in: Vor dem Blick. Materiale, mediale und diskursive Zurichtungen des Bildersehens, hrsg. von J. Grave, J. C. Heyder und B. Hochkirchen, Bielefeld: Bielefeld University Press, 336-370, 2022
In den 1720er-Jahren wurde die kaiserliche Gemäldegalerie in einem Teil der Wiener Hofburg neu ei... more In den 1720er-Jahren wurde die kaiserliche Gemäldegalerie in einem Teil der Wiener Hofburg neu eingerichtet. Diese barocke Neugestaltung spiegelt die politische Inszenierung unter Kaiser Karl VI. wider und hält zum Teil noch an Prinzipien der Wunderkammer fest. Rund 60 Jahre später, unter Josef II., wird die Galerie aus dem Hofburg-Komplex herausgelöst, in ein vorstädtisches Schloss transferiert und einer neuartigen Form von Öffentlichkeit zugänglich gemacht. Durch ihr Erscheinungsbild tritt sie in einen visuellen wie textlichen Dialog mit einer sich gleichzeitig entwickelnden, ebenfalls neuartigen Kunstgeschichtsschreibung. Im vorliegenden Beitrag wird gezeigt, wie sehr beide Präsentations- und Deutungsweisen mit materiellen Zurichtungen an den Gemälden selbst einhergingen. Diese Zurichtungen inkludieren Beschneidungen, Formatangleichungen, Ergänzungen und sogar Übermalungen, die in Ikonographien eingriffen und die Gattungszugehörigkeiten von Gemälden veränderten.
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Books by Gudrun Swoboda
This long ignored painting shows St Zenobius, the first bishop of Florence stopping during a procession to listen to the pleas of a woman asking him to bring back to life her son. An iconographic analysis reveals that Ferri was intimately familiar with the legend forming the basis for his composition: he depicts the boy hovering between life and death - his slightly opened mouth seems to herald his awakening, but the head slumped on his shoulder and his lifeless left arm reference a celebrated motif of death: the pictorial formula developed by Annibale Carracci, which, in turn, is based on Michelangelo’s Pietà. In addition, Ferri departs from both Florentine pictorial tradition and the saint’s legend by using the two women kneeling in the foreground to portray two different conditions experienced by the bereaved mother: one is active, praying for the resurrection of her son, the other lost in grief.
A comparison with an extant preparatory sketch and the evaluation of infrared photographs shows that Ferri transposed his square composition directly onto the canvas. Dispensing with intermediary steps, the artist skilfully introduced the modifications necessitated by this change of format by “expanding” the triangular arrangement of figures in the foreground (cf. the drawing) to balance procession and miracle.
In conjunction with the artful and allusive iconography, Ferri’s use of costly materials (expensive pigments, large canvas) is indicative of the work’s high-ranking and erudite recipient: painted for Principe Leopoldo de’ Medici, it was unveiled in the Palazzo Pitti in 1665. The close dynastic connections between the Medici and the Habsburgs brought the picture to Vienna in the seventeenth century.
Band 1 widmet sich der Dokumentation und Rekonstruktion der 1783 im Belvedere aufgestellten Gemäldesammlung. Auf Archivalien und Aufsätze, die diese Neuordnungen kunsttheoretisch und ideengeschichtlich verorten, folgt eine Visualisierung der Galerieräume anhand des von Christian von Mechel veröffentlichten Katalogs. Der Band bietet sowohl theoretische wie auch anschauliche Zugänge zu diesem historisch wirkmächtigen Museumskonzept an.
Both the story and the illuminated hollow vessel may remind us of Halloween. But rituals featuring scooped-out pumpkins (in connection with holidays commemorating the dead, or celebrating the passage of the seasons, harvest festivals etc.) can look back on a long tradition in Europe, and have only lately been commercialized by being conflated with the Irish-American tradition of Halloween.
Trophîme Bigot (1596–1650), a Provençale artist who spent some years in Rome, has recently been identified as the artist; the water mark on the paper protecting the candle is a kind of trademark found in a number of his works. In Rome Bigot was not only renowned for his nocturnal scenes, he was also given the sobriquet Trufemondi – one who fools or deceives others. A follower of Caravaggio, he developed a pronounced interest in carefully composed chiaroscuro scenes. Bigot’s depiction of emotions is also informed by Caravaggio: the Lombard master successfully transposed the northern Italian tradition of physiognomic studies depicting different emotions (e.g. by Leonardo da Vinci) to Rome. However, Bigot’s depiction of panic ultimately turns to farce because the cause of the man’s horror is but a harmless deception.
Liotard continues to be celebrated for his carefully executed pastels, like his “Grapes on Pine-Wood“. Deceptively life-like wooden panels were a favourite topic of 17th and 18th century trompe l’oeil painters. However, in reality (no pun intended) the grapes are not painted on a panel but – like the sham panel itself – on parchment: a somewhat expensive support popular with contemporary painters in pastel.
Papers by Gudrun Swoboda
Das Gemälde wurde kurz nach seiner Entstehung von Feldmarschall Ottavio Piccolomini erworben, einem Protagonisten des Dreißigjährigen Krieges. Vieles deutet darauf hin, dass es von weiteren Menschen geschätzt wurde, die selbst den Krieg aus nächster Nähe erlebt hatten.
Comparison with a very prominent example of the Roman pictorial tradition to which Poussin would seem to be alluding might be helpful in the interpretation of the Vienna Destruction of the Temple, even if this has – as far as I see – not yet been commented upon in the scholarly community. I am referring to the meeting of Leo the Great and Attila by Raphael (Vatican). Is it conceivable that by alluding to Raphael’s famous fresco in his Destruction of the Temple Poussin was wanting to emphasize a particular thematic aspect, namely how secular power is ordained by divine providence? The interpretation of Poussin’s painting as such must now, however, be distinguished from the question of its significance within the context of Barberini’s gifts. Therefore I suggested looking more closely at the gifts that Prince Eggenberg received at this audience in the Palazzo Barberini. The second painting given to Eggenberg mentioned by in the sources is a Lucretia Romana by Romanelli (here for the first time identified with a painting today the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna). A further small painting of which the Roman man of letters Girolamo Teti, author and protégé of Cardinal Antonio Barberini, writes in the Aedes Barberinae, published in 1642, can also be identified with a painting today held in the KHM: Andrea Sacchi’s depiction of Divina Sapienza, a copy of the famous ceiling fresco in the form of an easel painting that works – within its strategic distribution by the Barberinis - as a kind of ‘portable propaganda’. In general it can be said of the gifts given by the Barberini that they were of heterogeneous character and served to preserve the recipient’s memory of and loyalty to Rome. Most of these gifts were cult objects, paintings and pieces of gold work and these were to assume a new significance – for semi-official diplomatic relations within the context of endeavours towards religious rapprochement. During the course of the second third of the Seicento, as the political role of the pope increasingly lost its importance, the iconographic messages in the paintings given as gifts seem to have become ever more explicit. Perhaps the Vienna Destruction of the Temple by Poussin – seen together with the other paintings given as gifts to Eggenberg – can be interpreted as a diplomatic message. Here Sacchi’s Divina Sapienza assumes a decisive role, directing the reception of the gift as it were in its allegorical emphasis of the divine legitimation of the Barberini.
Whether he wanted or not, the newly elected emperor had to have his election confirmed by the Barberini pope. If we regard Poussin’s Destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in this light, the painting could have been a way of drawing the emperor’s attention to the power of divine providence – and papal supremacy: the painting seems to be saying that like Titus in his exemplary wisdom, Ferdinand III should accept the counsels of a higher, divine power as such. ‘Did he [Francesco Barberini] want to remind them that the Pope, his uncle, was the heir of the High Priests of the Temple, and that his authority was greater than theirs and was received directly from God?’ I believe that Anthony Blunt’s question can be answered in the affirmative.
Addenda to the provenances of the Picture Gallery of the Kunsthistorisches Museum
A manuscript that had up to now been afforded little attention in the Austrian National Library (Department of Manuscripts, Codex 8014) contains a list of 340 paintings that were transferred in 1663 from Innsbruck Castle to Ambras Castle. It not only represents the first detailed list of pictures in the famous Ambras Kunst- und Wunderkammer (Chamber of Art and Marvels) but also contains important information about the provenance of these pictures, many of which are now in the Picture Gallery in the Kunsthistorisches Museum. In a comparison with lists compiled later (1730 and 1773), the 1663 inventory published here for the first time makes it possible to identify numerous paintings. In addition, because the list is organised according to the location where the paintings were displayed, it is possible to reconstruct more exactly the spatial context as well as the relationships between individual works in Ambras. In some cases the list also provides new insights to questions of attribution/iconography and a welcome confirmation of current hypotheses.
This long ignored painting shows St Zenobius, the first bishop of Florence stopping during a procession to listen to the pleas of a woman asking him to bring back to life her son. An iconographic analysis reveals that Ferri was intimately familiar with the legend forming the basis for his composition: he depicts the boy hovering between life and death - his slightly opened mouth seems to herald his awakening, but the head slumped on his shoulder and his lifeless left arm reference a celebrated motif of death: the pictorial formula developed by Annibale Carracci, which, in turn, is based on Michelangelo’s Pietà. In addition, Ferri departs from both Florentine pictorial tradition and the saint’s legend by using the two women kneeling in the foreground to portray two different conditions experienced by the bereaved mother: one is active, praying for the resurrection of her son, the other lost in grief.
A comparison with an extant preparatory sketch and the evaluation of infrared photographs shows that Ferri transposed his square composition directly onto the canvas. Dispensing with intermediary steps, the artist skilfully introduced the modifications necessitated by this change of format by “expanding” the triangular arrangement of figures in the foreground (cf. the drawing) to balance procession and miracle.
In conjunction with the artful and allusive iconography, Ferri’s use of costly materials (expensive pigments, large canvas) is indicative of the work’s high-ranking and erudite recipient: painted for Principe Leopoldo de’ Medici, it was unveiled in the Palazzo Pitti in 1665. The close dynastic connections between the Medici and the Habsburgs brought the picture to Vienna in the seventeenth century.
Band 1 widmet sich der Dokumentation und Rekonstruktion der 1783 im Belvedere aufgestellten Gemäldesammlung. Auf Archivalien und Aufsätze, die diese Neuordnungen kunsttheoretisch und ideengeschichtlich verorten, folgt eine Visualisierung der Galerieräume anhand des von Christian von Mechel veröffentlichten Katalogs. Der Band bietet sowohl theoretische wie auch anschauliche Zugänge zu diesem historisch wirkmächtigen Museumskonzept an.
Both the story and the illuminated hollow vessel may remind us of Halloween. But rituals featuring scooped-out pumpkins (in connection with holidays commemorating the dead, or celebrating the passage of the seasons, harvest festivals etc.) can look back on a long tradition in Europe, and have only lately been commercialized by being conflated with the Irish-American tradition of Halloween.
Trophîme Bigot (1596–1650), a Provençale artist who spent some years in Rome, has recently been identified as the artist; the water mark on the paper protecting the candle is a kind of trademark found in a number of his works. In Rome Bigot was not only renowned for his nocturnal scenes, he was also given the sobriquet Trufemondi – one who fools or deceives others. A follower of Caravaggio, he developed a pronounced interest in carefully composed chiaroscuro scenes. Bigot’s depiction of emotions is also informed by Caravaggio: the Lombard master successfully transposed the northern Italian tradition of physiognomic studies depicting different emotions (e.g. by Leonardo da Vinci) to Rome. However, Bigot’s depiction of panic ultimately turns to farce because the cause of the man’s horror is but a harmless deception.
Liotard continues to be celebrated for his carefully executed pastels, like his “Grapes on Pine-Wood“. Deceptively life-like wooden panels were a favourite topic of 17th and 18th century trompe l’oeil painters. However, in reality (no pun intended) the grapes are not painted on a panel but – like the sham panel itself – on parchment: a somewhat expensive support popular with contemporary painters in pastel.
Das Gemälde wurde kurz nach seiner Entstehung von Feldmarschall Ottavio Piccolomini erworben, einem Protagonisten des Dreißigjährigen Krieges. Vieles deutet darauf hin, dass es von weiteren Menschen geschätzt wurde, die selbst den Krieg aus nächster Nähe erlebt hatten.
Comparison with a very prominent example of the Roman pictorial tradition to which Poussin would seem to be alluding might be helpful in the interpretation of the Vienna Destruction of the Temple, even if this has – as far as I see – not yet been commented upon in the scholarly community. I am referring to the meeting of Leo the Great and Attila by Raphael (Vatican). Is it conceivable that by alluding to Raphael’s famous fresco in his Destruction of the Temple Poussin was wanting to emphasize a particular thematic aspect, namely how secular power is ordained by divine providence? The interpretation of Poussin’s painting as such must now, however, be distinguished from the question of its significance within the context of Barberini’s gifts. Therefore I suggested looking more closely at the gifts that Prince Eggenberg received at this audience in the Palazzo Barberini. The second painting given to Eggenberg mentioned by in the sources is a Lucretia Romana by Romanelli (here for the first time identified with a painting today the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna). A further small painting of which the Roman man of letters Girolamo Teti, author and protégé of Cardinal Antonio Barberini, writes in the Aedes Barberinae, published in 1642, can also be identified with a painting today held in the KHM: Andrea Sacchi’s depiction of Divina Sapienza, a copy of the famous ceiling fresco in the form of an easel painting that works – within its strategic distribution by the Barberinis - as a kind of ‘portable propaganda’. In general it can be said of the gifts given by the Barberini that they were of heterogeneous character and served to preserve the recipient’s memory of and loyalty to Rome. Most of these gifts were cult objects, paintings and pieces of gold work and these were to assume a new significance – for semi-official diplomatic relations within the context of endeavours towards religious rapprochement. During the course of the second third of the Seicento, as the political role of the pope increasingly lost its importance, the iconographic messages in the paintings given as gifts seem to have become ever more explicit. Perhaps the Vienna Destruction of the Temple by Poussin – seen together with the other paintings given as gifts to Eggenberg – can be interpreted as a diplomatic message. Here Sacchi’s Divina Sapienza assumes a decisive role, directing the reception of the gift as it were in its allegorical emphasis of the divine legitimation of the Barberini.
Whether he wanted or not, the newly elected emperor had to have his election confirmed by the Barberini pope. If we regard Poussin’s Destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in this light, the painting could have been a way of drawing the emperor’s attention to the power of divine providence – and papal supremacy: the painting seems to be saying that like Titus in his exemplary wisdom, Ferdinand III should accept the counsels of a higher, divine power as such. ‘Did he [Francesco Barberini] want to remind them that the Pope, his uncle, was the heir of the High Priests of the Temple, and that his authority was greater than theirs and was received directly from God?’ I believe that Anthony Blunt’s question can be answered in the affirmative.
Addenda to the provenances of the Picture Gallery of the Kunsthistorisches Museum
A manuscript that had up to now been afforded little attention in the Austrian National Library (Department of Manuscripts, Codex 8014) contains a list of 340 paintings that were transferred in 1663 from Innsbruck Castle to Ambras Castle. It not only represents the first detailed list of pictures in the famous Ambras Kunst- und Wunderkammer (Chamber of Art and Marvels) but also contains important information about the provenance of these pictures, many of which are now in the Picture Gallery in the Kunsthistorisches Museum. In a comparison with lists compiled later (1730 and 1773), the 1663 inventory published here for the first time makes it possible to identify numerous paintings. In addition, because the list is organised according to the location where the paintings were displayed, it is possible to reconstruct more exactly the spatial context as well as the relationships between individual works in Ambras. In some cases the list also provides new insights to questions of attribution/iconography and a welcome confirmation of current hypotheses.