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THE MAGNIFICENT FLORENTINE PIETRA DURA, EBONY AND ORMOLU CABINET MADE FOR THE 3RD DUKE OF BEAUFORT BY THE GRAND DUCAL WORKSHOPS (GALLERIA DEI LAVORI) AND BACCIO CAPPELLI, THE BRONZE FIGURES OF THE FOUR SEASONS BY GIROLAMO TICCIATI, CIRCA 1720-1732 The cabinet of massive architectural form, the main part in three sections divided by crisply profiled stepped mouldings, fitted with ten cedar-lined drawers surrounding a central door enclosing a removable section with three smaller purpleheart and ebony-veneered cedar-lined drawers mounted with satyr mask and drapery ring handles, each drawer mounted with a panel edged with ormolu and banded with amethyst quarz, inlaid in brilliantly coloured semi-precious stones with birds perching and in flight among sprays of flowers, framed by pilasters in the central register panelled with lapis lazuli and Sicilian red jasper, the ormolu capitals centred by grey chalcedony (calcedonio di Volterra) masks joined by swags of ormolu foliage encrusted with hardstone fruit centred by a grey chalcedony lion-mask repeated at the sides, below a band of amethyst quartz mounted with cartouches of lapis lazuli in the centre and agate at the sides, the upper and lower sections with vertical amethyst quartz panels, the upper headed by female masks suspending fruit, the lower by grotesque masks, the frieze with concave-centred and bow-ended panels of lapis lazuli, red and green jasper (verde di Corsica); the stepped pediment centred by a clock face, studded with fleur-de-lys dividing the numerals, the brass back-wound falseplate timepiece movement with screwed dust-cover to the rectangular plates, four bossed pilars, going barrel train of five wheels and recoil escapement with steel crutch and silk-suspended pendulum with holdfast clip within the cupboard framed by pilasters and richly encrusted down-curved swags, surmounted by the Beaufort arms, supporters and motto in ormolu, lapis and red jasper, the angles mounted with four lightly draped ormolu standing figures emblematic of the Four Seasons; the sides fo the cabinet each centred by a large and brilliant panel of birds and a spray of flowers tied with red and blue ribbon with smaller panels of birds above and below; the cabinet supported on eight massive square tapering legs panelled with lapis lazuli and red jasper mounted with ormolu, the eared moulded edge mounted with S-scroll and shell plaques and satyr masks INSCRIPTIONS AND LABELS ON THE CABINET The cabinet has a label pasted onto the back of the removable central section inscribed in ink Taken from the North Breakfast Parlour & Cleaned By John Smith William Williamson Thomas Butler By the Orders of the 6 Duke of Beaufort -1813- taken of above 250 Pieces of Bronze The cabinet is also inscribed in pencil (below the third drawer down from the top on the right hand side) J.J. Smith April 1903 Cleaned Cabinet all over for Morants Bond Street and (on the inside backboard behind the removable centre section) Cleaned Easter 1903 In addition above the removeable centre section there is a pen and wash stretch of the front of a horse Further inscriptions and labels which were revealed during the restoration at Hatfields include two labels to the interior inscribed Giacomo Faggiani maestro di cassa del duca di beaufort à disfato questo gabbineto e nettato, e messo a scieme novembre 20 1775 badminton and a second April 1903 9th Duke of Beaufort This cabinet was cleaned and renovated and the missing parts replaced at the time the Drawing room was redecorated by J.S. Wallis of Morant & Co. 91 New Bond St. London NW. The movement of the clock is inscribed John Seddon St. James's London 1748. The central pietra dura plaque is inscribed to the reverse Baccio Cappelli Fecit Anno 1720 nella Galleria di S.A.R. and the plaque on the top left drawer bears a paper label inscribed No 1 Baccio Cappelli Fecit. THE DRAWINGS OF THE BADMINTON CABINET PREPARED BY THE GRAND DUCAL WORKSHOPS 1. VIEW OF THE FRONT OF THE CABINET WITHOUT THE BASE inscribed Scala di Braccia due à Panno Fiorentine and with a scale; black chalk, pen and brown ink, watercolour on two joined sheets, watermarks encircled fleur-de-lys (2) 1055 x 770 mm. 2. VIEW OF THE LEFT AND RIGHT SIDES OF THE CABINET inscribed with a scale; black chalk, pen and brown ink, watercolour on two joined sheets, watermarks encircled fleur-de-lys (2) 1056 x 785 mm. 3. VIEW OF A LEG inscribed Celle icy est la Boule/de Cuivre doré que/l'on pourrá ajouter/si l'on veut.; black chalk, pen and brown ink, watercolour 648 x 240 mm. THE BADMINTON CABINET by Alvar González-Palacios THE DUKE OF BEAUFORT'S VISIT TO ITALY AND THE ORIGINS OF HIS COMMISSION The maginficent Badminton Cabinet is the last great work of art made in Florence under the Medici. Standing almost 4 metres tall, it is also the most spectacular piece of furniture in private hands, and is documented indirectly before it was made. We refer to an account book of incidental expenses, kept by Dominique du Four who accompanied the 3rd Duke of Beaufort on his long Continental travels as a member of his household, which informs us that His Grace left Paris on 28 March 1726 and arrived in Florence on 27 April, remaining there until 2 May (document 18). As there is no evidence that he ever returned to the Tuscan capital it is highly probably that the decision to commission the Cabinet was taken at this time. B. Ford and J. Ingamells, A Dictionary of British and Irish Travellers in Italy 1707-1800, New Haven and London, 1997, confirms from other sources the same dates that we had established. Two years later in a letter of 3 June 1728, the Duke's Roman agent, the architect and stuccoist Giovanni Francesco Guernieri, hinted at the existence of something being made for his master in Florence under the watchful eye of Thomas Tyrrel. If, as we shall see, we are quite well informed about Guernieri's activities, nothing surely was known until very recently of this Tyrrel. It seems that Tyrrel was found as a boy begging in Prague by the last Grand Duke Gian Gastone de Medici who took him back to Florence and ennobled him subsequently. He became well-connected with important tourists and died in Florence in 1753. Tyrrel was instrumental for the making of the Duke of Beaufort's Cabinet (B. Ford and J. Ingamells, 1997, p. 961). Guernieri writes to the Duke however that he had given instructions to the said Tyrrel to get the Duke's things ready so that they might be packed and sent to Leghorn (document 1). On 9 July, Guernieri, who in the meantime had left Rome for Leghorn to ensure that His Grace's acquisitions left for England in good order, wrote bitterly that in Florence, where he had stopped first, nothing was ready. He had, in fact, been there on 28 June when he met Tyrrel who had been instructed to supervise the executino of a 'Cabinet' in the Workshops of His Royal Highness the Grand Duke of Tuscany. He went on to say that Tyrrel has told him that 'le dit cabinet' would not be ready until the end of October 1728 because of certain changes to the original plan, including an increased number of metal ornaments, framing elements, and additional work on the Ducal coat-of-arms (document 2). Guernieri's account of the unfinished state of the cabinet is confirmed by a note of 24 July 1728 from the Duke's shippers stating that more time was needed before 'the cabinet and other things' would be ready (document 3). THE SHIPMENT OF THE CABINET Some years later, early 1732, a number of payments to agents and a ship's captain in Leghorn for custom and transport charges, including 'Port for unshipping of Cabinet or 5 cases', appear, relating to goods belonging to His Grace (documents 14, 15 and 16). Once again Dominique du Four's account book helps to illuminate the sequence of events leading up to the final shipment of the cabinet. Du Four noted that he left Florence for Leghorn on 12 August 1732 with an unidentified cabinet-maker and his son, and that they remained there until the 20th, the day after 'Mylord Duc's' cabinet had been put on board. Finally, on 21 August 1732, Captain Daniel Pullam and the Oriana sailed for London with 'five large cases... containing the severall parts of a large Cabinett of his Grace the Duke of Beaufort', as stated by a receipt signed by the captain himself (document 19). Although there is no record where the Cabinet went immediately after its arrival in London, it is more than probable that it had always been destined for Badminton, especially as the note of 24 July 1728 mentioned above stated that it would eventually be sent 'on some good ship for London if none should offer for Bristoll about time' (document 3). This Cabinet is, therefore, likely to be the piece of furniture that gave its name to the Cabinet Room mentioned in a 1775 inventory of paintings (Badminton Muniments, RA 1/2/1). Here it was surrounted by carvings by Grinling Gibbons and a good number of Italian paintings: an Education of Jove and a satirical piece by Salvator Rosa, two canvases of ruins by Ghizzolfa (i.e. Ghisolfi), a Madonna and Child by Guernico, scenes of the life of Queen Esther by Pietro da Cortona, representations of the Liberal Arts by Trevisani, and a series of overdoors with ruins by Viviano (i.e. Codazzi) and a perspective view of the buildings of Rome by an anonymous artist. To finish up, on 30 May 1739, Captain Pullam petitioned the Duke to be reimbursed for financial losses which he had incurred during the shipping of the Cabinet when he had not only been forced 'not to take in any Ballast that should damage the cabinet' but had also had to buy a large quantity of cork to ensure its safety and this last he had resold in London much under cost (document 20). STYLISTIC ANALYSIS The research carried out, over the years, by the present author in the immense archives where the documents relating to the last Medicis and their financial administration are stored, has failed to yield any information about this cabinet, mainly because it is difficult to determine with any accuracy in which of the many departments of the Grand Ducal Administration documents about its commission and execution would have been recorded. It must be remembered that our Cabinet was paid directly by the Duke of Beaufort, a very rare occurance at the Galleria where everything was made for the Grand Duke, even if they were intended as gifts. Although it was not the habit of the Grand Ducal Workshops to accept work from private individuals, the Duke of Beaufort's exalted social position and the close political contacts which his family, known for its Jacobite sympathies, cultivated with highly placed personages, such as the Papal Secretary of State, Cardinal Lercari, undoubtedly influenced the negociations leading to the commission. If, on the one hand, contemporary Galleria documents are of little help in establishing the background of this Cabinet, its figurative language, on the other, gives clear indications about its artistic origins. To begin with, simple stylistic analysis is all that is needed to identify the sculptor who executed the models for the statuettes of The Four Seasons, placed at the angles of the upper corners. He is called Girolamo Ticciati (died in Florence in 1744), and the waxes and their corresponding moulds figure in an inventory of models acquired by Carlo Ginori for the Porcelain Manufactory at Doccia, founded in 1743. The waxes have since disappeared but the moulds are still to be found in the Doccia Museum (fig. 1) and are listed in a well known document (K. Lankheit, Die Modellsammlung de Porzelanmanufaktur Doccia, Munich, 1982, p. 130). The unusual facial type of the Four Seasons on the Beaufort Cabinet is that found on Ticciati's only known bronze, the signed Christ and the Samari tan, executed in 1724 for the Electress Palatine and now in the Royal Palace, Madrid (J. Montagu, Gli ultimi Medici, exh. cat. Florence, 1974, no. 98 bis). It is certainly relevant to this argument that Ticciati's contemporary biographer, F. M. N. Gabburi, noted that the sculptor had prepared four busts of The Seasons which he had sent to England (K. Lankheit, Florentinische Barockplastik, Munich, 1 962, p. 230). TICCIATI AND GALLERIA PRACTISE Ticciati was a pupil of Giovanni Battista Foggini, who was Director, until his death in 1725, of the Galleria dei lavori, or Grand Ducal Workshops. The Beaufort Cabinet bears, moreover, all the hallmarks of that sumptuous style created by Foggini during the twilight years of the Medici dynasty: every one of the decorative motifs continues and, at the same time, develops the great artist's favourite forms, thus bringing the maximum splendour to the characteristic juxtaposition of ebony, gilt-bronze and hardstone of Florentine Court furniture. It should be borne in mind, when looking for the work of individual hands in such a piece, that during the years needed to construct this edifice destined for a room, no less than thirty craftsmen would have been involved. 152 in. (386 cm.) high; 91½ in. (232.5 cm.) wide; 37 in. (94 cm.) deep

  • GBRGroßbritannien
  • 2004-12-09

The Henry Graves Jr. Supercomplication PATEK PHILIPPE & Co., Geneva

A gold, double dialled and double open-faced, minute repeating clockwatch with Westminster chimes, grande and petite sonnerie, split seconds chronograph, registers for 60-minutes and 12-hours, perpetual calendar accurate to the year 2100, moon-phases, equation of time, dual power reserve for striking and going trains, mean and sidereal time, central alarm, indications for times of sunrise/sunset and a celestial chart for the night time sky of New York City at 40 degrees 41.0 minutes North latitude Accompanied by the original fitted tulipwood box inlaid with ebony and centered by a mother-of-pearl panel engraved with the arms of Henry Graves, Jr. Also accompanied by the Patek Philippe Certificate of Origin and an Extract from the Archives of Patek Philippe. In the course of Patek Philippe’s 175 years as a master watchmaker, an anniversary which the firm celebrates this yea, many extraordinary watches have been created that have challenged the way we think about timepieces. It is an honour to offer the Henry Graves Jr. Supercomplication in this important anniversary year of Patek Philippe, Geneva. Amongst the most complicated and significant timepieces ever created, the Henry Graves Jr. Supercomplication redefined the possibilities of watchmaking and changed horology forever. With 24 complications, it remained the world's most complicated watch until Patek Philippe created the Calibre 89 in 1989 for its 150th anniversary. However, the Henry Graves Jr. Supercomplication retains the title of the most complicated watch ever made without computer-assisted technology. We are grateful to Eric Tortella for his assistance in researching the Henry Graves Jr. Supercomplication. LOT 345 PATEK PHILIPPE THE HENRY GRAVES JR. SUPERCOMPLICAITON PATEK PHILIPPE & Co., Geneva, No. 198.385, Case No. 416.769, started in 1925, completed in 1932 and delivered on 19th January 1933 diameter 74mm; thickness of case with glass 36 mm; weight of case 536 grammes (approx. 1 lb. 3oz) A gold, double dialled and double open-faced, minute repeating clockwatch with Westminster chimes, grande and petite sonnerie, split seconds chronograph, registers for 60-minutes and 12-hours, perpetual calendar accurate to the year 2100, moon-phases, equation of time, dual power reserve for striking and going trains, mean and sidereal time, central alarm, indications for times of sunrise/sunset and a celestial chart for the night time sky of New York City at 40 degrees 41.0 minutes North latitude Accompanied by the original fitted tulipwood box inlaid with ebony and centered by a mother-of-pearl panel engraved with the arms of Henry Graves, Jr. Also accompanied by the Patek Philippe Certificate of Origin and an Extract from the Archives of Patek Philippe. The Henry Graves Jr. Supercomplication movement is unique. Patek Philippe ensured that each complication was designed specifically for this watch. Complex watch movements usually consisted of complications that were added to a simpler base calibre, however, the Supercomplication’s calibre was developed specifically for this single watch. The Supercomplication required the expertise of some of the finest watchmakers of the period, each skilled in the execution of particular components. These master makers had to work together to ensure that all complications within the watch were seamlessly combined with one another and presented in a case and with a dial of the finest design. After all, this watch was no mere flight of fancy; it was a special order and had to please its patron. This unique collaboration resulted in a watch that was not only the most complex in the world, but was also a timepiece of exceptional aesthetic beauty. Please see fig. 6 for the list of the Supercomplication's 24 complications. HENRY GRAVES, JR. Henry Graves, Jr. (1868-1953) was more than just a modern man at the beginning of the 20th century; he was an innovator. Born into a prominent banking family in Orange, NJ, his father, Henry Graves, Sr., was a partner in the banking firm of Maxwell & Graves located at 143 Liberty Street, New York City. Henry Graves, Jr. joined his father in the financial industry and moved to New York City. In 1896, Mr. Graves married Florence Isabel Preston of Irvington-on-Hudson, New York and they had four children. As a wealthy society family at the turn of the century, Mr. and Mrs. Graves had the luxury of owning several vacation homes in addition to their residence in New York City.  The family spent their summers at their homes in Irvington and Saranac, New York. In Saranac, the Graves owned Eagle Island, where Mr. Graves reveled in one of his sporting passions: boating. One of his treasured boats was the Eagle, a 50-foot speedboat. During the winter, the family spent time near Charleston, South Carolina where Mr. Graves was a member of the prestigious Yeaman’s Hall, an old plantation-turned-private club. The remainder of the year, the family lived at 420 Park Avenue in New York City, until the family moved to 834 Fifth Avenue in 1931. Mr. Graves would remain at his Fifth Avenue apartment until his death at the age of 86. Mr. Graves had a well-known appreciation for the arts. On 3rd April 1936, a single-owner sale was held at the American Art Association Anderson, Galleries, Inc., a predecessor of Sotheby’s in New York. The sale was titled "Masterpieces of Engraving and Etching: The Collection of Henry Graves, Jr." The introduction of the catalogue states: "The possibilities of collecting are revealed at their finest in the majority of the magnificent prints gathered by Mr. Graves. No other collection so rich in beauty, so carefully chosen, and in such splendid condition has ever been offered at public sale in this country." The highlight of the sale was Albrecht Dürer’s Adam and Eve, which brought an impressive $10,000. This price was truly remarkable at the time, given that the sale occurred in the midst of the Great Depression. In addition to Mr. Graves’ passion for fine art, he is remembered for his superb Patek Philippe collection of timepieces. Mr. Graves was introduced to the firm by his family jeweler, Tiffany & Co., and was impressed by Patek Philippe’s success in various timing contests at the Geneva Observatory. Mr. Graves began acquiring Patek Philippe timepieces in the 1910s, ultimately becoming one of the firm’s most notable patrons. Mr. Graves would either commission watches from the firm or would ask Patek Philippe to personalize timepieces he acquired with his family’s coat-of-ams. The Graves coat-of-arms bears an eagle rising out of a ducal coronet, along with the motto: Esse Quam Videri (To Be, Rather than to Seem). The majority of Mr. Graves’ watches are distinguished by the use of this Coat-of-Arms on the case or, as with the Supercomplication, on the watch’s box. Many of his pocket watches were further personalised: “Made for Henry Graves, Jr. New York.” In line with his own competitive spirit, Mr. Graves commissioned Patek Philippe to make him the most complicated watch – more complicated than James Ward Packard’s Patek Philippe with sky chart no. 198.023, the Leroy No. 1 and the “Marie Antoinette” by Breguet. Mr. Graves became the very proud owner of the Supercomplication on 19th January 1933 for the sum of 60,000 SF ($15,000). Weighing approximately 535g (1 lb. 3 ounces), the watch consists of 920 individual components including 430 screws, 110 wheels, 120 mechanical levers or parts and 70 jewels. The Supercomplication remained in Mr. Graves’ collection of timepieces until his death in 1953. His daughter, Gwendolen, inherited the Supercomplication and much of the collection and later gifted it onto her son, Reginald H. “Pete” Fullerton, Jr., in 1960.  Mr. Fullerton, Henry Graves, Jr.'s grandson, was the last descendant of the Graves family to own the Supercomplication until its sale to Seth G. Atwood, founder of the Time Museum, in 1969. THE CONTEST One of the few, very few, minor regrets that I may have had during the 36 exhilarating years of my association with Patek Philippe, Geneva, is that I was not around during an era which, today, is considered as being  the vintage years for a number of timepieces produced by the Manufactory, namely: between 1900 and 1935. During that era, two men in the U.S.A., vied with one another to order and acquire exceptional watches, either for their time-keeping qualities or their complex mechanisms. Interestingly enough, both chose Patek Philippe as their principal source of supply. Thus started a fascinating ‘contest’ between two gentlemen . . . who were nevertheless rivals in the field of horology. The first, Henry Graves, Jr. of New York, was essentially a sportsman and collector; but fortuitously born into a private banking family. The second was James Ward Packard of Warren, Ohio, the automobile manufacturer. First one, then the other of these two gentlemen would order from Patek Philippe in Geneva, timepieces with multiple horological complications. By 1916, Mr. Packard had edged in front of Mr. Graves in his bid to own the finest and most complex watch in the world. Indeed, in January of that year he took delivery of an impressive pocket-watch made by Patek Philippe and which incorporated 16 horological complications. Again, in April 1927 a further stunning pocket-watch with ten complications, including a celestial-chart, was delivered to Mr. Packard by Patek Philippe. However, neither piece could claim to be the most complicated watch ever made. For Mr. Graves, ever the sportsman and competitor, the challenge was irresistible. Unhesitatingly, he returned to the ‘contest’ with renewed determination. In strictest secrecy he once more approached Patek Philippe in Geneva with a monumental request, namely: to plan and construct “the most complicated watch ever made” The master-watchmakers at Patek Philippe, undaunted, returned to their respective ateliers and drawing-boards to ponder this new, exciting challenge. Obviously, computer assistance in the construction of complex horological mechanisms did not exist in those days. Exhaustive studies in the realms of astronomy, mathematics and precision mechanisms were necessary to achieve what then became the “world’s most complicated timepiece” incorporating 25 horological complications. The Supercomplication retained that title for an impressively long time: 56 years in total. By modern-day standards, the end result was achieved astonishingly quickly. Indeed, ‘only’ seven years were necessary, between 1925-1932, to research, develop and produce the chef-d’oeuvre ordered by Mr. Graves from Patek Philippe. The watch was delivered to Mr. Graves on 19th January 1933. Then, in 1989, to mark Patek Philippe’s 150th anniversary, they unveiled the Calibre 89 which incorporates 33 complications. Thus, the “Graves” watch lost its title…but to a worthy successor. For those who may have the privilege of actually handling this famous and extraordinary timepiece will, I am sure, experience an indefinable sensation. I certainly did! Alan Banbery Former Curator of the Patek Philippe Museum Geneva, October 2014 THE SIDEREAL DIAL The sidereal time dial was made between 1929 and 1932 from a gold plate with silvered finish. The three subsidiary dials for sunrise, sunset, and subsidiary sidereal seconds were recessed by circular engraving. The plate was then engraved and enamelled. Above the subsidiary sidereal seconds, the equation of time sector indicates the difference between the minutes of mean time and sidereal time. The sky chart is also made from a gold disc and is overlaid with champlevé blue enamel. The archives of Stern Frères show that Patek Philippe supplied the gold for the dial and paid 110 Francs for its construction. The Stern Frères archives still retain a copy of the original drawings for the dial which were submitted to Henry Graves, Jr. for his approval. The drawings appear in what is known as Stern Frères special design book. Dial details: Gold dial plate with silvered finish, black enamel Arabic dauphine numerals, outer minute track, large aperture revealing the sky chart surrounded with the cardinal points, the sky chart composed of a champlevé blue enamel over gold stars à paillons depicting approximately 450 stars and a magnificent representation of the Milky Way, the whole of the night sky for the exact longitude of Mr. Graves’ Manhattan apartment overlooking Central Park on Fifth Avenue, three sunken subsidiary dials for times of sunrise and  sunset in New York, and seconds combined with equation of time scale, ‘pear’ shaped blued steel hands, the dial plate engraved and enamelled and with large personal inscription reading “Made for Henry Graves Jr, New York 1932 by Patek, Philippe & Co. Geneva, Switzerland.” THE MEAN TIME DIAL The mean time dial was made by Stern Frères S.A. between 1929 and 1930 and is white enamel. The perfect aesthetics of the dial mask the extreme complexity of its construction. The dial has to accommodate seven layers of hands - the two split seconds hands, hour hand, minute hand, alarm hand, and double hands within either power reserve subsidiaries - all of which have to seamlessly glide above one another. In order to accommodate the unprecedented number of hands, the subsidiary dials are double sunk, and each are made from two separate enamel sections with their relevant calibrations. This allows extra depth to the dial, keeping the overall height between crystal and dial surface to a minimum and thereby minimizing the overall depth of the watch. Dial details: White enamel dial, black enamel radial Roman numerals chiffres Romaines regardants, style Genève, outer track for minutes and chronograph seconds indication for fifths of a second, double-sunk subsidiary dials for 60-minute and 12-hour registers combined with power reserves for striking and going trains respectively, further double-sunk subsidiary dial for subsidiary seconds and date, apertures for day, month and moon-phases, Breguet hour and minute hands, the subsidiary dials with feuille shaped hands, gold alarm indicator hand, all other hands blued steel. THE MOVEMENT TIER 1 The movement's core tier is double sided. Each side of the ocre accomodates an additional tier, thereby making a total of three tiers. The movement: 25''' damascened, two train, multi-layered plates with 70 jewels, signed and numbered on the movement band. Tier 1 Main plate with lever escapement, three first wheels of 14k gold, bi-metallic compensation balance, with gold regulating screws, adjusted to heat, cold, isochronism and five positions, unique balance regulator with aperture enabling regulation concealed under bezel, striking mechanism with two barrels, Westminster-type carillon, grande and petite sonnerie, with four hammer's striking four gongs, mean time train, power reserves for movement and strike, both chronograph mechanisms visible to back-hyphen plate of central tier. The chronograph is executed in a classic manner, however this complication utilizes a 12-hour register which is rarely seen on Patek Philippe watches. It is also notable that the chronograph function has a 60-minute register which is considerably more complex to integrate than the more standard 30-minute register. The grande sonnerie includes four hammers that strike four gongs to sound the passing hours and Westminster quarter hours, the petite sonnerie when activated merely strikes the passing Westminster quarter hours. The alarm employs a fifth hammer and a fifth gong to ring the alarm. Tier 2 - Under Mean Time Dial Plate with alarm, spring and lever layout for time and alarm triple-setting system, calendar, and moon-phases. The perpetual calendar is unusually displayed with the day of the week and month of the year both shown in rectangular windows. Tier 3 - Under Sidereal Time Dial Sidereal time train, sky chart mechanism, cams for equation of time, sunrise and sunset. The Sidereal Time train is constructed with three main wheels and makes one full revolution every sidereal day. The Supercomplication provides the complete sidereal time with hours, minutes and seconds indicated. This is the most accurate manner to display Sidereal time but also the most complex. The Sky Chart mechanism comprises the display plate itself with three wheels and one gear, all connected to the sidereal time and adjustable through the crown's hand setting function. THE CASE The case of the Supercomplication was made by Luc Rochat of L’Abbaye in the Vallée de Joux. The case is 73.2mm in diameter, 35mm thick including the crystals and weighs 535g (1 lb, 3 oz). The case by itself weighs an impressive 250g. The double open-faced case is of classic bassine design. Both bezels are impressively thick to accommodate the depth of the dials and their hands. Each bezel has a concealed hinge, which represents the highest quality of such design. Despite the watch’s impressive size, it is exceptionally well proportioned; this is a testament to the careful planning and extraordinary collaboration between the master watchmakers, dial makers, and case maker who, between them, ensured that every cubic millimeter of space was used with the greatest efficiency. Almost five years were required from the design of the case to its final delivery, during which time hundreds of adjustments were made to ensure every function allowed by the slides and pushers was precise and smooth. The case incorporates 13 operational functions. Facing the watch from the mean time side and running around the case in a clockwise direction from the crown these are: 1. winding device, turning to one side for the main barrel and to the other side for the chime 2. pulling the crown, first position for the mean time, second position for the sidereal time setting 3. chronograph main start/stop coaxial device 4. moon-phase adjuster 5. alarm winding sliding device 6. petite/grande sonnerie selection slide 7. minute repeat trigger slide 8. adjuster for months of the year 9. adjuster for days of the week 10.  adjuster for date of the month 11. the strike/silent option, selected via a slide 12. the split device pusher 13. pusher to engage hand-setting when crown is pulled out SUMMARY OF THE MAJOR FUNCTIONS Perpetual Calendar with Moon-Phases The perpetual calendar shows the correct day of the week, date of the month and month of the year regardless of the length of the month. It also automatically adjusts for the leap year. The aperture for moon-phases shows the correct phase and age of the moon. Since the duration of the Solar year is 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes and 48 seconds and the mean year is 365 days, an extra year is added every four years (leap year) and a further adjustment is made with the omission of a leap year every four centuries. According to the Gregorian calendar reforms of 1582, century years that are divisible by 400 without remainder are to be considered leap years. Consequently, the perpetual calendar of the Supercomplication will be accurate until the year 2100, when the calendar will need to be readjusted for the first time. The Westminster Chimes, Repeater and Alarm Grande Sonnerie with Westminster chimes. Selected via a slide on the case band, this function strikes the hours and quarters at every quarter. The five gongs hammer for the carillon are separate from the alarm. Petite Sonnerie selected via the slide on the case band, this function strikes the passing quarter hours. Minute Repeater Selected on demand via the case band, the watch strikes the passing quarter hours and minutes. The Westminster chime, made famous by the Westminster London clock popularly known as ‘Big Ben,’ was first used in St. Mary’s Church, Cambridge in 1793. The chime tune itself was taken from the fifth bar of Handel’s aria from the Messiah, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” Split Seconds chronograph The split seconds chronograph can be used to time up to two events at the same time. The chronograph is started, stopped and reset via the pusher at the center of the winding crown. When the chronograph is running, the split pusher which is located in the case band between 10 and 11 o’clock (when looking at the mean time dial) can be pressed to stop one of the central chronograph seconds hands, leaving the other to continue alone. Whilst the chronograph is running, minutes elapsed will be counted on the subsidiary dial to the right and hours to the left on the mean time dial. Sidereal Time and Equation of Time The Henry Graves Jr. Supercomplication has hours, minutes and seconds of sidereal time, the time of sunrise and sunset (calibrated for New York City) and the equation of time. This sidereal complication requires a transmission ratio of exactly 1.0027379092, which is driven by a 62 tooth wheel on the arbor of the fourth wheel. Sidereal time is based on the amount of time it takes the Earth to make two consecutive transitions of a meridian by a fixed star. By measuring the transits of a fixed star, one is able to measure the actual time it takes for the Earth to turn on its axis. This period of time is known as a sidereal day which is approximately 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4.1 seconds. The equation of time indicator on the Supercomplication watch is calibrated to show the difference between apparent solar time (the time as indicated by a sundial) and mean time (the average of solar time). Since the Earth is in an elliptical orbit, the difference between mean and solar time ranges from plus 14 minutes 59 seconds to minus 16 minutes 15 seconds. Solar time agrees with mean time on or about 15th April, 15th June, 31st August, and 24th December. The Supercomplication watch indicates the equation of time on a sector-shaped scale with calibrations for plus/minus 17 minutes. The equation of time mechanism is driven by an arbor that protrudes through the movement from the calendar mechanism. The spelling ‘sideral’ on the dial of the watch is the French form of the word; the English spelling being ‘sidereal.’ The Star Chart The Supercomplication’s star chart rotates anti-clockwise behind the oval aperture of the dial. The shape of the aperture allows one to see the night sky as seen from New York City, complete with magnitudes of the stars and the Milky Way. PROVENANCE & TIMELINE Provenance Henry Graves, Jr., New York, January 1933 Gwendolen Graves Fullerton, by descent from the above, New York, 1953 Reginald H. “Pete” Fullerton, by gift from the above, New York, 1960 Time Museum, Rockford, Illinois, Inventory no. 4443, 1969 Sotheby’s, New York, Masterpieces from the Time Museum, 2 December 1999, lot 7 Private Collection Exhibited Rockford, Illinois, The Time Museum, 1970-1999 Geneva, The Patek Philippe Museum, 2001-2005 Literature “The Summum of complication,” Journal Suisse d’Horologie, December 1932, pp. 36-37. “Watches: These are the Best Built in the World,” Life Magazine, 23 December 1940, p. 31. “The World’s Most Complicated Watch,” Patek Philippe Newsletter, May 1960, pp. 2-3. Eugene Jaquet and Alfred Chapuis, Technique and History of the Swiss Watch, New York, 1970, pl. 122-123. Cecil Clutton and George Daniels, Watches, London, 1979 (3rd ed.), pl. 377a-e. Rheinhard Meis, Taschenuhren: Von d. Halsuhr zum Tourbillon, Munich, 1979, pl. 848-850. Seth G. Atwood and William Andrews, The Time Museum an Introduction, Rockford, 1983,  p. 30. Martin Huber and Alan Banbery, Patek Philippe, Geneva, 1983 (vol. 1, 1st ed.), pp. 250-257, pls. 232a-h. Martin Huber and Alan Banbery, Patek Philippe, Geneva, 1993, (vol. 1, 2nd ed.), pp. 88-91, pls. 237-239h. David S. Landes, Revolution in Time: Clocks and the Making of the Modern World, Boston, 1983, pp. 448-449. Patek Philippe S.A., Star Calibre 2000, Geneva, 2000, pp. 20-21. Arthur Lubow, “Complicated Collectors,” Patek Philippe Museum, Geneva, Autumn/Winter 2002, pp. 36-41. Stacy Perman, A Grand Complication: The Race to Build the World’s Most Legendary Watch, New York, 2013. Timeline Please see fig. 9 for the timeline of The Henry Graves Jr. Supercomplication. Acknowledgements We are grateful to the following individuals for their guidance and assistance with the creation of this catalogue: Patricia Atwood, Alan Banbery, Alex Barter, Sylvie Dricourt, Peter Friess, Stacy Perman, Martin H. Wehrli, Béatrice Widemann, and of course, Patek Philippe.

  • CHESchweiz
  • 2014-11-11

Undiscovered Genius of the Mississippi Delta

Monumental in narrative scope and expressive scale, Undiscovered Genius of the Mississippi Delta thunderously embodies the structural tenets of the academic genre of History Painting articulated through Jean-Michel Basquiat’s iconic vernacular. A certifiably unrivalled tour-de-force of Basquiat’s output, the present work was included in many of the artist’s most important travelling retrospectives, including at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York in 1992-93, the Serpentine Gallery in London in 1996, and the Brooklyn Museum in 2005-6. The painting extends majestically across a frieze of five panels, emulating classical ideals of pictorial storytelling akin to the architectural organization of the Elgin marbles or a Renaissance altarpiece, while its luscious painterly surface evokes the impassioned gestural brushwork of Franz Kline and Willem de Kooning. Beyond the complexity of its unnerving formal harmony lies a multivalent chronicle of African-American history, archetypal of Basquiat’s exploration into the psychology of the collective diaspora. Just as the most significant History Paintings depicted rapt moments of intense unrest, Undiscovered Genius of the Mississippi Delta records the historical struggles permeating Basquiat’s African-American roots, communicated through the particular lens of his own biography. Drawing from an encyclopedic breadth of iconographic inspirations such as literature, music, science and anatomy, the present work possesses an intricate multiplicity that instantly arrests but rewards persistent re-evaluation. Belonging to a very small number of intensely compelling multi-paneled paintings executed in 1983—the year of Basquiat’s twenty-third birthday—Undiscovered  Genius of the Mississippi Delta distinguishes itself for its unabashed ambition. The work is constructed from five separate panels of canvas pulled over protruding, exposed wooden stretcher beams. Both the leftmost panel and the center panel are fastened to their adjoining canvases by naked unpainted door-hinges bolted to the top and bottom edges of their stretchers. While the entire painting possesses a magnificent pictorial cohesion, each of the five canvases retains a singular resonance characteristic of Basquiat’s most breathtaking compositions. The present work is a consummate example of many of the most important themes and subjects that were of primary concern to Basquiat throughout his career. Racial histories figure into the equation most prominently through Basquiat’s citation of Mark Twain, the eminent American author whose Adventures of Huckleberry Finn follows the young Huck as he travels along the Mississippi River. Written twenty years after the abolishment of slavery, the novel was set decades earlier in order to expose the climate of moral confusion surrounding the racial injustices of the time. Twain’s groundbreaking novel is considered a scathing satire of the attitude toward racism; his controversial writing in the dialect of the period, a patois littered with slurs, is evocative of Basquiat’s characteristic adoption of a primitive iconographic lexicon of scrawled letters and elementary forms in order to fully embody the subject that he probes. As is emblematic of Basquiat’s most multifaceted paintings, text saturates every surface of the canvas, but here it uniquely adopts a syncopated rhythm in the cadence of its repetition. The title of the work when spoken out loud irrefutably pulses to the ticking of a metronome, while the words “Mississippi,” “Mark Twain,” and “Negroes,” each repeated row after row, induce the sonic beating of a drum. As Francesco Pellizzi observed, “His use of words, however, belongs more to the oral traditions of Afro-American cultures—the ecstatic invocations of Voodoo worshipers; the inflamed and inflaming spiritual rhetoric of Baptist preachers with their rousing, recurring, rhythmic juxtapositions of ethical, cosmological, and practical tenets; and, of course, now, black rap…” (Francesco Pellizzi in Exh. Cat., New York, Vrej Baghoomian Inc., Jean-Michel Basquiat, 1989, p. 16) The auditory quality of Basquiat’s painting catapults the work deeper within the fabric of the African-American narrative, aligning it within spoken histories passed down from generation to generation, while uniquely blending in a rhythmic quality reminiscent of the music that figures significantly into many of Basquiat’s paintings. Basquiat, after all, was a musician and a DJ, and incorporated his reverence for certain jazz heroes such as Charlie Parker and Miles Davis into his pictorial lexicon. Rousing connotations of self-portraiture are inherent in the very title of the painting, suggesting Basquiat’s recognition of his own rising fame coincident with his ancestral roots. Whether or not his lineage is traceable back to the antebellum South, it is a fundamental component of Basquiat’s cognitive construction of the self that he has risen up from the shackles of slavery to find liberation in the canvas. The artist utilized the mechanism of repetition to empty words of their meaning, seemingly beating the words “Mississippi” and “Negroes” over and over again until he overpowered their painful resonance; we can see here a potent visualization of Freud’s psychoanalytic theory of the “death drive,” a compulsion to repeat traumas until their inordinate repetition discharges them of all psychic energy and renders them overcome. In striving to paint such a magnanimous portrait of slavery in the deep American South—memories that haunt the collective black consciousness—Basquiat passionately hammers out the history in paint until it is abandoned of authority and can no longer be a traumatic force upon him. Basquiat’s most powerful images present young black heroic figures that assert their strength, independence and liberation, exploring what it means to be black in modern-day America; here, he notably seems to posit himself within the narrative of the canvas. At the uppermost left, “Fig 23” is boxed in next to a portrait of a head resembling Basquiat. Having just turned 23, Basquiat appears to announce himself at the prologue of the painting, positioned just above the title. Merely a “Fig,” the artist conceives himself as statistic—a symbol within a greater trajectory of history. In the center panel, a graphically striking anatomical deconstruction of a head dismantled into its constituent parts, peers through a viewfinder toward the rest of the panels—a hovering presence that suggestively locates the entire image’s narrative as seen through his perspective. Moreover, Basquiat visually juxtaposed the two black human heads with a cow’s head, a rat, and two udders, graphically equating man with animal meat through anatomical associations. Basquiat’s fascination with anatomical drawing originated in his childhood, when after being hit by a car at the age of seven, he spent a month recovering in hospital. His mother gave him a copy of Grays Anatomy, an anecdotal genesis that informs Basquiat’s most ravishing, diagrammatically incisive pictures. While Undiscovered Genius of the Mississippi Delta tempts its viewers to uncover a precise linear narrative, Basquiat’s all-over complexity renders this endeavor futile. The panels cannot be read in a direct progression from left to right, but rather, they merge in a barrage of rich pictorial data that together cohere as one. As Marc Mayer wrote of the enigmatic iconography of Basquiat’s pictures, “Basquiat speaks articulately while dodging the full impact of clarity like a matador. We can read his pictures without strenuous effort—the words, the images, the colors, and the construction—but we cannot quite fathom the point that they belabor… To enjoy them, we are not meant to analyze these pictures too carefully. Quantifying the encyclopedic breadth of his research certainly results in an interesting inventory, but the sum cannot adequately explain his pictures, which requires an effort outside the purview of iconography… This elaboration of the work’s indeterminacy—and not the uncooked technique that came to him without a struggle—is Basquiat’s equivalent of Picasso’s and Matisse’s studied ‘primitivism,’ and at which he worked just as hard, given its thorough consistency. That is, he painted a calculated incoherence, calibrating the mystery of what such apparently meaning-laden pictures might ultimately mean.” (Marc Mayer, “Basquiat in History,” in Exh. Cat., New York, Brooklyn Museum (and travelling), Jean-Michel Basquiat, 2005, p. 50) Chief among Basquiat’s influences were the Abstract Expressionists, whose illustrious spell is discernible in the thick swaths of radiant yellows, blues, whites and browns swooping vigorously across the panels of the present work. Basquiat built up the surface in multiple layers of pigment, visible in the variegated colors and scratched out textual inscriptions that peek through vast overlying swaths of paint. Possessing a sophisticated knowledge of art history, Basquiat infused his painting with a defined instinctual understanding of the language of abstraction. Forceful painterly strokes are deployed with an assured command. The artist’s brute force of application, and corresponding layering of paint and line through brush, collage and oil stick, confers a remarkably paroxysmal yet deliberate compositional clarity amidst a terrain of exuberant formalism. There is no spatial recession or perspectival logic to the composition. Rather, imbued with the frantic exertion and the poured, dripping aesthetic of Jackson Pollock; the exuberant colorism and dramatic painterly gesture of Willem de Kooning and Franz Kline; combined with the integration of text and blackboard-like surfaces of Cy Twombly, Basquiat’s grasp and deployment of twentieth-century American art history reverberates through the painting. Born to Puerto Rican and Haitian parents, and raised in Brooklyn, Basquiat drew from his manifold ancestral background and racial identity to forge a body of work acutely conscious of his contribution to the meta-narrative of an almost exclusively white Western art history. Basquiat aligned himself stylistically with Picasso, whose Guernica is a History Painting of the highest order and for whom primitivism was an antidote to the conservatism of the academies. Basquiat found in primitivism a correlative mode for expressing an overtly contemporary angst tied to his own black identity, embodying his projected “blackness” while subverting these very identity constructions by emulating Western conventions of painting. Kellie Jones wrote, “…there is no question that Jean-Michel Basquiat, though he sometimes chose to obscure the fact, knew how to ‘paint Western art,’ and was a formidable part of that tradition… His skill was also in his energetic articulations of the ‘neological construction of a black paradigm,’ as outlined by [Gerardo] Mosquera… However, Basquiat’s mischievous, complex, neologistic side, with regard to the fashioning of modernity and the influence and effluence of black culture, is often elided by critics and viewers—lost in translation… Certain related history paintings, such as Undiscovered Genius of the Mississippi Delta, are also fairly easily digestible forms of black culture. Through the lens of multiculturalism, these scenes visually signify blackness, are already overdetermined, and as self-contained, U.S. black history can be assigned to ‘the margins of modernism’ as hermetically sealed dioramas of, dare I write it, ‘the other'.” (Kellie Jones, “Lost in Translation: Jean-Michel in the (Re)Mix” in Ibid, p. 166) Sophisticated, confident and radiating a conviction of artistic vision, the vivacious iconographic power of Undiscovered Genius of the Mississippi Delta is a sheer testament to the thriving talent of a young and brilliant artistic spirit who, by 1983, had truly secured his position at the vanguard of an artistic consciousness. The present work solidified Basquiat as a figure who dashed effortlessly between art historical precedents in order to create a wholly individual painting deeply suffused with personal history, memory and emotion. He redefined the genre of History Painting by brazenly inserting himself at its center, inexplicably painting a picture that animates the annals of oral tradition through his own inimitable perspective. Titled

  • 2014-05-13

Nude Sunbathing

A radiant vision of exquisite beauty and devastating allure, Roy Lichtenstein’s Nude Sunbathing unequivocally embodies the very essence of confident and unadulterated female sensuality. From the sultry gaze of her half-lidded blue eyes to the languorous arch of her slender back, the idle motion of cascading blonde curls to the coquettish pout of her scarlet mouth, every inch of Lichtenstein’s breathtaking bombshell is imbued with a magnetic charisma that completely and utterly seduces the viewer. A resounding testament to the visual dynamism of Lichtenstein’s bold signature style, Nude Sunbathing constitutes the ultimate crystallization of the artist’s enduring engagement with the quintessential heroine of his inimitable oeuvre; freed from the narrative constraints of her previous embodiments, Lichtenstein’s nude revels in the enjoyment of her own peerless form. Executed in 1995, the present work is a masterpiece from Lichtenstein’s celebrated late Nudes, the first series the artist undertook following his acclaimed retrospective in 1993 at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum and, ultimately, the last major body of work before the artist’s death in 1997. Testifying to the incontrovertible allure of the monumental paintings, this limited series is distributed amongst the world’s most renowned public and private collections; the present work, held in the same private collection since the year following its execution and never before offered for public sale, numbers amongst the finest examples of the Nudes ever to appear at auction. The intimately close-cut tableau of Nude Sunbathing brings Lichtenstein’s seductress bewitchingly close to the viewer, her sensuous curves filling the frame with a confidence and self-possessed sexuality unrivaled in other examples. Presented against the radiantly prismatic abstract backdrop of Lichtenstein’s trademark Ben-Day dots, Nude Sunbathing, the only example from the series to be rendered in an emboldened red-on-red palette, relishes her status as the singular focus of the viewer’s adoring gaze. Her languid pose, one hand leisurely raised to gently toy with lustrous blonde locks, enacts a bold and unapologetic invocation of such canonical nudes as Matisse’s Draped Nude and Titian’s Venus of Urbino, effortlessly invoking centuries of art historical legacy with captivating aplomb. In Nude Sunbathing, Lichtenstein enters a final, dazzling confrontation with the weighty mantle of his artistic predecessors: with the daring provocation of Manet’s Olympia, the exquisite loveliness of Botticelli’s Venus, and the radical stylistic innovation of Ingres’s La Grande Odalisque, Nude Sunbathing is a magnificent example of Lichtenstein’s ultimate contribution to Contemporary art. A beguiling mixture of iconic familiarity and inaccessible perfection, Nude Sunbathing marks Lichtenstein’s ultimate and final reunion with his signature blondes. These peerless idols of femininity, gleaned from the pages of comic books and advertisements, appear in Lichtenstein’s oeuvre as early as Girl with Ball of 1961, held in the collection of the Museum of Modern Art in New York; over the course of the 1960s, Lichtenstein’s heroines appeared in a number of disparate narratives and guises, ranging from the distressed damsel of Drowning Girl to the domestic temptress of Girl in Bath.  Undisputed icons of postwar American art, Lichtenstein’s Girls exemplify the explicit tension at the very core of the artist’s practice: an irreconcilable distinction between the quotidian imagery of popular culture and the refined cultural paradigm of fine art. Remarking upon the significance of these women within the artist’s oeuvre, his wife, Dorothy Lichtenstein, comments, "I think that he was portraying his idea of the dream girl." (Dorothy Lichtenstein in conversation with Jeff Koons in Exh. Cat, New York, Gagosian Gallery, Lichtenstein: Girls, 2008, p. 15) In the late 1970s, Lichtenstein’s archetypal female underwent a radical stylistic transformation, departing from her role as the heroine of fictional and comic narrative to be reintroduced in a fantastical Surrealist dreamscape of compositional fragmentation and abstracted symbolism. Following the Surrealist paintings, Lichtenstein did not revive his signature subject matter until the mid-1990s when, following his major 1993 retrospective, the artist embarked upon his celebrated late Nudes. In her essay on the Nudes in the recent Lichtenstein retrospective co-organized by the Art Institute of Chicago and the Tate Modern, London, scholar Sheena Wagstaff refers to the Nudes as “monumental celebrations of domesticated eroticism,” further noting, “Lichtenstein hit upon deliberately provocative subject matter in his Nudes… their undeniable frisson of pictorial eroticism both problematizes a compositional architecture's integrity and highlights Lichtenstein's supreme mastery of form, distilled over a lifetime of pursuing technical perfection.” (Sheena Wagstaff, "Late Nudes," in Exh. Cat., Art Institute of Chicago, Roy Lichtenstein: A Retrospective, 2012, pp. 95, 97) As in his iconic paintings of the 1960s, the pose and delightful physique of the stunning blonde in the present work is drawn from popular culture; in this case, Lichtenstein culled his inspiration from the DC Comic Heart Throbs, in which our beauty lounges, her bedroom eyes seductively fluttering, as she reflects, “Danny likes me…I can tell….He likes me for me…but he doesn’t know I can be beautiful." In Nude Sunbathing, as in the other paradigmatic examples from the Nudes, Lichtenstein confronts his heroine in her final, conclusive iteration; stripped bare of the trappings of narrative drama or stylistic rendering, the artist’s dream girl appears in her purest and undiluted form, her alluring and sensual contours rendered with boldly unhindered erotic charge. While women have always featured prominently within the artist’s quintessential Pop lexicon, Lichtenstein returned to his signature subject matter—the female form—in the Nudes with a new, more powerful syntax. Wagstaff notes, “In the Nudes, not only did Lichtenstein alter the equation in the compositional tension between motif and formal concerns, but also, crucially, he seized upon a new pictorial language. He deduced and acknowledged the nude as a form through which a new syntax could emerge by means of an understated narrative that implies a relationship between the artist-creator and the nude—a contemporary rendition of the Pygmalion-artist conjuring a plausible painterly version of his Galatean muse. Both the artistic and the perceptual tension between form and content, most especially in those paintings that intensified this balance through a mirroring device, were to occupy Lichtenstein in the last years of his life.” (Ibid., 95) Unlike the earlier women, embroiled in romantic trysts or histrionic exploits, Nude Sunbathing does not offer an explicit storyline; instead, the only suggestion of narrative is held in the suggestive glimmer and implied sexuality of her heavily lidded eyes, which gaze at something—or someone—beyond the viewer’s field of vision. Remarking upon the elusive allure of the Nudes, Edward Said notes, “Lichtenstein’s Nudes signal the tension between what is represented and what isn’t represented, between the articulate and the silent.” (Edward W. Said, On Late Style: Music, and Literature against the Grain, 2006, p. xix) Moreover, in their unapologetic celebration of the female form, Lichtenstein’s Nudes capture a more contemporary and more provocative characterization of femininity. Critic Avis Berman comments, "The 1990s Nudes take pleasure in their own company, without the slightest hint of needing or missing a man. They are not paralyzed by their emotions. In contrast to Lichtenstein's original romance-comic pictures, this world flourishes exuberantly without men or engagement rings or kisses." (Exh. Cat., Vienna, Kunsthaus Bregenz, Roy Lichtenstein: Classic of the New, 2005, p. 143) Indeed, as she languidly reclines, gently toying with a thick, lustrous lock of blonde hair, the nude of the present work is utterly unconcerned by the viewer’s voyeuristic gaze upon the sensuous curves of her body; confident in the profound power of her allure, Nude Sunbathing accepts her rightful place within the timeless canon of nudes throughout art history. In his late focus upon the larger-than-life Nudes, which dominated his considerable creative faculties in the final years of his career, Lichtenstein paid homage to the iconic subject matter of two of his greatest mentors: Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse. For both of these artists, the nude operated as the original signifier of desire, codified and distilled into the sinuous contours of the idealized female form. Recalling the profound influence these artists enacted upon Lichtenstein, Dorothy Lichtenstein notes, “He grew up studying [the Venus de Milo], but I think he felt more challenged by what we would call the early Modernists – Picasso, Cézanne, and Matisse. He felt that they had restructured painting and they were actually part of his time. He grew up in New York, and so these were really the first works he saw in the Museum of Modern Art.” (Dorothy Lichtenstein in conversation with Jeff Koons in Exh. Cat, New York, Gagosian Gallery, Lichtenstein: Girls, 2008, p. 11) Throughout his career, these giants of Modernism remained touchstones for Lichtenstein, their investigation of the aesthetic quandaries of modern art—namely  the relationship between subject and artist, the temporal nature of reality, and the formal functions of line, light, and color—mirrored within his own oeuvre.  In particular, Lichtenstein’s late Nudes trace a markedly similar trajectory to the remarkable creative vigor of Picasso’s artistic experimentation of the late 1920s and early 1930s; in these years, the so-called Marie-Thérèse era, Picasso, inspired and enlivened by the beauty and vitality of his youthful mistress Marie-Thérèse Walter, embarked upon a series of formally inventive and powerfully volumetric paintings, sculptures, and etchings of his beloved’s voluptuous form. While Lichtenstein revisited Picasso’s oeuvre with increasing verve in the years following the latter’s death in 1973, the 1990s Nudes represent the crowning achievement and final culmination of the aesthetic engagement between the two.  The exhibitions Picasso and the Weeping Women: Marie-Thérèse Walter and Dora Maar, organized by the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 1994, and Picasso and Portraiture, mounted by the Museum of Modern Art in early 1996, further contributed to Lichtenstein’s focus upon the Modern master’s renderings of the female form in the mid-1990s.  Indeed, although the figural source for Nude Sunbathing is characteristically pulled from the fantasy realm of comic books, her languid pose is startlingly reminiscent of Picasso’s 1932 rendering of Marie-Thérèse in Nude Woman in a Red Armchair, while her cascading drapery, formally complementing and accentuating the silhouette of her slim thighs and abdomen, powerfully evokes Henri Matisse’s Draped Nude of 1936. Lichtenstein’s invocation of these canonical nudes of Modernism in the present work is, however, delightfully problematized by her affinity with the glorified pin-up bombshells of American popular media. Absorbing and advancing the cause of his artistic predecessors, Nude Sunbathing is Lichtenstein’s Pop answer to a decade long dialogue with the iconic nudes of the Twentieth Century. Lichtenstein’s arresting use of his trademark Ben-Day dots in Nude Sunbathing, echoed in other decisive examples of the late Nudes,  profoundly intensifies the artist’s already potent visual vernacular.  Addressing the formal brilliance of the Nudes, Sheena Wagstaff reflects, "By the 1990s, [Lichtenstein] had discovered a new way to render color plane and contour, filtered through his profound understanding of mutual influence—an artistic process of call-and-response that defined the innovations of both  Picasso and Matisse in the 1930s in holding the pictorial framework in tension.” (Sheena Wagstaff, "Late Nudes," in Exh. Cat., Art Institute of Chicago, Roy Lichtenstein: A Retrospective, 2012, p. 98) Describing the artistic impulse which prompted him to embark upon the late Nudes, Lichtenstein explains, “With my nudes, I wanted to mix artistic conventions that you would think incompatible, namely chiaroscuro and local color, and see what happened. I’d seen something similar in Léger’s work. My nudes are part light and shade, and so are the backgrounds, with dots to indicate the shade. The dots are also graduated from large to small, which usually suggests modeling in people’s minds, but that’s not what you get with these figures.” (Roy Lichtenstein, quoted in Michael Kimmelmann, Portraits: Talking with Artists at the Met, the Modern, the Louvre, and Elsewhere, New York, 1998, p. 89) Lichtenstein’s remarkable employment of the Ben-Day dots in Nude Sunbathing achieves the suggestion of chiaroscuro, long used by artists to evoke the volumetric modeling of three-dimensional subjects, while simultaneously evoking the artist’s iconic Pop lexicon. Cascading across the alabaster flesh of his lounging subject, the scarlet Ben-Day dots expand and contract with meticulous precision, intensifying to bold rows across one slender shoulder before fading to bright pinpricks along the curves of her torso. The modeled treatment of the Ben-Day dots upon the nude strikes a stark contrast with the uniformed red pattern of the background, further highlighting the appearance of illuminating rays upon her naked form. Reflecting upon Lichtenstein’s remarkable use of the Ben-Day dots in the Nudes, Harry Coplans remarks, “In this daring return to the human figure, Lichtenstein employed the dots to depict the flush—not the blush—of female flesh.” He continues, “But wait: the waves of dots exceed the outlines of the figures, continuing into other objects or into the background. The figure has been overtaken, abducted. Dots course through the scene and settle here or there, their action difficult to understand, obscuring bodies and crossing boundaries, like a cataract in the sense of both waterfall and obstruction of vision. As these dots, following their own formal and psychic logic, spread beyond the body, they escape narrative and depiction to become identified instead with the surface of the painting, the plane where the subject and object, artist/beholder and model, would meet, the intersubjective space of the blush.” (Harry Cooper, “On the Dot,” in Exh. Cat., Chicago, Art Institute of Chicago (and travelling), Roy Lichtenstein: A Retrospective, 2012, p. 33) While the entirety of Lichtenstein’s output is marked by an economy of means, the radical pictorial language of the late Nudes was unprecedented.  Speaking in the year the present work was painted, Lichtenstein remarked, “I’m trying to make paintings like giant musical chords, with a polyphony of colors that is nuts but works…It’s tough to make a painting succeed in terms of color and drawing within the constraints I insist on for myself.” (Roy Lichtenstein quoted in Michael Kimmelmann, “At the Met with: Roy Lichtenstein; Disciple of Color and Line, Master of Irony,” New York Times, March 31, 1995, p. C27) Showcasing his remarkable technical virtuosity, Lichtenstein creates a striking and complex composition from the limited vernacular of patterned dots and saturated splashes of prismatic primary colors, constrained and defined by the bold contours of his thick black outlines. By highlighting his figure within a tightly cropped frame, Lichtenstein further imbues his painting with a heightened intensity and emphatic force; as John Coplans suggested, “This paring away of the unessential led Lichtenstein to a sharper confrontation with the outside world, to a wider range and sharper focus in his use of stereotype… It is not that Lichtenstein avoids painting the whole figure because it is too complex but, rather, that the whole figure is too specific, too anecdotal for his purpose. Too much detail weakens the focus and the power of the image to immediately and recognizably signal the desired content. Thus, Lichtenstein crops away until he gets to the irreducible minimum and compresses into the format the exact cliché he desires to expose. Lichtenstein’s technique is similar to his imagery: He reduces his form and color to the simplest possible elements in order to make an extremely complex statement. In short, he uses a reductive imagery and a reductive technique for their sign-carrying potential.” (John Coplans, Roy Lichtenstein, New York, 1972, p. 23) Set against an abstract background of pure pattern, Nude Sunbathing is amongst the most emphatic articulations of Lichtenstein’s emphasis upon style and form in the late Nudes; unlike other examples from the series, which contextualize and domesticate the Nudes within lush interiors and playful narratives, the present work commits itself, utterly and entirely, to the celebration of line, color, and light in the beautiful form of the central figure. Achieving a sensational juxtaposition of prosaic popular imagery with the exalted dominion of fine art, Nude Sunbathing is amongst the most succinct and compelling embodiments of Lichtenstein’s unique artistic project. More than any other artist of his generation, Lichtenstein instinctively understood the phenomenal potential of popular imagery and endeavored to realign the cipher of that imagery to unveil verities behind the ever-proliferating pictorial panorama of contemporary culture in Twentieth-Century America. By invoking the impersonal artifice of mass-produced visuals in his meticulously rendered Ben-Day dots, Lichtenstein’s oeuvre enlists and effectively subverts the expectations of his audience, offering us a brilliantly executed masterwork disguised as the everyday visual matter of contemporary popular culture. In the final years of his career, Lichtenstein further heightened the stakes of his aesthetic endeavor, harnessing the familiar iconicity of mainstream media to depict art history’s ultimate symbol for formal perfection, from antiquity to the present. The annals of art history virtually overflow with examples of seminal nudes, from the cherished marble proportions of Praxitales’s Aphrodite of Knidos, to the frank eroticism of Titian’s Venus of Urbino, to the radical innovation of Picasso’s Demoiselles d'Avignon; in each, the artist offered a purified, conclusive embodiment of his unique aesthetic treatise. There is a profound eloquence to the Nudes, as Lichtenstein’s last significant body of work; Wagstaff notes, “In its powerful iconicity, the nude as an evocative embodiment of the creative process itself is reticulated through serial reiteration of the subject matter. It is the discovery and convulsive act of formal genesis—and Lichtenstein’s symbolic transfiguration of pictorial skin and gristle—that signals its real pictorial metamorphosis, and thus become the means of simultaneously overcoming yet emphasizing its narrative associations. Lichtenstein’s Nudes, created in the last four years of his life, are a profoundly innovative and active meditation upon the relationship of creation and perception.” (Sheena Wagstaff, "Late Nudes," in Exh. Cat., Chicago, Art Institute of Chicago (and travelling), Roy Lichtenstein: A Retrospective, 2012, p. 103-104) Signed and dated 95 on the reverse

  • 2017-05-18

Venice, The Grand Canal, looking North-East from Palazzo Balbi to

This painting, which has been inaccessable to scholars since 1940, is the most significant Canaletto rediscovery for more than a decade and has a particularly distinguished provenance, only recently identified. The view is taken from the Palazzo Foscari on the sharp bend in the Grand Canal, known as the Volta de Canal, roughly equidistant from its entrance onto the Bacino di San Marco and the Rialto Bridge. Looking North-East from there the whole of the longest straight stretch of the canal is visible, as far as the Rialto Bridge, part of which is shown in the far distance, with the roof and dome of the church of Santi Giovanni e Paolo beyond. Apart from being a particularly well balanced composition, and one in which water occupies the full breadth of the canvas, the view has the relatively unusual distinction of being observable, even from some height above the water, from the vantage point of the Palazzo Foscari. The foreground is dominated by the façade on the left of the Palazzo Balbi, built in 1582-90 to the designs of Alessandro Vittoria. A macchina erected next to the Palazzo Balbi was the focal point of the annual regatta (gondola race), from it the winners receiving their flags and prizes. The view is consequently known above all as the setting for depictions of regattas, including no fewer than three by Luca Carlevarijs, two showing The Regatta on the Grand Canal in Honour of Frederick IV, King of Denmark, 4 March 1709 (Nationalhistoriske Museum på Frederiksborg Hillerød, Denmark; and the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, the latter dated 1711; A. Rizzi, Luca Carlevarijs, Venice 1967, reproduced plates V, 35-7 and 39-40) and a third, smaller and showing a different regatta, in the Hermitage, St. Petersburg (ibid., reproduced plate 41). The first of these would certainly have been known to Canaletto from Giuseppe Baroni’s engraving of it, published in Domenico Lovisa’s Il Gran Teatro di Venezia of 1717 (ibid., reproduced plate 38). It is also the setting for all of Canaletto’s paintings of regattas, in the collection of Her Majesty the Queen, at Woburn Abbey, in the Bowes Museum, Barnard Castle, in the National Gallery, London, and in a German private collection (Constable, see Literature, nos. 347-51). The view was already a favourite subject of Canaletto long before he began painting festivals in the early 1730s. His earliest depiction of it is probably the large version presumably executed for Johann Wenzel von Liechtenstein and now in the Museo del Settecento Veneziano, Ca’ Rezzonico, Venice (Constable, op. cit., no. 210; Kowalczyk, see Literature, 2001, pp. 138-9, no. 50, reproduced in colour, where dated to 1723). That was probably followed by the version in the Ferens Art Gallery, Kingston upon Hull, probably of circa 1724 (Constable, op. cit., no. 214; Kowalczyk, op. cit., 2005, pp. 56-9, no. 6, reproduced in colour), and by that in the Gemäldegalerie, Dresden (1726?; Constable, op. cit., no. 211; catalogue of the exhibition Masterpieces from Dresden, London, Royal Academy of Arts, 15 March - 8 June 2003, pp. 84-7, no. 25, reproduced in colour). Further variants are in the Uffizi, Florence (inscribed on the reverse with the date 1728; Constable, op. cit., no. 213; Kowalczyk, op. cit., 2001, pp. 190-1, no. 70, reproduced in colour; Kowalczyk, op. cit., 2005, pp. 78-81, no. 12, reproduced in colour) and in the Accademia Carrara, Bergamo (late 1720s; Constable, op. cit., no. 212). A sketch in pen and brown ink in the collection of the Courtauld Institute, London, shows the palazzi on the right (ibid., no. 589; Kowalczyk, op. cit., 2001, p. 69, no. 21, reproduced in colour, where connected with the Ca’ Rezzonico painting and dated to circa 1723). The only other version painted after 1730 is the small canvas among the set of twenty-four in the collection of the Duke of Bedford at Woburn Abbey (Constable, op. cit., no. 215). A presumably incomplete series of payments for those was made between February 1733 and April 1736 (ibid., 1989 ed., I, p. xlii, note 27). Although only part of the façade of the Palazzo Balbi is shown, and the palazzi on the right are raised in height, the viewpoint of the Woburn version is almost identical to that adopted for this painting, and the general disposition of the boats is similar. Like the early version in the Ferens Art Gallery this painting, which may be dated to circa 1733 on stylistic grounds, shows the whole of the façade of the Palazzo Balbi, although here the number of arched openings at its centre is corrected from five to three. While it may slightly precede the Woburn version in date, it must have been considered by Canaletto his ‘definitive’ statement on the subject, to which he was never to return. Constable’s assessment of this painting as a replica of the very close version of the same size formerly owned by Sir George Leon (his no. 216) is possibly the most surprising error of judgement in the whole of his catalogue, and was recognised as such by Links (in conversation with Charles Beddington before his death in 1997) although the correction given in his last publication (loc. cit., 1998) is very muted. That painting, now the property of an Italian private collector, has been offered on the market regularly over the last two decades and was exhibited in Barcelona and Madrid in 2001 (see Succi, loc. cit.), on which occasion it was published as a copy by Charles Beddington (C. Beddington, "Review of Canaletto: Una Venècia imaginària, ed. D. Succi and A. Delneri", in The Burlington Magazine, vol. CXLIV, no. 1186, January 2002, p. 34). This painting was formerly accompanied by a pendant showing The Bucintoro returning to the Molo on Ascension Day (Constable, op. cit., vol. I, reproduced plate 64; vol. II, no. 340), which remained with it until its sale by Ader Tajan at the Hôtel George V, Paris, 15 December 1993, lot 13, for FF. 66,000,000 (fig. 1).  On all three occasions that this painting has been exhibited it has been accompanied by the pendant, which was no. 89 in the 1844 exhibition, described as the ‘Marriage of the Doge of Venice’, and no. 68 in the 1861 exhibition, described as the ‘Doge marrying the Adriatic’. The pairing of the two subjects is unusual, the sobriety of this painting contrasting with the gaiety of the pendant. Thus, although this painting is described in the sources only as ‘A View in Venice’ there can be no uncertainty about the identification of the pair. Furthermore, a pair of copies, measuring 72.5 by 91.5 cm. and thought to have been acquired from Dudley Tooth in 1953 as ‘William James’, is currently on the London art market. Although the provenance of this painting and its pendant from the late-eighteenth century has long been known, it is only within the last decade that the remarkable early history of the paintings has been rediscovered.  It was Sir Oliver Millar who first noticed the references to the paintings in the 1736 manuscript catalogue of paintings at 10 Downing Street (see under Literature) and in the 1751 sale, and this information was published by Links, loc. cit., 1998.  The manuscript catalogue of 1736, which is bound into Horace Walpole’s own copy of his Aedes Walponianae, 1752, in the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York (PML 7586), describes the two pictures ‘in the Parlour’: no. 125, ‘The Doge of Venice in His Barge, with Gondola’s & Masqueraders. Canaletti. 2-9 1/2 x 4-5 3/4’, and no. 126, ‘A View of Venice. Canaletti. 2-9 1/2 x 4-5 3/4’ (fig. 2).  In the manuscript copy of the 1751 sale, the present picture appears as lot 64, ‘A View in Venice Cannaletti (Raymond for Gideon) 36-15-6’, whilst its pendant appears as the subsequent lot, ‘the Doge marrying the Sea, it’s Companion Ditto (Ditto for Ditto) 34-13-.’ The 1736 reference is of particular significance as it is the earliest record of Canaletto paintings hanging in an English house. It is also of the greatest interest in establishing their first owner as no less a figure than Sir Robert Walpole (fig. 3), whose name had not previously featured in the literature on the artist, although he also owned Two Views of Venice by ‘Canaletti’ listed as nos. 359 and 360 in the 1736 catalogue, as hanging in the Parlour at Orford House in the grounds of the Royal Hospital, Chelsea (A Capital Collection …, p. 449), but no further details are given and the paintings have not been identified. Sir Robert Walpole, Britain’s first ‘prime’ minister, who was created Earl of Orford on his fall from power in 1742, was one of the greatest patrons and collectors of his day. Houghton Hall was built for him in 1722-35 to the designs of Colen Campbell and William Kent, and he commissioned from Paul de Lamerie the 'Walpole Salver' (Victoria & Albert Museum, London). He began to collect paintings in the 1720s, and his inventory of 1736 lists 154 at 10 Downing Street, 120 at Houghton, 78 in Chelsea and 66 at 16 Grosvenor Street, Mayfair. These included major works by Poussin, Claude Lorrain, Pietro da Cortona, Carlo Maratti, Guido Reni, Salvator Rosa, Murillo, Adam Elsheimer, Rembrandt, Frans Hals, Jan van Huysum, Jacob Jordaens and Frans Snyders, and particularly fine groups of paintings by Rubens and Van Dyck, including fourteen full-length Wharton family portraits by the latter. Walpole left substantial debts, as a result of which his collection was largely dispersed by auction sales in 1748 and 1751 and, above all, by the private sale in 1779 of the Houghton collection to Catherine II, Empress of Russia, as a result of which most of his more important possessions are now in the Hermitage (see A Capital Collection ..., passim). Walpole was unquestionably the first owner of the paintings by Canaletto, although how he acquired them is not known. He never visited Italy, but it may be relevant that his son Edward, who was charged with buying works of art for his collection, was in Venice between January 1730 and January 1731 (ibid., p. 309). They hung at 10 Downing Street (fig. 4), the eastern part of which was acquired by the crown in 1732 and offered by George II to Walpole as a personal gift; Walpole would only accept it for his office as First Lord of the Treasury and vacated it on his resignation in 1742, since when it has been the official residence of the Prime Minister. The original picture-hanging plans made by Isaac Ware still survive and, together with the 1736 inventory, allow for an accurate reconstruction of arrangement of pictures at Downing Street.  This picture and its pendant hung on either side of the fireplace in the ‘Northeast corner room’, also known as the ‘First-floor Parlour’ (fig. 5).  This room included other pairs of pictures: two oils by Francesco Solimena; The Exposition of King Cyrus and Orpheus described as Castiglione but now attributed to Antonio Maria Vassallo (see A Capital Collection, pp. 178-180, nos. 85 and 86); and A Kitchen piece by David Teniers the Younger (op. cit., pp. 242-3, no. 139) paired with Cook at a Kitchen Table with Dead Game by Paul de Vos (op. cit., p. 246, no. 144).  As Andrew Moore has observed, ‘The effect of these paintings in the rooms at Downing Street was quite stunning and it was here that the collection acquired its early reputation’ (op. cit., p. 24).  The prominent display of this painting and its pendant there provides important support for Professor Bruce Redford’s theories about prominent Whigs commissioning Venetian views in order to emphasize the political parallels between the two states (see B. Redford, Venice and the Grand Tour, New Haven and London 1996, pp. 60-3). While the transitions of ownership are unusually complex, this painting and its pendant have been moved remarkably few times. This, and the fact that this painting has been sold publicly only once (in 1751), helps to account for its exceptional state of preservation. The buyer at the 1751 sale was the stockbroker Sampson Gideon, one of the most successful Jews of his generation in England. Gideon was a major subscriber to government funds and a financial adviser to the brothers Henry Pelham, Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Thomas Pelham, 1st Duke of Newcastle. By the mid-1740s he had also become a valued adviser on financial matters to Sir Robert Walpole, who sought his counsel about floating loans for the Spanish War. Unwilling to give up his faith, his son was made a baronet in 1759 at the age of thirteen, and Baron Eardley in 1789, in recognition of his father’s services. Gideon acquired Belvedere, near Erith in Kent (fig. 6), on the death of Lord Baltimore in 1751 and shortly afterwards added a Great Room attributed to Isaac Ware. His collection was small but exceptional, as the Dodsleys observed in 1761: ‘The collection, though not numerous, is very valuable, it containing none but pieces which are originals by the greatest masters, and some of them very capital’ (Dodsley, op. cit., p. 271). Those included Rubens’ Deborah Kip, Wife of Sir Balthasar Gerbier, and her Children, now in the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C., Murillo’s Immaculate Conception now at Melbourne (U. Hoff, European Paintings before 1800 in the National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne, 1995, pp. 198-9) and Flight into Egypt now in the Detroit Institute of Arts (exhibited Fort Worth, Kimbell Art Museum, and Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (1617-1682): Paintings from American Collections, 2002, pp. 116-17, no. 3), and two gallery interiors by Teniers, one of which is now at Raby Castle (exhibited Washington, D.C., National Gallery of Art, The Treasure Houses of Britain, 1985-6, pp. 362-3, no. 291). There was also a Portrait of Snyders and his wife and child by ‘Long Jan’, also bought for Gideon by Raymond at the Walpole sale in 1751 [Second day (June 15), lot 66]. The pair of paintings by Canaletto hung in the Long Parlour, where they were seen and described by the Dodsleys (loc. cit.): ‘View of Venice’ and ‘Ditto, with the Doge marrying the sea Its companion’ Height 2 feet 9 inc. Breadth 4 Feet 6 inc. [Painted by] Canaletti’; these descriptions are repeated by Martyn, loc. cit. They were to remain at Belvedere until 1860, Mrs Philip Lybbe Powys recording in her diary in 1771 having seen ‘two views of Venice by Canaletti’ (see Climenson, loc. cit.) shortly before the remodelling of the house by James ‘Athenian’ Stuart for Sir Sampson Gideon, later Baron Eardley, in circa 1775. Belvedere was visited early in the next century by Edward Wedlake Brayley, who noted (loc. cit.): ‘the collection of pictures evince a very judicious choice: among them is a view of Venice, and its companion, with the ceremony of the Doge marrying the Sea, by Canaletti …’ before going on to mention paintings attributed to Leonardo da Vinci, Giorgione, Holbein and Rembrandt. By the time of the 1856 catalogue of Pictures at Belvedere the two paintings by Canaletto were in the Dining Room, where they were the only framed paintings, the remainder of the decoration of the room being by (or attributed to) Antonio Zucchi and Angelica Kauffman. This painting hung on the left of the chimneypiece, the pendant on the right (They may have been moved here shortly after the remodelling of circa 1775, judging from an annotation, probably in an eighteenth-century hand, in the copy of Dodsley in the library of the National Gallery, London, which records ‘now in the dining Parlour’). They were not among the twenty-one paintings from Belvedere consigned by Sir Culling Eardley for sale at Christie’s on 30 June 1860, nor were they among the ten paintings apparently consigned under the name of Sir Culling Eardley for sale at Christie’s on 6 June 1868, lots 73-82. Along with other paintings from Belvedere (including unsold lots from the 1860 sale) they were moved in 1860 to Bedwell Park, near Hatfield, Hertfordshire. Belvedere was purchased in 1865 as a home by the Royal Alfred Merchant Seamen’s Institution, which it remained until its demolition in 1957. Bedwell, the paintings’ new home, was a late seventeenth century house which had been bought by Sir Culling Smith, 1st Bt., in 1807 and to which significant additions were made in circa 1840 and 1860, presumably in part to accommodate these new embellishments. There the pair of paintings by Canaletto remained until their sale to Agnew’s in 1930. Their whereabouts following their sale by Agnew’s have hitherto been unknown. There is no question, however, that this is the painting reproduced by Moschini in 1954, loc. cit., as in the collection of Mario Crespi, Milan, nor indeed that the pendant is the painting reproduced by him as fig. 114 and colour plate 16 as in the same collection. If one allows that both paintings could have been mistakenly described as measuring 76 by 120 cm. in the catalogue of the Lausanne exhibition of 1947 (of which both bear printed labels on the backs of the frames, but with the numbers 125 C and 125 D rather than the 101 and 102 of the catalogue) then it should be assumed that Constable’s no. 215(a) and 215(b) are both this painting. We are grateful to Charles Beddington for providing this catalogue entry.

  • GBRGroßbritannien
  • 2005-07-07

Tête de femme

Instantly recognisable as a portrait of Picasso’s celebrated muse Marie-Thérèse Walter, this serene, elegant and radiant composition belongs to the extraordinary group of canvases depicting the artist’s beloved mistress who marked his art of the early 1930s. The present painting is one of the most geometrically complex renderings of Marie-Thérèse, depicted as a bust on a pedestal and reminiscent of the large plaster sculptures of her that he created several years earlier (fig. 1). Picasso completed this canvas at the height of the Surrealist movement in 1935, when Freudian psycho-sexual symbolism played a defining role in the imagery of the avant-garde. But Picasso's composition here, with the deconstructed appearance of the pedestal and the bust, is a decidedly forthright example of the artist's individualism.  Tête de femme is constructed with the sharp, linear elements that were defining features of Picasso's early Cubist compositions, yet the colours are unlike any that Picasso had ever used before - pulsating red, shrill orange and yellow, and soothing marine tones of green and blue. One of the more unexpected elements of the composition is the thickly-painted latticework, reminiscent of Picasso’s chair caning collages from the early century (fig. 3), as well as his still-lifes from the 1920s. Indeed, more than any other model, Marie-Thérèse inspired Picasso's creative genius, and her very image conjured a creative synthesis of the most radical aspects of Picasso's production. What distinguishes this work is the way in which Picasso was able to incorporate elements from various different parts of his own career – most notably the voluminous treatment characteristic of his plastic work, the grid-like background reminiscent of his ground-breaking collages, and the geometric distortions of the figure’s body and facial features borrowed from the Cubist canon. With their rich colouration and their soft yet pronounced curves, Picasso's Marie-Thérèse pictures are renowned as being amongst his most inspired compositions, ranging in mood from dreamy to euphoric. In fact, of all the manifestations of Picasso's exceptionally prolific career, it is during the period dominated by Marie-Thérèse that his creative force was at its most powerful. Among the most significant of these paintings is Tête de femme, created when Marie-Thérèse was firmly at the centre of Picasso's emotional and artistic universe. The work’s unusually vibrant palette is similar to the one he used for his allegorical depictions of Marie-Thérèse reading or drawing, such as Deux femmes (fig. 4), executed several weeks earlier. By the time he painted the present composition, Picasso’s focus on new aesthetic and personal concerns were apparent. In March 1935 Marie-Thérèse was in the early stages of pregnancy with their daughter Maya, who would be born in September, and the composition bears specific references to the young woman’s state, from the swell of her breasts rising in the foreground to the crescent moon - symbol of the Roman fertility goddess Diana - that shadows her face. The simple yet bold outline of the breasts and the green latticework in the background also forecast the linear direction of Picasso’s work in the weeks to come. ‘You have an interesting face. I would like to do a portrait of you. I feel we are going to do great things together.’ It was with these words that Picasso began his almost decade long seduction of Marie-Thérèse, the young woman who would forever be remembered as the artist’s golden muse. His rapturous desire for the girl gave rise to a wealth of images that have been acclaimed as the most erotic and emotionally uplifting compositions of his long career. Picasso's reverence is nowhere more apparent than in the depictions of his lover reading, sleeping or writing, the embodiment of tranquillity and physical acquiescence (fig. 5). In the present composition, however, his model is not engaged in any such activity. Instead, her elegant bust, seemingly looking into the distance, is depicted in its purest form – as a work of art to be revered by its creator and spectator alike. Françoise Gilot, Picasso's companion from a later period of his life, recognised the tantalisingly sculptural possibilities presented by Marie-Thérèse's body during this feverish period: ‘I found Marie-Thérèse fascinating to look at. I could see that she was certainly the woman who had inspired Pablo plastically more than any other. She had a very arresting face with a Grecian profile. The whole series of portraits of blonde women Pablo painted between 1927 and 1935 are almost exact replicas of her... Her forms were handsomely sculptural, with a fullness of volume and a purity of line that gave her body and her face an extraordinary perfection. To the extent that nature offers ideas or stimuli to an artist, there are some forms that are closer than other to any artist's own aesthetic and thus serve as a springboard for his imagination. Marie-Thérèse brought a great deal to Pablo in the sense that her physical form demanded recognition’ (F. Gilot, quoted in L’Amour fou, Picasso and Marie-Thérèse (exhibition catalogue), Gagosian Gallery, New York, 2011, pp. 71-72). Picasso first saw Marie-Thérèse on the streets of Paris in 1927, when she was only seventeen years old and while he was entangled in an unhappy marriage to Olga Khokhlova. ‘I was an innocent girl,’ Walter remembered years later. ‘I knew nothing - either of life or of Picasso... I had gone to do some shopping at the Galeries Lafayette, and Picasso saw me leaving the Metro. He simply took me by the arm and said, 'I am Picasso! You and I are going to do great things together”’ (quoted in Picasso and the Weeping Women (exhibition catalogue), Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Los Angeles & The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 1994, p. 143). The couple's relationship was kept a well-guarded secret for many years, both on account of Picasso's marriage to Olga and Marie-Thérèse's considerably young age. But the covertness of the affair only intensified Picasso's obsession with the girl, and many of his pictures, with their dramatic contrasts of light and dark, allude to their secret interludes held under cover of darkness. Soon after learning of Marie-Thérèse’s pregnancy on Christmas Eve 1934, Picasso promised to file for a divorce from Olga, and his lawyers told him that he needed to separate from his lover during the proceedings. Picasso was devastated by this forced separation during this intimate moment in their relationship. In the spring of 1935, he dramatically reduced his work on painting for nearly a year and instead devoted himself to poetry. Tête de femme, a rare oil created during this tumultuous time, is a testament to Marie-Thérèse’s transcendent importance as a source of inspiration and solace for the artist. Indeed, Marie-Thérèse would soon take on another role in the artist's life, giving birth to his first daughter Maya in September 1935. But it is in this image from earlier that year that her inspirational force and its impact on Picasso's art were at their most dramatic. Signed Picasso (lower left)

  • GBRGroßbritannien
  • 2016-02-03


Monet's famous lily pond in his garden at Giverny provided the subject matter for most of his major later works, paintings whose significance in the development of modern art is now fully recognised. The theme of waterlilies, that became not only Monet's most celebrated series of paintings, but possibly one of the most iconic images of Impressionism, dominated the artist's work over several decades, recording the changes in his style and his constant pictorial innovations. The present example, which dates from 1904, is a powerful testament to Monet's enduring vision and creativity in his mature years. By 1890, Monet had become financially successful enough to buy the house with a large garden at Giverny, which he had rented since 1883. With great vigour and determination, he swiftly set about transforming the gardens and creating a large pond, in which waterlilies gradually matured (figs. 1 & 2). Once the garden was designed according to the artist's vision, it offered a boundless source of inspiration, and provided the major themes that dominated the last three decades of Monet's career. Towards the end of his life, he told a visitor to his studio: 'It took me some time to understand my water lilies. I planted them purely for pleasure; I grew them with no thought of painting them. A landscape takes more than a day to get under your skin. And then, all at once I had the revelation - how wonderful my pond was - and reached for my palette. I've hardly had any other subject since that moment' (quoted in Stephan Koja, Claude Monet (exhibition catalogue), Österreichische Galerie Belvedere, Vienna, 1996, p. 146). Once discovered, the subject of waterlilies offered a wealth of inspiration that Monet went on to explore for several decades. His carefully designed garden presented the artist with a micro-cosmos in which he could observe and paint the changes in weather, season and time of day, as well as the ever-changing colours and patterns. John House wrote: 'The water garden in a sense bypassed Monet's long searches of earlier years for a suitable subject to paint. Designed and constantly supervised by the artist himself, and tended by several gardeners, it offered him a motif that was at the same time natural and at his own command - nature re-designed by a temperament. Once again Monet stressed that his real subject when he painted was the light and weather' (J. House, Monet: Nature into Art, Newhaven, 1986, p. 31). In the present work, Monet's primary interest is in depicting the effects of light on the surface of the pond and on the waterlilies themselves and the play of shadows and modulations of light that the weather creates. Moving towards an increasingly abstract treatment of space, Monet focused almost entirely on the water surface. He reduced the horizon to a small patch of blue pigment in the upper left corner of the composition, thus minimising the illusion of depth and perspective. The sky and the trees, placed outside the scope of the canvas, are present through their reflection in the water. The surface of the canvas thus becomes a two-dimensional pattern, acquiring a spatial continuity in which all parts of the composition are treated with equal importance. The elimination of the horizon line led Monet towards a transition from the horizontal format (fig. 3) to the square canvases (figs. 4 & 5), that he started using in the year the present work was executed. In 1914, Monet began to conceive of his Grandes décorations (fig. 3), a sequence of monumental paintings of the gardens that would take his depictions of the waterlily pond in a dramatic new direction. The artist envisaged an environment in which the viewer would be completely surrounded by the paintings. He wrote: 'The temptation came to me to use this water-lily theme for the decoration of a drawing room: carried along the length of the walls, enveloping the entire interior with its unity, it would produce the illusion of an endless whole, of a watery surface with no horizon and no shore; nerves exhausted by work would relax there, following the restful example of those still waters, [...] a refuge of peaceful meditation in the middle of a flowering aquarium' (quoted in Claude Roger-Marx, 'Les Nymphéas de Monet', in Le Cri de Paris, Paris, 23rd May 1909). In the later part of his career, it was Monet's intention to depict atmosphere and colour rather than to record a specific scene; working towards this goal, he reached a level of abstraction that was to play a profound role on the development of later twentieth century art. Signed Claude Monet and dated 1904 (lower right)

  • GBRGroßbritannien
  • 2007-06-19

The Perfect Pink a Superb Coloured Diamond and Diamond Ring

THE PERFECT PINK A SUPERB COLOURED DIAMOND AND DIAMOND RING Set with a rectangular-shaped fancy intense pink diamond weighing 14.23 carats, flanked on either side by a rectangular-shaped diamond weighing 1.73 and 1.67 carats, mounted in 18k rose and white gold, ring size 5½ Accompanied by report no. 14432611 dated 16 May 2005 from the Gemological Institute of America stating that the 14.23 carat diamond is fancy intense pink, natural colour, VVS2 clarity, with excellent symmetry Accompanied by a note no. 1009543 dated 24 September 2010 from Gübelin Gemmological Laboratory stating that diamonds are classified into two fundamental groups based on the relative presence or absence of nitrogen incorporated into the crystal structure, as determined by the infrared spectrum. Type I diamonds contains appreciable concentrations of nitrogen, whereas type II diamonds are chemically very pure and do not reveal infrared absorption characteristics related to nitrogen. A further separation of these two groups includes type Ia (nitrogen atoms present in pairs or groups), type Ib (isolated nitrogen atoms), type IIa (no measurable traces of nitrogen) and type IIb (traces of boron). Based on its infrared spectrum, the diamond of 14.23 carats is classified as a type IIa diamond Also accompanied by two reports no. 2125332554 dated 21 July 2010 and 17550927 dated 3 August 2010 from the Gemological Institute of America stating that the 1.73 and 1.67 carat diamonds are D colour, internally flawless clarity

  • HKGSonderverwaltungszone Hongkong
  • 2010-11-29

Le Palais ducal

Monet’s spectacular view of the Palazzo Ducale on the Grand Canal belongs to the extraordinary series he completed in the fall of 1908 in Venice.  Painted from the south-east vantage of a floating pontoon, the scene depicts the Palace, with its Byzantine fenestrations adorning the façade, alongside the Ponte della Paglia and the prison building on the right.   To the left of the palace is the entrance to Saint Mark’s square, and the silhouette of the bell tower and can be seen in the open space.  Through a Renaisannce-inspired sfumato technique Monet conjures the briny mist of the Adriatic, and the oblique pontoon and moorings convey the lulling motion of its current.  This picture marks one of the rare instances that Monet painted from the vantage of a gondola, capturing fleeting light that colored this dramatic scene.  Monet arrived with his wife Alice on October 1st at the invitation of Mary Young Hunter, a wealthy American who had been introduced to the couple by John Singer Sargent.   Although he had been reluctant to leave behind the motifs of his Giverny garden that had all but consumed his work, he could not resist the opportunity to see the architectural splendors of the lagoon city and the new and formidable challenges that it would present.  At first, the visual splendor of the city astounded him, and he feared that he was too old and ill-equipped to capture its pageantry.  His creative paralysis subsided by October 7, and he commenced  the most successful series campaigns of his career.  In his study of Monet's work and the Mediterranean, Joachim Pissarro has given a detailed account of Monet's working schedule while he was in Venice:  “After so much procrastination, Monet soon adopted a rigorous schedule in Venice. Alice’s description of his work day establishes that from the very inception of his Venetian campaign, Monet organized his time and conceived of the seriality of his work very differently from his previous projects. In Venice, Monet divided his daily schedule into periods of approximately two hours, undertaken at the same time every day and on the same given motif. Unlike his usual methods of charting the changes of time and light as the course of the day would progress, here Monet was interested in painting his different motifs under exactly the same conditions. One could say that he had a fixed appointment with his motifs at the same time each day. The implication of this decision is very simple; for Monet in Venice, time was not to be one of the factors of variations for his motifs. Rather, it was the 'air', or what he called 'the envelope' - the surrounding atmospheric conditions, the famous Venetian haze - that became the principal factor of variation with these motifs” (J. Pissarro, ibid., p. 50). Monet stayed for the first two weeks of his sojourn as Hunter’s guest at the Palazzo Barbaro, which belonged to a relation of Sargent - Mrs Daniel Sargent Curtis.  He then relocated to the Grand Hotel Britannia on the northern bank of the Grand Canal, where he remained until his departure on December 7.  From his balcony at the Palazzo Barbaro he could see directly across to the Palazzo da Mula, Palazzo Dario and the Palazzo Contarini, but the Britannia offered even more spectacular views.  From this vantage he had clear views of the church of San Giorgio Maggiore and Palazzo Ducale, the city’s most famous landmark, which had featured in the immortal works of Titian and Canaletto.  While several of Monet’s depictions of the Palazzo depict it from the southwest, the present canvas depicts the palace from the north, offering a dramatic view of the Lions of Piazza San Marco in the distance.  What is so remarkable about this painting is the abrupt depiction of the pontoon in the foreground, which heightens the perspectival drama of the composition. Discussing the Venetian paintings of 1908 Gustave Geffroy attempted to define the approach Monet took to his depictions of the city, in particular making a study of the artist’s repeated portrayal of certain motifs: “It is no longer the minutely detailed approach to Venice that the old masters saw in its new and robust beauty, nor the decadent picturesque Venice of the 18th century painters; it is a Venice glimpsed simultaneously from the freshest and most knowledgeable perspective, one which adorns the ancient stones with the eternal and changing finery of the hours of the day." Monet’s Venetian canvases transported Geffroy:"in front of this Venice in which the ten century old setting takes on a melancholic and mysterious aspect under the luminous veils which envelop it. The lapping water ebbs and flows, passing back and forth around the palazzo, as if to dissolve these vestiges of history… The magnificence of nature only reigns supreme in those parts of the landscape from which the bustling city of pleasure can be seen from far enough away that one can believe in the fantasy of the lifeless city lying in the sun” (G. Geffroy, Claude Monet, sa vie, son temps, son oeuvre, Paris, 1924, pp. 318 & 320). Similar to his canvases of the Thames, Monet’s Venetian paintings continued to explore how light reflected off a wide stretch of water dissolves and liquefies the solid, uneven surfaces of brick and mortar. In Venice, however, the closeness of the buildings to the water's edge led him to explore more abstract compositions accentuating the interplay between the rhythms of the ornate façades, with their arched openings and horizontal divisions, and the rhythmic expanse of water. This innovative approach was perhaps encouraged by Monet’s appreciation of the special importance Venice held for his artistic forebears. George Shackelford and MaryAnne Stevens argue: "Venice offered Monet contact with a specifically resonant artistic tradition and with aesthetic options that invited him to extend the artistic concerns with which he had been engaged since the early 1890s to depict the dominant tonality of the air that lies between the subject and the artist/viewer (the envelope) and the reflection of subject and light on water, Monet drew upon such predecessors in Venice as Turner and Whistler, and the achievements of his London series" (G.M.T. Shackelford & M. Stevens, Monet in the 20th Century (exhibition catalogue), op. cit., p. 178). The glorious canvases that Turner produced in the early 1840s, such as The Dogana, San Giorgio, Citella, from the Steps of the Europa, present a Venice which is transfigured by light. It is a light that has a form and presence more accurately recorded in the waters of the lagoon than falling on the city itself. Matisse is recorded to have noted: "it seemed to me that Turner must have been the link between the academic tradition and impressionism" (quoted in Turner, Whistler, Monet (exhibition catalogue), op. cit., p. 203) and he divined a special connection between Turner’s works and Monet’s. Writing in the catalogue for the Turner, Whistler, Monet exhibition Katherin Lochnan pinpoints the Venice pictures as the culmination of Monet’s discourse with those two painters: "These beautiful and poetic works are portals through which the viewer can enter a world of memories, reveries and dreams. Fearing that they might constitute the final chapter in his artistic evolution, Monet sounded in them the last notes of his artistic dialogue with Turner and Whistler that had been central to his artistic development" (K. Lochnan in ibid. p. 35). During the course of his stay Monet painted thirty-seven canvases of Venetian subjects, which depicted views of the Grand Canal, San Giorgio Maggiore, the Rio della Salute; the Palazzos Dario, Mula, Contarini and the Doges’ Palace. On December 19, 1908, a few days after Monet’s return to Paris, Bernheim-Jeune acquired twenty-eight of the thirty-seven views of Venice, although Monet kept the pictures in his studio until 1912 to add their finishing touches. After the death of Alice in 1911, Monet finally agreed on a date for the exhibition at Bernheim-Jeune.  Claude Monet Venise opened on May 28, 1912 and was greeted with significant critical acclaim, not least by Paul Signac who viewed the Venetian canvases as one of Monet’s greatest achievements. Writing to Monet he states: “When I looked at your Venice paintings with their admirable interpretation of the motifs I know so well, I experienced a deep emotion, as strong as the one I felt in 1879 when confronted by your train stations, your streets hung with flags, your trees in bloom, a moment that was decisive for my future career. And these Venetian pictures are stronger still, where everything supports the expression of your vision, where no detail undermines the emotional impact, where you have attained the selflessness advocated by Delacroix.  I admire them as the highest manifestations of your art” (P. Signac quoted in Turner, Whistler, Monet (exhibition catalogue), op. cit., p. 207). The present work is one of the pictures that may have been sold through Bernheim-Jeune, based on inscriptions written on the stretcher of the canvas. We know definitively that the picture was in the collection of Dr. Hans Wendland in 1924, when he sold it to Galerie Thannhauser in Berlin. Wendland had lived in Paris before World War I, and it is possible that he acquired the painting before moving to Berlin during the war. Thannhauser then sold the picture in 1926 to Erich Goeritz, the Berlin-based textile manufacture and one of the most important Jewish collectors of the Weimar Republic.  The picture then came into the possession of  Jakob Goldschmidt, from whom it was confiscated by the National Socialists in 1941.  Later that year it was sold at auction by Hans Lange, where it was purchased by Dr. Albert Vögler.  In 1954  Goldschmidt, who had relocated to New York, reclaimed the picture from Völger’s heirs through successful litigation in Hamburg.  Since that time, the picture has remained in the Goldschmidt family and has never been exhibited in public until the present day. Signed Claude Monet and dated 1908 (lower left)

  • 2015-05-05

Cubi xxviii

"I polished [the sculptures] in such a way that on a dull day, they take on the dull blue, or the color of the sky in the afternoon sun, the glow, golden like the rays, the colors of nature …. They are colored by the sky and surroundings, the green or blue of water.’’ David Smith in an interview with Thomas B. Hess, June 1964 David Smith embodied an independence of spirit that characterized many of the American artists who emerged at the midpoint of the 20th Century. Smith combined a refusal to choose one convention or form above another with a forceful determination to achieve a singular vision and artistic identity. The sculptor created one of the most consistently confident and individualistic bodies of work from the mid-century, establishing a new kind of sculptural invention that used innovative techniques and material to express a fusion of abstraction and figuration. Combining modern technologies and materials derived from machinery and industry, Smith conveyed volume through an innate genius for organizing negative and positive space. Smith also possessed a love for landscape and Surrealist lyricism that brought a vibrantly poetic linear element to the overt Cubist solidity of his art. The Cubi series is the culmination of Smith’s sculptural alchemy, in which welded metal becomes a composition of elegant yet weighty and volumetric presence, created around open spaces rather than carved from solid form like traditional stone or wood sculpture. Smith’s genius for balancing void and solid, form and content, crude material and poetic spirit is the hallmark of his Cubi masterpieces. Created from 1961 until his untimely death in 1965, Smith’s Cubi sculptures are a cohesive group – of which Cubi XXVIII was the last – whose sleek geometry of boxes and columns allowed Smith to experiment with real rather than implied volume, exploring all its permutations. This spectacular group of sculptures is not only the culmination of Smith’s illustrious career; they are acknowledged masterpieces of American art that constitute one of the most radical developments in modern sculpture. The importance of the Cubis is confirmed by the fact that twenty-one of the Cubis have entered museum collections, many within just a few years of the artist’s death. The linear genius of Smith’s earlier work of the 1940s and 1950s was a form of drawing in space, while literal volume was largely abandoned. With the work of the 1960s, including the Cubis, Zigs, Wagons and Circles, Smith celebrated form and mass in three-dimensional space, as he accepted the challenge of creating monumental sculptures that could inhabit the rolling vista of the hills surrounding his studio in Bolton Landing. The 1960s were a time of creative ingenuity and interplay among simultaneous series, unparalleled in Smith’s oeuvre, and the flow of ideas freely informed one series with the innovations of the other.  As the artist’s daughter, Candida Smith described his process, "Again and again he referred to his `work stream’; each work of art being as a vessel filled from the stream while never wholly separate. I understand his term to mean the flow of his identity made physically manifest – the process by which images and ideas from decades or days before inform a work in progress or yet to be made."  (Candida N. Smith, The Fields of David Smith, New York, 1999, p. 17)  This particularly fecund period was informed by the artist’s visit to Spoleto, Italy to participate in the Festival of Two Worlds in 1962. Working in five abandoned factories in Voltri, Smith made a prodigious amount of sculpture during his short stay of thirty days, incorporating found objects and scraps of metal from his surroundings into works that were displayed throughout the city. As Candida Smith recalls, "My father returned home that summer invigorated and jubilant. …It was after his return from Italy that the fields began to burgeon at an amazing rate. It was as if the creative explosion and the resulting enormous installation in Spoleto ignited a fire that did not burn out. The Voltri-Boltons were made along with the painted circle pieces, Primo Pianos, Zigs and Cubis.’’ (Ibid., p. 30-32) As a mature work in the series, Cubi XXVIII embodies the many influences of these various series of the early 1960s. The more figurative element of the earlier Sentinels is evident in the rectangular "torso’’ atop one of the columnar sides of the composition of Cubi XXVIII. The painted brushwork on the surface of the Circles is mirrored in the polished arcs and swirls that play across the stainless steel, bringing a bursting vitality to elements such as the central diamond shape of Cubi XXVIII. But it is perhaps the series of Zigs that are most closely related to the mature compositions of the Cubi series such as Cubi XXVIII. The Zigs are unequivocally three-dimensional and towering structures, consisting of strongly differentiated interplays of convex and concave planes. Smith’s similar concentration on the volumetric potentialities of the Cubis is demonstrated by the photograph taken by Dan Budnik of cardboard models Smith used to explore geometric variations and compositions. In the Zigs, the surfaces are painted, often in combinations of strongly vibrant colors such as red, yellow or blue, that accentuate a composition’s disparate parts, and at other times with a more unifying tone of brown or black as in Zig III. The overall rough, brushy strokes and the monochrome palette of Zig III is deliberately at odds with the complicated, angular structure of the sculpture, a marked difference to the Cubis in which shape and surface treatment are perfectly congruent. In creating outdoor sculptures, Smith had concerns about the durability of his materials and surface treatments, and through much experimentation with various techniques and materials, stainless steel became Smith’s preferred medium. Stainless steel is more resistant to the elements than standard steel or iron, but for many years, Smith could not afford large quantities of this more expensive material. However, increased critical acclaim and commercial success that began with a 1957 retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, freed Smith to liberally utilize stainless steel, beginning with the Sentinel series (1957-1961) and ending with the Cubis (1961 to 1965).  The reflective qualities of the polished surface created an optical synthesis of the plastic form with the pictorial composition. "Smith…was enthralled by the idea of surfaces that would change as the light of day changed, and so, in a sense, they are the final development of his lifelong preoccupation with the possibilities of color in sculpture. But the burnished, light-diffusing surface of Smith’s stainless steel sculptures serve both to focus attention on those surfaces and to make them seem insubstantial. We have seen the handwriting of the burnishing before – in…the Zigs for example – but here the skin of paint, which often seemed at odds with the structure of the work, has been replaced by an optical dazzle that appears to be an inherent property of the material itself’’ (Karen Wilkin, David Smith, New York, 1984, pp. 85-86)  In Cubi XXVIII and its related works, Smith fully exploited the sheer beauty of his material. These brilliantly polished surfaces reflect light in expressionistic swirls which seem to be both within the steel as well as on it, creating a sculpture of monumental scale which appears to be filled with air and light. As each work of the 1960s was completed, Smith would carefully choose its location on the north or south field on the rolling property that ran from his house to his studio. Smith’s fields were a nascent sculpture 'farm’, a formidable display of artistic creativity proclaiming itself amidst a landscape of age-worn mountains, open sky and tree-filled vistas. As his friend and fellow artist, Robert Motherwell commented, "When I saw that David places his work against the mountains and sky, the impulse was plain, an ineffable desire to see his humanness, related to exterior reality, to nature at least if not man, for the marvel of the felt scale that exists between a true work and the immovable world, the relation that makes both human.’’ (Robert Motherwell, Art in America, January-February 1966, p. 37)  Cubi XXVIII was centrally placed in the south field, at a right angle that allowed the viewer to look through its portal shape from both the deck of the house and the deck of the studio, almost as a window from one view to the other. Cubi XXVIII was one of three sculptures in this series which Smith loosely referred to as "gates’’ or "arches’’, with Cubi XXIV and Cubi XXVII being the other two. Zig III is cited as a precedent for these three works with its post and lintel framework and somewhat open center. Horizontals top strong verticals in the three "gate’’ Cubis and this structure emphasizes the architectonic essence of Smith’s work and increases the monumentality of their presence. Cylinders and the canted central square invigorate the post and lintel framework of Cubi XXVIII, calling to mind Candida Smith’s comment on the "arches’’ and "gates’’.  While any literal referencing to Smith’s subject matter can be problematic or too simplistic, there is a poetic resonance to this composition as a final legacy for David Smith’s oeuvre. As Candida Smith wrote, "The Cubi 'gates’ are open portals designating a picture plane of imbued space waiting for us to enter and be transformed’’ (Ibid., p. 25) CUBI SERIES BY DAVID SMITH Cubi I Detroit Institute of Art Acquired in 1966 from the estate of the artist Cubi II Collection of Candida and Rebecca Smith Cubi III Mrs. Beatrice Gersh, Beverly Hills Partial and promised donation to the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles Cubi IV Milwaukee Art Museum Acquired in 1977, gift of Mrs. Harry Lynne Bradley Cubi V Private Collection Cubi VI Israel Museum, Jerusalem Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Meshulam Riklis (Judith Stevn-Riklis) to American Friends of the Israel Museum Cubi VII Art Institute of Chicago Acquired in 1964 from the estate of the artist Cubi VIII The Meadows Museum, Southern Methodist University, Dallas, Texas Acquired in 1969 from the estate of the artist Cubi IX Walker Art Center, Minneapolis Acquired in 1968 from the estate of the artist Cubi X Museum of Modern Art, New York Acquired in 1968 from the estate of the artist Cubi XI Private Collection Cubi XII Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D. C. Acquired in 1968 from the estate of the artist Cubi XIII Princeton University, New Jersey Acquired in 1969 from the estate of the artist Cubi XIV St. Louis Art Museum, Missouri Acquired in 1979 from Philip M. Stern, Washington, D. C. Cubi XV San Diego Museum, California Acquired in 1968 from the estate of the artist Cubi XVI Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo Acquired in 1968 from the estate of the artist Cubi XVII Museum of Fine Art, Dallas Acquired in 1965 from the estate of the artist Cubi XVIII Museum of Fine Arts, Boston Acquired in 1968 from the estate of the artist Cubi XIX The Tate Gallery, London Acquired in 1966 from the estate of the artist Cubi XX Wight Art Gallery of the University of California, Los Angeles Acquired in 1967, gift of Mrs. Donald Bright Capen Cubi XXI Lipman Family Foundation Cubi XXII Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven Acquired in 1968 from the estate of the artist Cubi XXIII Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Los Angeles Acquired in 1967 from the estate of the artist Cubi XXIV Museum of Art, Carnegie Institute, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Acquired in 1967 from the estate of the artist Cubi XXV Jane Lang Davis, Medina, Washington Cubi XXVI National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C. Acquired in 1978, gift of Mr. Philip M. Stern, Washington, D. C. Cubi XXVII Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York Acquired in 1967 from the estate of the artist Cubi XXVIII the present work Signed, titled, dated 5-5-1965 and inscribed gate 3

  • 2005-11-09

Number 17, 1949

THREE PRIMARY TEXTS ON JACKSON POLLOCK from the Betty Parsons Gallery records and personal papers, circa 1920-1991, bulk 1946-1983. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution Betty Parsons on Jackson Pollock, circa 1949 I loved his looks. There was a vitality, an enormous physical presence. He was medium height but he looked taller. You could not forget his face. A very attractive man, ---oh very. He was always sad. He made you feel sad; even when he was happy he made you feel like crying. There was a desperation about him; there was something desperate. When he wasn’t drinking he was shy, he could hardly speak. And when he was drinking he wanted to fight. He cussed a lot, used every 4-letter word in the book. You felt he wanted to hit you; I would run away. His whole rhythm was either sensitive or very wild. You never quite knew whether he was going to kiss your hand or throw something at you. The first time I went out to see him at Springs, Barney (Barnett Newman) brought me; we were planning Jack’s first show. After dinner we all sat on the floor, drawing with some Japanese pens. He broke three pens in a row. His first drawings were sensitive, then he went wild. He became hostile, you know. Next morning he was absolutely fine. I had met him around New York since 1945. One day in ’47 he telephoned me and said he wanted a show in my gallery. I gave him a show the next season. In all the time he was with me he was never drunk either during the show or during the hanging. At Sidney Janis’s it was different, once they waited for him until 4 in the morning to hang a show. Another year he telephoned me and asked me to give Lee a show of her paintings. I said I never show husbands and wives, but he insisted. He was charming with Lee when he was sober; she ruled the nest. But when he was drunk he ruled the nest. Lee always protected his business interests. Business ideas bored him, though he was fairly wise about them. He was either bored or terrified of society. He thought most women were terrible bores. He needed aggressive women to break through his shyness. He liked very few artists. He liked Newman, he liked Bradley Tomlin. He thought artists were either awful or terrible – it had entirely to do with their work. He thought he was the greatest painter ever, but at the same time he wondered. Painting was what he had to do. But he had a lot of the negative in him. He was apt to say, ‘It won’t work – it’ll never work.’ When he got in those terrible negative states, he would drink. He associated the female with the negative principle. The conflict showed clearly in ‘The She Wolf’ (1943). Inside himself there was a jungle. Some kind of jungle because during his life he was never fulfilled – never – in anything. Of course this didn’t diminish his power as a painter. His conflicts were all in his life, not in his work. He was a questioning man. He would ask endless questions. He wanted to know what I thought about the world, about life. He thought I was such a jaded creature because I’d travelled, he wanted to know what the outside world was like, Europe, Asia. He was also extremely intrigued with the inner world – what is it all about. He had a sense of mystery. His religiousness was in those terms – a sense of the rhythm of the universe, of the big order – like the Oriental philosophies. He sensed rhythm rather than order, like the Orientals rather than the Westerners. He had Indian friends, a dancer and his wife, (Mr. and Mrs. N. Vashti) with whom he talked at length and who influenced him greatly. His most passionate interest after painting was baseball. He adored baseball and talked about it often. He also loved poetry and meeting poets. He often talked about Joyce. He loved architecture and talked a lot about that too. He adored animals. He had two dogs and an old crow – he had tamed an old crow. He had that kind of overall feeling about the nature – about the cosmic – the power of it all – how scary it is. I could never relax with Jack. He certainly was pursued by devils. Life is an endless question mark, but most of us find a resolution – he never did. But I loved him dearly. The thing about Pollock is that he was completely unmotivated – he was absolutely pure. From my Journal – Sept. 25, 1949 – A week-end in Easthampton Evelyn Segal In the late afternoon we drove to the Jackson Pollocks, who live in a simple farm house (circa late 19th cent.) – a farm house which was being transformed and converted by the needs and tastes of the two painters: Jackson Pollock and his wife, Lee Krasner. We had only just arrived, having been greeted warmly by “Lee” as Hattie called Mrs. P., when Mr. Clement Greenberg arrived with his guests: Robert Motherwell, the Peter Scotts and a Miss Blumberg. Mrs. Pollock served drinks. I noticed a table with a handsome mosaic top and learned that Mrs. Pollock had made it. (She, too, is a fine painter) Then Mr. Pollock appeared; he consented tacitly to our seeing his paintings. We trooped to a barn. On the floor were huge canvases on which he had been working. There were many cans on the splattered floor – splatter of the duco, silverpaint, white lead, oils of various hue, et al, which he had used to make those mazes of linear space which some regard as chaos and with which he has caused such a “sensation.” We looked hard and silently, Mr. Motherwell, Mrs. Greenberg, Mr. and Mrs. Scott. One felt the strength of those paintings but moreover the serious violent effort toward a goal and significant statement. I am not certain just what I believe about them at this point, whether it is the materials themselves which have inherent strength and give them the power they appear to have or whether Mr. Pollock is an innovator in the application of his knowledge, experience and creative capacity – I do not know. The canvases are the size of murals. There is consistent color key, and suggestion of planned form (but not form in terms of definite, natural or usual shapes) – an orderly jungle of planes – linear planes, which created vast space and movement. There are depth and seriousness in the feelings which are evoked but few usual plastic images, the absence of which extends rather than limits the scope of meaning to the spectator. I saw many of the paintings flat on the floor from where he works which made it difficult to see them in the conventional way. I remember wide lines of black and silver paint with splattered frayed edges in many of the lines, but those splatters made for forms which became planes. Some had the texture and surface of enamels. They are bold! The principle of freedom, experiment and courage is evinced. Perhaps unconsciously – subjectively they are propelled by despair and anger and even exasperation. But assimilated experience and knowledge have facilitated these directions. Mr. Motherwell looked silently, as we did, all of us. He walked toward a painting, started to say something and then restrained himself, finally saying, “Oh well – one shouldn’t ask a question about something a painter is still working on.” There were simple non-natural forms cut in a masonite panel on which he was painting, which made for definite recesses since they had actually been cut in like a linoleum block. The paint had been continued, sparingly onto the recessed parts, not obscuring the forms which had been cut there, but rather making again for planes – and ultimately space, the Masonite itself providing another color and texture. When asked later by Peter and Bob and Hattie and Jon what I said – what anyone had said – I reported that little had been said rightfully. A few technical questions had been asked and Mr. Pollock answered very succinctly. I mentioned the subtle differences in color key in each painting. That was the only definite, sincere statement I could make at the time… or would under the circumstances. Everyone thanked Mr. Pollock. There were some “They’re terrifics” and Mrs. Scott obviously avoided the issue (most understandable) by saying, “Oh dear, it’s just too much to absorb in one afternoon.” I think Mr. Pollock is sincere. There is power there. Whether or not he believes that these are ultimate realizations of his aims, I do not know, but I am inclined to doubt it. These paintings are not to be dismissed. The experimentation, daring, evidences of originality and intense creative effort are there. Pollock’s paintings could be architectural accessories, and hung well and naturally on walls of contemporary architecture. They are not tender or romantic but neither are steel and concrete and plastics, or the materials used in contemporary structures. The paintings are personal but not intimate, and not familiar. BEAUTY -- AND JACKSON POLLOCK, TOO By Eli Siegel, December 1955 Thoughts about a phrase from the Critical Writing of Stuart Preston on Jackson Pollock, New York Times, December 4, 1955 No use looking for “beauty”… 1. There is a contemporaneous distrust of the word ‘beauty’ which it is well to look into. 2. There is a feeling prevalent that while the word beauty might have been all right with the Greeks or in the Eighteenth Century or with the Pre-Raphaelites, we are beyond this; we are too tough for this, too modern. 3. It is felt that the unconscious working on, say, bits of paper, or a heap of broken brick or dishes in a sink, will get to art, perhaps, that is not beautiful as past art has been; even so, there is no reason why one can’t or shouldn’t take broken brick as a subject, or scraps of paper: art really doesn’t mind, nor beauty, either. 4. The unconscious when it is completely unrestrained, untrammeled is opposed by critics to the idea of beauty, if not to that of impact, or of power, or of the elemental. 5. However, the aesthetic unconscious, if looked into, goes just as much for beauty in the primary, continuing, and still fresh sense of the conscious does. 6. The unconscious, as artistic, goes after unrestraint, but unrestraint as accurate; and when unrestraint is accurate, the effect on mind is still that of beauty. 7. No matter how unrestrained, elemental, untrammeled, without ‘forethought’ Jackson Pollock is, or anyone else – if his work is successful, there is in this work power and calm, intensity and rightness, unrestraint and accuracy – and these, felt at once, make for beauty. 8. Because beauty has taken new forms, used material foreign to Veronese, Gainsborough, Ingres, Ryder, there is a disposition on the part of critics like Stuart Preston to think the word beauty is no longer alive and electrical. 9. It is alive; it stands for life at its liveliest, at the most free and the most true. 10. For example, the question comes up: What makes Jackson Pollock’s unrestrained unconscious, ‘elemental and largely subconscious promptings,’ better than somebody else’ unrestrained unconscious and ‘subconscious promptings’? 11. For everybody has an unconscious – very often unrestrained – and everybody has ‘subconscious promptings.’ 12. The question for Mr. Preston and others is: What makes the unconscious or subconscious of Mr. Pollock, and the working without ‘forethought’ of Mr. Pollock, better, more artistic, more commendable in result than similar things of the mind in so, so many others? 13. It is the presence of some rightness, fitness, structure, purpose, composition, design or whatever you wish to call it in Mr. Pollock – at least if you see his work as art, that is what you see in it besides the ‘subconscious,’ the ‘promptings,’ the ‘elemental.’ 14. If Mr. Pollock’s unconscious is artistically successful, it is because there is a logic in it, a rightness or knowingness; words of Mr. Preston himself, like ‘apparently aimless’ imply some such thing – just look at the apparently! 15. So we have spontaneity, elementalness, freedom, ardor in Mr. Pollock, and rightness, accuracy, logic, design, effect, too. 16. Spontaneity and rightness, intensity and accuracy are what we find in Delacroix, Bosch, Turner, Van Gogh, and – yes, Piero della Francesca. 17. Spontaneity and rightness seen in a work of art, make one feel it has form. 18. Form is a word still synonymous with beauty. 19. Beauty can be regarded as the apprehended presence of individual impetus and universal rightness, of unconscious and conscious – and at its bet, the apprehended presence of the utmost spontaneity with the utmost truthfulness, rightness. 20. However, unrestrained Mr. Pollock’s unconscious is, it is going after design. 21. Otherwise, as was said (and it cannot be said too often) Mr. Pollock’s ‘abandonment of forethought’ would be like the lack of ‘forethought’ we find anywhere, with people not particularly artistic – and there is a mighty lot of ‘subconscious promptings’ in family squabbles, in sick rooms, in dull tavern brawls, in financial controversies. 22. People live differently today, but life goes on: the word life is as good as ever. 23. People go after beauty differently (for example, Jackson Pollock), but beauty is still around; the word beauty is as good as ever. 24. Mr. Preston is his effort to be desperately contemporary, has forgot to be deeply, vitally continuous – has forgot to be elemental in the very best sense. Signed and dated 49

  • 2015-11-12

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