.
A similar trick was handled and put into practice by the 19th-century, The Hague School-painter Anton Mauve, in his Morgenrit langs het Strand which is in the Rijksmuseum collection. When ‘copying’ one of the four horses depicted in this sea view back in the autumn last year, I was experiencing great difficulty painting the white horse’s legs. But luckily, I went closer on the Rijksmuseum website, and I could finally see why and how, when seeing the painting in its entirety, Mauve reached the effect of visually distinguishing its front and back legs and visually giving the viewer the sense of its movement, galloping towards the Scheveningen beach. Below the Mauve-close up, I posited a closeup of my, copied version. And here too, there is an entire different experience when looking at the real Mauve painting aback and upclose. Zooming in, or taking a step forward on the first floor of the Rijksmuseum, one can see the brushstrokes of Mauve put upon the canvas back in 1876. A ‘Van Goyenian’ brownish grey was used for the front, moving legs. What a joy to see the visible brushstrokes. And when even zooming in further, which one can do on this blog, the visual representation of a horse and its legs disappears and all we are left with are decisive, visible white and grey-toned strokes of oil paint. A beauty on itself, because we enter a realm where we can, to a great extent, see how Mauve worked up this piece to its completion.
Closeup I of Morgenrit langs het Strand by Anton Mauve, The Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Closeup I of my copy of Morgenrit langs het Strand by Anton Mauve, private collection, Leiden.
Of course, Horst – or actually Donna Tartt – wasn’t the only one to distinguish between the beauty of a picture as a whole and the unworldly, particular beauty and charm of individual brushstrokes viewed from up close. No-one less than Proust – who is mentioned in the book several times – once mentioned something comparable when he described his love and amazement of his favourite painting The View of Delft by Golden Age-painter Johannes Vermeer. He was particularly struck and passioned by a detail of this painting, namely ‘a patch of yellow wall’ on the right-part of the work. He called it a ‘priceless specimen of Chinese art, or a beauty that was sufficient in itself’. Though, there is quite some dispute which patch (‘petit pan de mure jaune’) Proust is describing here, as one can see below. It can be either the patches in A, B or C.
Closeup of View of Delft by Johannes Vermeer, Mauritshuits, The Hague. Retrieved from http://www.essentialvermeer.com/proust/proust.html.
Either way, we can nothing but appreciate Proust’s amazement and obsession with a detail of his favourite work, in front of which one of his characters in La Recherche fell to the ground, and died. Here too, when we zoom in even further, this part of the whole is abstract, though less visibly in terms of Vermeer’s brush marks, and rather unworldly as it seems to represent nothing when up close. Despite that, I appreciate the detailing and the highlight which one can see below. Hence, there is a whole difference in the world, when looking at either a detail or at the whole. On the whole level, everything fits together and these brush marks are nothing but symptoms of Vermeer’s epic and brilliant use of (high)light, present in almost all his works, making them stand out from many other artists’ works and contributing to the, on the whole, visual pleasure which we perceive when standing in front of it. Not to be an absolute bore, but a similar highlight is present in his world famous Girl with the Pearl, right on her lower-lip.
Closeup of Girl with the Pearl by Johannes Vermeer, The Mauritshuis, The Hague.
Again, a visible, small speck of a pinkish paint on the right of her mouth and on the lower lip. An abstract beauty altogether, though to a less extent as we can still see that it is representing a girl’s mouth. Indeed, Vermeer is making a joke and playing with us. Without these highlights, the trony would be much less appealing and less interesting, downgrading the work’s ability to whisper to us to come closer when we are walking the ails and rooms of ‘Het Suikerpaleis’.
It is almost impossible to write a piece about Dutch Golden Age paintings without mentioning Rembrandt (famous by way of his first name). Rembrandt knew exactly this trick which Horst was describing to Theodore. Rembrandt once famously said that he didn’t want viewers to come close to his painting, as it would not really make sense because we’d only see a visibly overlap of visible brushstrokes (citation and source needed). However, I beg to differ, along with Horst. Pre-eminently, Rembrandt’s – especially in his later works – works prove that a painting – at least a good painting – is more than a sum of individual brush marks. It’s like a fasces, one straw is (almost) nothing and relatively weak, but when combined together with a straw, the whole is much stronger and much more than the sum of individual straws (though with Rembrandt, the individual ‘straws’ are far from weak, on the contrary). It’s all about how these brush marks fall together and create the whole, it’s the puzzle to solve in order to open a magic gate leading men to treasures in movies. But just like mentioned above when discussing other works, an up-close view creates an abstract depiction of something which is not of this world. And I must say and posit, that the individual brush marks made by Rembrandt are almost equally as exciting as the composition as a whole. It lends us to see how Rembrandt worked and painted, back in his studios in Leiden and later on in Amsterdam. We can therefore be much closer and intimate with the work, and with Rembrandt himself.
The trick Horst mentioned, is present in dozens of Rembrandt’s paintings. But to get to the point, I’ll elaborate only on a few of his works. One of my favourite works by Rembrandt has always been the Jewish Bride which is on display in the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam. Vincent van Gogh too, was in love with this painting and it is quite clear in what way the work inspired him. Back in the day, Vincent once wrote down ‘Je moet al een paar keer dood zijn geweest om zo te schilderen’, translated as ‘you need to have died several times before, in order to paint like that’. I still think this is one of the most touching descriptions of a painting. But why would Van Gogh have liked it? Probably because of the visible brushstrokes in the painting (which Van Gogh is quite famous for, you can namely see how they’re done) and because of Isaac’s sleeve. His sleeve is more of a piece of sculpture than a piece of a painting. Rembrandt used to scribble with the back end of his brush in the thick layer of white paint he used for this part, to eventually ‘glaze’ it with yellow, goldish paint.
Closeup of The Jewish Brides by Rembrandt, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
The zoomed in picture above speaks for itself. This part is arguable both the most beautiful piece of sculpture ever and the most beautiful abstract painting ever to come from Dutch soil. Not only because of its appearance, but also because of the way it was done. Rembrandt was really romping around with his paint, the canvas and his brush. He might even have been sweating when doing so.
Rembrandt’s fame comforted him with more liberty to experiment than his contemporaries, just like Titian whom I will discuss below. Rembrandt experimented for instance in his self-portraits trespassing many boundaries in terms of looseness, abstractness and the rendering of light and shadow. However, not everyone could appreciate his loose brushwork and unrecognizable parts of the canvas. A major part of the establishment in Amsterdam still preferred the more refined way of painting, which is for instance rendered with the glazing-technique. An example of this not so well-received experimentation, was the commission Rembrandt got for a work to be placed in the city hall of Amsterdam. The work in question is called The Conspiracy of Claudius Civilis. Eventually, when the painting was finished, it only hung there for a very short period. It wasn’t received well and therefore it was given back to the old master himself. Claudius Civilis wasn’t heroic enough, it was a too dark painting for the place where it hung and above all: there was too much space ‘unused’. These days, the painting is a lot smaller than it initially was. Below, one can see Rembrandt’s sketch.
Rembrandt’s sketch for Claudius Civilis.
Only the middle, table part has survived and the rest of it has been destroyed. Looking at this sketch, we can get a bit of a glimpse of what Rembrandt had done to the rest of the painting and walls. The greater part must have been to a large degree abstract and thus otherworldly, which wasn’t to the taste of many. Experiment failed, one could say. But luckily Rembrandt dared and inspired many artists in the 19th century, thus including Vincent van Gogh.
Like with most artists, Rembrandt’s loose techniques didn’t fall from the sky. It is recorded that Rembrandt made sketches and saw paintings of the Venetian master Titian when they were up for auction in Amsterdam, including Man with the Quilted Sleeve, which you can see below.
Man with the Quilted Sleeve, The National Gallery, London.
Rembrandt’s sketch of this painting clearly inspired him, for instance compare his sleeve with Isaac’s above. Or compare it with Rembrandt’s self-portrait from 1640, also in the National Gallery. Here too, the sleeve resembles a new otherworldly, abstract plane. A beauty on itself. This painting was one of Titian’s first works, however when he eventually had risen to fame, Titian adopted an even looser brushwork, as his fame enabled him to experiment. An example is a part of his Venus with a Mirror, a detail of which one can see below.
A detail of Venus with a Mirror by Titian, National Gallery, London.
What a joy it is to look at this close up. Just like with Rembrandt, we can see the decisiveness and looseness of this old master’s handling of oil paint. The pearls are very close to the pearls Rembrandt painted in several of his portraits, dapped and ‘sculpted’ with thick paint onto the canvas. Other masters who were also inspired by the Italian masters were for instance Velázquez and Frans Hals. Below, one can see Velázquez loose brushwork in a piece of cloth in his portrayal of Venus. Aback the piece of cloth makes sense, up close it is nothing but an abstract piece of its own. Another example below is a detail of a white sleeve executed by Frans Hals, when he was of age.
A detail of Velázquez’ Venus, National Gallery, London.
A detail of Regenten van het Oudemannenhuis by Frans Hals, Frans Hals museum, Haarlem.
A most superb description of Hals’ brushwork is again found in The Goldfinch, by Theo’s mother: Now, Hals. He’s so corny sometimes with all these tipplers and wenches but when he’s on, he’s on. None of this fussiness and precision, he’s working wet-on-wet, slash, slash, it’s all so fast. The faces and hands—rendered really finely, he knows that’s what the eye is drawn to but look at the clothes—so loose—almost sketched. Look how open and modern the brushwork is!” And I think this is exactly it.
It is however a question on itself why some old masters adopted a more loose and visible brushwork whilst other master were more inclined to stick with a more refined method of painting. I remember reading the description of Hals’ work above in Haarlem which said that Hals turned loose and impressionistic due to his age, shaking and all that. Titian and Rembrandt were able to experiment with such mode of brushwork due to their fame which comforted them to do so. Though, there were also economic reasons for Dutch masters to do so. The supply-side of the art market was much greater than the demand-side back in the 17th-century. Masters had to be inventive to compete with others, and the rise of the middle class in Dutch cities gave painters a new, rising sales market whereby a lower price was offered for a painting. Therefore, some masters like Van Goyen and Pieter Claesz. switched to cheaper pigments and adopted a quick way of painting by loose and visible brushwork. On the left, one can see a lemon by Pieter which was probably rendered in just a day and on the right one can see Willem’s lemon, who must have taken days or weeks to finish the whole painting. Pieter thus made painting after painting a week and sold them at a much cheaper price than one would pay for a Heda, an early form of mass-production. For readers it must now be much clearer what Horst meant with ‘it could almost be a Heda on a bad day’.
Closeups from two still lives by Pieter Claesz. and Willem Claesz. Heda respectively, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
Nineteenth-century impressionists were very much aware of the loose brushwork of the old masters such as Rembrandt. These were finally up on display in museums back then and these new masters praised the works by Rembrandt. Of course, the impressionists are famous, not only for their splendid use of light and colour, but because of their visible and again loose brushstrokes. It were the new circumstances which forced them to take up such a technique: they mainly painted en plain air and had to be very quick as the weather might change rapidly or the overall atmosphere might be different the next day. Luckily, in time, they produced thousands of paintings which are still celebrated today and are doing very well on the art-market in terms of demand and thus prices. A most splendid example are many works by Claude Monet. In his later years, Monet suffered from a loss of eye-sight, contributing to his near-abstract and loose brushwork, besides the circumstances of the all-changing nature forcing him to do so. I have to say: it is not the thing and it has beauty of itself, when you look below at a closeup of one of his water lilies painted in his garden.
Closeup of one of Monet’s paintings of water lilies.
Coming out of the nineteenth century, from Kandinsky on, many new painters emerged who rejected the painters’ of the past inclination to translate recognizable forms from reality onto the canvas. Full abstract art was born. It is frequently said that these abstract painters are true rebels who rejected all traditional painting and their methods. I would to a great degree beg to differ. For instance, abstract-expressionist Mark Rothko was very much aware of his place in the history of painting, which one can read in his post-humous book ‘Philosophies of Art’. He was, like Van Gogh, inspired by Rembrandt and his rendering of red, such as in the Jewish Bride. Just compare the detail of Rembrandt’s clothing in his Self-Portrait with Two Circles with one of Rothko’s works. Without foreknowledge or at an auction attended by the 0,01% millionaire-class living in up-town New York, many would think it to be a Rothko.
Closeup from Rembrandt’s self-portrait and White over Red by Mark Rothko (1957).
I would like to round of this essay or blog with a photo-collage David Hockney made of his mother, as it resembles very clearly what Horst was saying in The Goldfinch. It clearly shows how one whole work can be achieved by separate pieces which have a separate (un)worldliness and life of their own. The overall composition is more than the individual sum of pictures, but creates a whole new thing, it’s quite a trick to do so. Hence, when in museums, one should realize that in one painting, there can be dozens of other, separate (abstract and sometimes unworldly) works of art which can be a joy and beauty on its own. From experience, I can surely tell that experiencing a museum up close can be equally or much more exiting than staying distant from the works on the wall. Even ugly or very mediocre works can suddenly be much more exiting when looking at how the individual brushstrokes are rendered.
Photo-collage by David Hockney of his mother.
Olafs kunstblog 