An Early Insight into Art Materials

Happenstance has just given me a lovely gift of information. I was reading a wonderful biography by the late famed British historian, Hugh Trevor Roper, on the 17th century Huguenot physician, Theodore de Mayerne.  Brilliantly intelligent and successful, de Mayerne was first physician to King Henri IV of France, then attended James I of England and his successor, Charles I. 

Sir Theodore Turquet de Mayerne, to give him his full name, was bornin Geneva of French parents in 1573 and lived until 1654/55, ending his days in England.  This is a portrait thought to be done of him in London by Peter Paul Rubens about 1630.

Dr. Theodore de Mayerne, Peter Paul Rubens, c. 1630.  Image courtesy of the North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh, North Carolina

De Mayerne was a multi-faceted scientist, in essence, for his interests and knowledge stretched far beyond the practise of medicine.  Chemist, Hermeticist, experimenter – on one side and on the other, a skilled linguist and writer, high-level diplomat and spy for his Royal employers, as well as deeply knowledgeable expert in art and art materials and practices.  In  short, a true Renaissance man. In 1620, he began with a flourish a new treatise entitled Pictoria, Sculptoria, et quae subalternarum artium. In the many folios, he records observations, derived from reading in part but more from conversations with artists  and craftsmen, about their techniques, technical descriptions of materials used, sources of these materials and their chemical characteristics.

The hand-written title page of the Mayerne manuscript, 'Pictoria, sculptoria et quae subalternarum artium',
England (London), 1620-1646,

Being a very prominent member of three Royal courts, he had the opportunity to meet a wide selection of artists and craftsmen.  He was ever curious and discussed with them different approaches to oil painting, mixing and preparing pigments, the best oils to use, surface preparation, conservation of art, the art of enamelling, watercolour and miniature painting and all manner of other information.  His friendships with Rubens, with Van Dyck, Orazio and his daughter, Artemisia Gentileschi, miniaturists Jean Petitot and John Hoskins and others were fruitful in the detailing of art technology in his folio notes.

Mayerne’s notes on the mixing of colours, taken from Peter Paul Rubens while sitting for his portrait

Dr. Theodore de Mayerne, oil and black chalk, with grey wash, c. 1631, Peter Paul Rubens.  Image courtesy of the British Museum

 Mayerne’s notes on oil, taken from Anthony van Dyck,

De Mayerne continued with this art treatise for a number of years with the last entries in the 170 folios in 1646.  

Folios 5 & 9O, Theodore de Mayerne, Pictoria, Sculptoria...

After his death, the document ended up eventually in the British Library, under the filing, Sloane MS 2052.  From the time of Horace Walpole onwards, it has been considered an indispensable source of information on Dutch and Flemish painting in the Baroque era, allowing later scholars to learn of Northern European diverse art practices. Today, scientists still use De Mayerne's work as a vital source of information for the 17th century, on a par with Cennino Cennini's Il Libro dell' Arte for the early 15th century.  Manufacturers of Old Master materials still use De Mayerne's recipes - for  amber resin varnish, for example.  Countless art restorers, in the Prado Museum, the Getty and elsewhere, apparently refer to De Mayerne's careful records about art materials and contemporary techniques.

The more I read, the more I realise there is so much more to learn about.  I started reading Hugh Trevor Roper's wonderful Europe's Physician.  The various Life of Sir Theodore de Mayerne to learn about an early, prominent physician. I ended up learning about a meticulous chronicler of 17th century art and its practice. What a delicious bonus! 

Between Concept and Results in Art

It is always interesting to get insights into how other artists work, their approach to creating art and their thoughts about the process. Perhaps it is just a feeling that one might be walking the same path, or maybe that one can learn from some someone else's experiences.

I found that there is a great deal to learn from a wonderful exhibition currently on display in Barcelona at La Caixa Forum, Delacroix, de la idea a la expresion, an exhibit that runs until May 20th. It is a huge, well curated exhibition done in conjunction with the Louvre, with works from collections in North America and all over Europe.

One of the main aspects of the show really addresses this issue of how an artist conceives of a work, and how it eventually turns out. I found it fascinating, for the highly talented, young Delacroix was always wrestling with the tension between the ideas that he had for paintings, mostly inspired by literature, political events or legends when he was young, and their execution. Eugene Delacroix even kept lists of ideas that he had for paintings and worked from these lists throughout his life, using them sometimes almost as talismans against the absence of inspiration.

Self-Portrait in Green Waistcoat,circa 1837, image courtesy of the Louvre.)

This tension between concept and completed work caused Delacroix much thought, and it was a subject he revisted often during his life. Writing in 1822 about painting and poetry (his early love was poetry which he forsook to be an artist), he observed that, "When I paint a good painting, I am not writing down my thoughts". He was very aware of that mysterious bridge that a painting builds between the artist, the soul of the painting and the viewer, a subtle, intimate dialogue.

Yet Delacroix often caused a great deal of controversy, especially in his early days as an artist. He was highly successful, yet his work was frequently vilified by the public and critics for the way in which he executed the painting. An example of the scandal he created was his 1827 painting, The Death of Sardanapalus, a huge work that harks back in energy and colouration to his hero, Peter Paul Rubens. Delacroix' original concept for this painting was, as documented by his Journal, inspired by the shock of reading about the despot, Sardanapalus, in Byron's poem. He devised a painting that was to be ferocious and somber, but in truth, that deviated from Bryon's account and the original accounts of Sardanapalus.

The Death of Sardanapalus, 1827/1844 oil on canvas, Eugene Delacroix, (Image courtesy of the Louvre.)

The painting, when completed, had strayed even farther from his original idea, for Delacroix had become entirely seduced by the curves, the colours, the play of light on skin and fabrics, the plasticity of what he was depicting. The model whom he used, first for pastel studies, and then for the painting in different poses, delighted him with her skin tones and forms. Gradually he selected different fabrics, different details, different poses and far more adventurous perspectives. When he had completed this picture, which was so transformed from its original concept, he added a new version of explanations in the 1827-28 Salon catalogue when he exhibited the painting. Now he talked of Aisha, a Bactrian woman who hung herself rather than have a slave put her to death – a story not talked of in the texts from which Delacroix had derived his inspiration for this painting. (Image courtesy of the Louvre.)

I am sure that every artist, having thought of a theme and concept for a work of art, sets about its execution, only to find that the results differ, sometimes widely, from the original idea. I know that it certainly happens to me, and I find myself looking with dismay and/or surprise at what has been produced. It is then somewhat difficult to judge if the evolution from idea to result has been positive or negative. Only time tells one the judgement. Delacroix, I am sure, found out the same thing as the public reacted to his paintings that had undergone quite an evolution from concept to completion.