Readers discuss the Trump administration’s National Security Strategy. Also: Hollywood and culture; fighting in a family.

Centuries of experience with painting using oil paints have proved the importance of a robust support and a ground that isolates the paint layer from its support. Older use of wood panels with a gesso ground consisting largely of gypsum or chalk ensured the paint layer wouldn’t be subjected to mechanical stress, and would remain isolated from the underlying wood. Canvases became popular because of their relative lightness particularly in larger sizes, but still require an isolating ground layer both to protect the canvas from damage by the paint, and to prevent discolouration of the paint.

When sketching in oils in front of the motif became increasingly popular in the late eighteenth century, those paintings weren’t intended for public view, but as an aid for the artist when composing finished paintings in the studio. Rather than gather hundreds of small oil sketched on canvas or panels, the first plein air painters usually used paper or cardboard as support and ground. Subsequently, when their studios were sold off following their death, surviving oil sketches were usually laid on canvas for preservation and display.

Although he probably wasn’t the first to compile a library of oil sketches, those gathered by Pierre-Henri de Valenciennes when he was painting in the Roman Campagna in the 1780s are among the most brilliant. This untitled view of the countryside near Rome is thought to have been painted in about 1783.

At about the same time, the Welsh painter Thomas Jones was doing the same thing in and around Naples as well. This tiny view of A Wall in Naples was painted in about 1782, and is now one of the gems in London’s National Gallery. Below is a detail.

Jones was taught by the Welsh artist Richard Wilson, but none of his oil sketches have survived. Jones’ Capella Nuova outside the Porta di Chiaja, Naples is another example that’s significantly larger, and now in the Tate Gallery.

Valenciennes went on to assemble a large library of his oil sketches that he used for his studio paintings following his return to Paris. He was admitted to the Academy in 1787, published an influential manual of perspective and painting in 1799, and became Professor of Perspective at l’École des Beaux-Arts in Paris in 1812.

Among the aspiring young landscape painters who followed in the footsteps of Valenciennes was Camille Corot, who was taught by Achille Etna Michallon, who in turn had been taught by Valenciennes. Corot painted in the Roman Campagna between 1825-28, using the same techniques of applying his oil paint direct to sheets of paper.

Corot painted this View of Rome: The Bridge and Castel Sant’Angelo with the Cupola of St. Peter’s in 1826-27. This is one of the best-known bridges over the River Tiber, and not far from the centre of the city. The view is taken from the north-east of the bridge, on the ‘left’ bank, probably close to the Piazza di Ponte Umberto I, looking towards the south-west (‘right’ bank). The painting is sketchy rather than finely finished, and appears to have been painted en plein air onto a sheet of paper that has subsequently been laid on canvas.

This View of the Convent of S. Onofrio on the Janiculum, Rome is another from Corot’s first campaign in Rome.

Corot’s years in Italy were formative in his own development, and one of the key elements he put in place to hand on to Camille Pissarro and other Impressionists. The Bridge at Narni is one of his finest oil sketches.

Others followed Valenciennes’ instructions, among them Carl Blechen, a brilliant German landscape painter who sketched the Tiberius Rocks, Capri during a visit in 1828-29, again on paper.

Blechen’s late oil sketch of A Scaffold in a Storm was painted in about 1835, shortly before he succumbed to severe depression. This anticipates many elements of Impressionism: it appears to have been executed rapidly in front of the motif (although a view from his studio over Berlin and Brandenburg), with many brush-strokes plainly visible; details are composed of stylised marks; it is an everyday if not banal subject, with an informal composition.

However, the French Impressionists seldom if ever sketched in oils on paper, as their paintings made in front of the motif were intended to be sold to and viewed by the public, for which paper wasn’t considered suitable. Times had changed.

Readers respond to Michelle Cottle’s essay about her experience with her parents and the growing caregiver crisis.

Some stories in Boccaccio’s Decameron attained fame less in the original, more in their later retelling. A good example is the tragic tale of Lisabetta related by Filomena on the fourth day, when it was the fifth about those whose love ended unhappily.

In 1818, the British poet John Keats (1795-1821) wrote his version, titled Isabella, or the Pot of Basil, which was published two years later, shortly after the poet’s untimely death at the age of just twenty-five, and it quickly became one of his most popular works. Here I will tell Boccaccio’s original, using his version of the names, being mindful that Keats called his leading lady Isabella rather than Boccaccio’s Lisabetta. Her lover’s name, common to both accounts, is Lorenzo.

Following the death of a rich merchant of Messina, his three sons inherited his riches, while their sister remained unmarried despite her beauty and grace. Lisabetta and Lorenzo, a Pisan who directed operations in one of the family’s trading establishments, fell in love with one another, and their relationship was consummated.

The couple tried to keep their affair secret, but one night one of her brothers saw her making her way to Lorenzo’s bedroom, and Lisabetta remained unaware of her discovery. Her brother was distressed, but decided to keep quiet, and to discuss it with his brothers next morning.

The following day, the brothers decided that they would also keep quiet until the opportunity arose to end their sister’s relationship. Some time later they pretended they were going to the country for pleasure, and took Lorenzo with them. When they reached an isolated location, they murdered Lorenzo and buried his body. They then told their sister that they had sent him away on a trading mission.

Lisabetta was anxious for her lover’s return, and persistently asked her brothers for news of him. Eventually, one of them rebuked her for this nagging, so she stopped mentioning him altogether, but each night kept repeating his name and pining for him. One night, having finally fallen asleep in tears, she saw him in a dream, in which he said that her brothers had murdered him, and revealed where his body was buried.

In her grief, Lisabetta obtained the permission of her brothers to go to the country for pleasure. Once she had located where she thought Lorenzo was buried, she quickly found his corpse, which remarkably showed no signs of decay. As she couldn’t move his whole body for more appropriate burial, she cut off his head and concealed it in a towel.

When she returned home, Lisabetta cried greatly over Lorenzo’s head, washing it with her tears, then wrapped it in cloth and put it in a large pot. She covered it with soil and in that planted some sprigs of basil. These she watered daily with her tears, as she sat constantly beside the pot in between bouts of crying over it. As a result, the basil grew strong and lush, and richly fragrant.

William Holman Hunt’s Isabella and the Pot of Basil from 1867 is intricately detailed, with several references to the story, such as the relief of a skull on the side of the pot, a red rose on a tray by Lisabetta’s left foot, and a silver watering can at the bottom right. Behind her is the image of a bedroom, possibly showing Lorenzo coming to her in a flashback to their affair.

Joseph Severn’s Isabella, or the Pot of Basil from 1877 appears remarkably high in chroma, and shows Lisabetta fondly embracing the pot and crying over the basil. Severn had been a personal friend of John Keats, and painted this just a couple of years before his own death.

Edward Reginald Frampton’s Isabella, or the Pot of Basil was probably painted towards the end of the nineteenth century, or possibly in the early twentieth. Lisabetta is kneeling before her pot of basil at an altar, with a crucifix behind.

Ricciardo Meacci’s watercolour of Isabella and the Pot of Basil from 1890 shows Lisabetta embracing her pot of basil, as her three brothers watch with growing anger at her behaviour.

Her brothers began to suspect something, so had the pot removed from her room. This deepened their sister’s grief, and she kept asking after the pot.

John Melhuish Strudwick’s Isabella from about 1886 shows Lisabetta staring in grief at the stand on which her pot of basil had stood. Through the window, two of her brothers are seen making off with the pot, and looking back at her.

The brothers examined its contents and discovered Lorenzo’s head. Scared that his murder might cause them problems, they reburied the head, wound up their business, and left Messina for Naples. Lisabetta’s grief only grew deeper, and destroyed her health completely. Still asking for her pot of basil, she finally cried herself to death. Although the brothers had done everything to keep these events secret, eventually they became widely known, and were celebrated in folk verse.

The first and still greatest depiction of Keats’ retelling is John Everett Millais’ Isabella (Lorenzo and Isabella) from 1848-49, completed before he was twenty, and one of the earliest examples of Pre-Raphaelite art. This is a composite of references to Keats’ poem and Boccaccio’s story, set at an imaginary family meal which the three brothers, Lisabetta and Lorenzo are taking together.

Lorenzo is sharing a blood orange with Lisabetta, white roses and passion flowers climbing from behind their heads. The dog, acting as a surrogate for Lorenzo, is being petted by Lisabetta, but one of her brothers aims a kick at it. Other symbols are shown of the plot to kill Lorenzo: a brother staring at a glass of red wine, spilt salt on the table, and a hawk pecking at a white feather. The pot of basil is already on the balcony, awaiting Lorenzo’s head. When exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1849, it was accompanied by verses 1 and 21 of Keats’ poem.

Claude Monet had first visited London as he sought refuge from the Franco-Prussian War in 1870-71, when he painted one of the early impressions of the River Thames in mist, shown in yesterday’s article. He was to return just before the end of the century, when his fortunes had changed and he could afford to travel in search of motifs. Where better than the River Thames for the optical effects of mist, fog and smog?

Monet had started painting formal series during the 1880s, when he was enjoying commercial success at last. From about 1896, almost all his works were part of a series. He started travelling through Europe in search of suitable motifs for these, visiting Norway in 1895, and later Venice. When he returned to London in 1899, and in the following two years, Monet chose a different view of the Palace of Westminster, from a location at the opposite end of Westminster Bridge, for his series of 19 paintings. These were all started from the second floor of the Administrative Block at the northern end of the old Saint Thomas’s Hospital on the ‘south’ bank, and completed over the following three or four years.

His The Houses of Parliament, Sunlight Effect (1903) is more radical than his painting of thirty years earlier, showing little more than the Palace in silhouette, the sun low in the sky, and its broken reflections in the water.

The Houses of Parliament, Sunset (1903) shows the same view in better visibility, but with the sun setting and a small boat on the move in front of the Palace.

Monet’s Waterloo Bridge from 1903 is the ultimate conclusion of his paintings of fog, in which only the softest of forms resolve in its pale purple and blue vagueness, his common destination with the paintings of Turner over fifty years earlier.

In The Houses of Parliament, Stormy Sky (1904) the sun is higher and further to the south, allowing Monet to balance the silhouette of the Palace with its shadow cast on the water, and the brightness in the sky with its fragmented reflections.

Henri Le Sidaner also visited Britain on several occasions, and in 1906-07 painted this view of St. Paul’s from the River: Morning Sun in Winter, which may have been inspired by Monet’s series paintings of Rouen Cathedral, here expressed using his own distinctive marks.

Emile Claus’s Sunset over Waterloo Bridge (1916) was painted from a location on the north bank of the Thames slightly to the east of Waterloo Bridge, the north end of which is prominent, and looks south-west into the setting sun, up river. Claus painted several views of Waterloo Bridge while he was in London, but doesn’t appear to have attempted any formal series, such as Monet’s.

Claus isn’t formulaic in his treatment. He uses billowing clouds of steam and smoke to great effect, and his inclusion of the road, trees and terraces in the foreground, on the Embankment, provides useful contrast with the crisp arches of the bridge, and the vaguer silhouettes in the distance. Like Monet’s series, this was probably painted from a temporary studio inside a building.

Claus’s Morning Reflection on the Thames in London, from 1918, is a view over the Embankment and river that’s desaturated and made vaguer by fog.

My last example is another view over the River Thames, this time by Lesser Ury. London in Fog from 1926 doesn’t appear to be a nocturne, but looks at the effects of fog on both lights and their reflections.

On 4 December 1952, a high pressure system settled over London. The wind fell away, and fog and smoke were trapped under a temperature inversion. The following day the whole of the city and an area totalling over one thousand square miles were blanketed in smog that remained until 9 December. It’s estimated that directly caused over ten thousand deaths. A succession of laws and a major campaign to eliminate open coal fires in London resulted in great improvement, although a decade later there was another lesser smog, perhaps the event I remember from my childhood. The beauty of those paintings can also be deadly.

One of the enduring memories of my childhood, spent partly in London, is walking in smog, then commonly known as a pea-souper. The combination of dense fog and smoke was so thick I could barely make out street lights, and the streets were for once almost empty, as vehicles could only proceed at walking pace.

This weekend I present a selection of paintings of mist, fog and maybe even a touch of smog on the River Thames, in and near London. Today’s paintings come from the pioneers of the nineteenth century, and tomorrow’s from the twentieth.

Many of JMW Turner’s greatest paintings take advantage of the optical effects of mist and fog. Being a Londoner, he must have experienced these all too frequently.

These peaked in Turner’s famous painting of a Great Western Railway train crossing the River Thames at Maidenhead: Rain, Steam, and Speed, exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1844. The whole image is fogbound and vague, and proved a precursor to the approach of the Impressionists after his death.

Less than thirty years later, when he was taking refuge from the Franco-Prussian War, Claude Monet’s The Thames below Westminster (1871) is less Impressionist. Painted from the Embankment to the north of Westminster Bridge, near what is now Whitehall, the three towers to the south are almost superimposed, and aerial perspective is exaggerated by the mist. The river is bustling with small paddleboat steamers. In the foreground a pier under construction is shown almost in silhouette. Small waves and reflections on the river are indicated with coarse brushstrokes, suggesting this is a rapid and spontaneous work.

A decade later, The Houses of Parliament is Winslow Homer’s faithful representation of the Palace of Westminster when viewed from the opposite bank of the Thames, to the north (downstream) of the end of Westminster Bridge. The tide is high under the arches of Westminster Bridge, and small boats are on the river. This classic watercolour makes an interesting contrast with Monet’s later oil paintings I show tomorrow: Homer provides little more detail, the Palace being shown largely in silhouette, but works with the texture of the paper and careful choice of pigment to add granularity. He provides just sufficient visual cues to fine detail, in the lamps and people on Westminster Bridge, and in the boats, to make this a masterly watercolour.

The following year, Jules Bastien-Lepage paid a return visit to the city, when he painted The Thames, London. This view of industrial docklands further downstream maintains detail into the far distance, except where it’s affected by the smoky and hazy atmosphere typical of the city at that time. It was this section of the river that was also painted on several occasions by James Abbott McNeill Whistler.

Tom Roberts’ Fog, Thames Embankment (1884) is painted from a similar location to Monet’s The Thames below Westminster above, on the Embankment to the north of Westminster Bridge, but is cropped more tightly, cutting off the tops of the Victoria and Elizabeth Towers. The Palace and first couple of arches of Westminster Bridge appear in misty silhouette, with moored barges and buildings on a pier shown closer and crisper. He renders the ruffled surface of the river with coarse brushstrokes, different from those of Monet.

Among six paintings that Camille Pissarro started work on during his visit to England in 1890 was this view of Charing Cross Bridge, London from Waterloo Bridge. For this he made a sketch in front of the motif, then following his return to his studio in Éragny he painted this in oils. This looks south-west, towards a skyline broken by the Palace of Westminster and the familiar tower of Big Ben.

In Frederick Childe Hassam’s Houses of Parliament, Early Evening (1898), the sun has already set, and he is viewing the Palace in the gathering dusk from a point on the opposite (‘south’) bank, perhaps not as far south as Lambeth Palace. The Victoria Tower is prominent in the left of the painting, the Central Tower is in the centre, and the most distant Elizabeth Tower is distinctive with its illuminated clock face. Moored boats in the foreground provide the only other detail. His rough facture gives a textured surface to the water.

In 1900, the Swiss painter and print-maker Félix Vallotton was granted French citizenship. He had cut back on his prints to paint more, and the paintings that he made were no longer Nabi, but explored themes and ideas that were to prove influential later in the twentieth century. He also broadened his interests: in the early years of the new century, he wrote eight plays and three novels, although none achieved much success.

In 1900, he followed his earlier mysterious interiors with The Laundress, Blue Room, set in the Vallotton apartment in Paris, with two of his step-children squatting on the folds of large fabric sheets, inside a bedroom with blue decor. Two women are sat working, one apparently on the sheets, the other on separate fabrics.

Vallotton’s view of the oldest of the great bridges of central Paris, in Le Pont Neuf from 1901, is strange. Like some of the unconventional views of bridges painted in the late nineteenth century, its emphasis is on unusual perspective form, but it manages to avoid showing Pissarro’s dense throng of people, or its place among prominent buildings, and is almost unrecognisable.

Woman Searching in a Cupboard from 1901 shuts out half its image with black screens and the doors to the cupboard, giving it a strongly geometric tone. The woman, in spite of a lamp by her side, is little more than a black silhouette too, who appears to absorb the light falling on her. The lamp itself is strange, with a shade showing some sailing ships at sea, its stand being a vertical statuette of Truth, perhaps?

Maybe we should read Vallotton’s lamps more carefully. For the following year (1902), he painted this quartet of gamblers in a Poker session. Tucked away in a plush back-room behind a club or bar, these four are in full evening dress, playing for stakes that could be breathtaking and bankrupting. In the centre foreground is another lamp with a patterned shade, showing sailing boats, I think.

Then in 1902-03, Vallotton painted one of the seminal records of the Nabis: Five Painters, showing Pierre Bonnard (seated, left), Félix Vallotton (standing, left), Édouard Vuillard (seated), Charles Cottet and Ker-Xavier Roussel (standing, right).

His next views of interiors I find quite cinematic, as if stills from a movie, perhaps reflecting his modern approach to composition and lighting, more akin to those developed by cinematographers of the future rather than painters of the past. They also appear to have been influences over the New Objectivity that developed in central Europe in the 1920s, and later American artists like Edward Hopper.

For his Interior, Woman in Blue Searching in a Cupboard from 1903, Vallotton painted his wife Gabrielle from the back as she stood searching in a cupboard of books.

Vallotton’s Interior with Woman in Red from 1903 develops the framing effect of multiple sets of doors, drawing the eye deeper towards a distant bedroom. The woman wearing a red dress looks away, her skirts swept back as if she has been moving towards the three steps dividing this interior into foreground and background. There are tantalising glimpses of detail on the way: discarded fabric on a settee, clothing on a chair in the next room, and half a double bed with a bedside lamp in the distance.

There’s dispute as to whether this painting shows a Woman Reading in an Interior, as given by its French title, or a woman writing, which appears to be its translation. Vallotton painted this in 1904, and charged it with rather less mystery, although I wonder if the lower of the paintings on the wall might be one of Degas’ works showing horseriding. As usual, the single figure doesn’t show her face as she sits at the small bureau, backlit by the window and its stained glass.

Interior, Bedroom with Two Figures from 1904 is one of the last of his series of mysterious interiors, and worthy of the sub-genre of the ‘problem picture’. This is another bedroom, in which the lady of the house is standing over her maid as the latter is sewing up an evening gown for her. The mistress stands with her back to the viewer, but her face is revealed in her reflection in the large mirror on the wardrobe at the back of the room. In that, the maid is all but invisible. These three figures appear in a perspective recession, and to the right of the wardrobe is a doorway, presumably leading through to the master’s bedroom.

In this period before the Great War, Vallotton also painted portraits, and several nudes. But the figurative painting from 1905 that I find most fascinating is this, of The Models’ Smoke Break. In an era when most adults smoked, rest periods for models, like those for other workers, were usually termed ‘smoke breaks’ even though neither woman is smoking.

Instead, one model is reclined in a pose (not a pose, as it’s a break) reminiscent of Manet’s Olympia (1863). Instead of her maid bringing her a bouquet, though, she holds a single wilted blue flower, and chats idly to another model who sits by her feet. I wish I could identify the paintings reflected in the mirror behind them, although I think the upper double portrait is that of Vallotton’s parents painted in 1886. That below looks like a coastal landscape, perhaps of Honfleur.

To follow these, Vallotton turned to classical myths.

A decade after the end of the one-child policy, China has over 30 million so-called surplus men. Can this dating boot camp help them find love?

The craft of the blacksmith goes back long before the Iron Age, but once our ancestors had learned to work cast iron (by turning it first into wrought iron), in about 1200 BCE, it became one of the key crafts in many societies. It’s also the only craft represented by a deity in the classical Greek pantheon, in the god Hephaistos, translated by the Romans to Vulcan.

He had the misfortune to have been born lame, as a result of which Hera tried to be rid of him, and threw him into the sea. He was there cared for by Thetis and others. He later assumes his role as the god of fire, volcanoes, and crafts allied to blacksmithing, including sculpture.

In paintings, Vulcan is characteristically seen in his forge, as in Tintoretto’s painterly Vulcan’s Forge (1578), one of four mythological paintings he made for the Atrio Quadrato in the Palazzo Ducale in Venice. Tintoretto was clearly familiar with the division of labour in a blacksmith’s workshop. The two well-muscled men wielding large hammers are strikers, whose brute force is more important. Vulcan is the older man at the left, who strikes the casting with his small hammer to tell them where theirs should strike.

Homer’s story of the adulterous affair of the wife of Hephaistos, Aphrodite (Venus), with Ares (Mars) is retold by Ovid in his Metamorphoses, the likely source for Diego Velázquez’s The Forge of Vulcan from 1630. This shows Apollo, at the left, visiting Hephaistos (to the right of Apollo) in his forge, to tell him about this infidelity.

Homeric Laughter (1909) is one of Lovis Corinth’s most complex, even abstruse, paintings of classical myth. He provides a good clue as to its interpretation in his inscription (originally in German translation):
unquenchable laughter arose among the blessed gods as they saw the craft of wise Hephaistos
together with the reference to Homer’s Odyssey book 8 line 326.

In this first version, Corinth shows Aphrodite recumbent on the bed, shielding her eyes from the crowd around her. Ares struggles with the net securing the couple, looking frustrated. Hephaistos, clad in black with his tools slung around his waist, is talking to Poseidon (who wears a crown) with Dionysos/Bacchus behind him (clutching a champagne glass). At the right edge is Hermes/Mercury, with his winged helmet. Sundry putti are playing with Ares’ armour, and an arc of putti adorns the sky.

The blacksmith also features in some accounts of the origin of Pandora.

John Dixon Batten’s The Creation of Pandora was painted anachronistically in egg tempera on a fresco ground by 1913. Batten was one of the late adherents of the Pre-Raphaelite movement, and is now almost forgotten. This work had been put into storage in 1949 and wasn’t rediscovered until 1990.

Pandora is at the centre, having just been fashioned out of earth by Hephaestus, who stands at the left, his foot on his anvil. Behind them, other blacksmiths work metal in his forge. At the right, Athena is about to place her gift of a robe about Pandora’s figure, and other gods queue behind to offer their contributions.

There are several fine paintings of regular blacksmiths at work over the centuries. The earliest I have been able to locate is a disturbing detail in the central panel of Hieronymus Bosch’s triptych The Last Judgment from about 1495-1505.

Among the torments featured in the centre panel are painful punishments in the blacksmith’s at the top.

Francisco Goya’s Forge from 1817 is a superb depiction of the physically demanding work of the blacksmith. Its extensive use of black is also a herald of the Black Period to come in Goya’s paintings at the end of that decade.

Sisley’s Forge at Marly-le-Roi from 1875 shows the village blacksmiths still at work long after the Industrial Revolution brought steam-powered hammers.

Ernst Josephson’s Spanish Blacksmiths from 1882 shows a smith in the shredded remains of his white shirt, and his striker to the right in his black waistcoat, with a horseshoe hanging below the roof of their forge in Seville.

Döme Skuteczky’s painting In the Smithy from 1897 shows another smithy, this time in Slovakia.

These days, across much of Europe the traditional blacksmith earns their keep from forging horseshoes for the many horses ridden for pleasure.

in the seventeenth century, series paintings such as the four seasons and five senses tend to be created by Flemish rather than Dutch masters. There’s at least one notable exception, which also includes some of the most overt visual humour of the Dutch Golden Age, painted by Jan Miense Molenaer (c 1610-1668).

Molenaer seems to have spent much of his life in Haarlem, where he’s thought to have been an apprentice of Frans Hals. Other than marrying a fellow apprentice, Judith Leyster, in 1836, and the couple moving their shared studio to Amsterdam for eleven years, little seems known about his life.

The Dentist, painted in 1630, is one of his earlier paintings, and declares his interest in everyday life. A small crowd has gathered outside a church, where a fashionably dressed man is pulling a tooth from a local. The victim is dressed in tatters, with large holes at both his knees and worn-out shoes. Most around him have their hands clasped in prayer, presumably that the victim doesn’t break free and hit his dentist.

Several of Molenaer’s surviving paintings show the making of music, including A Young Man playing a Theorbo and a Young Woman playing a Cittern from about 1630-32. This is set in the interior of an upper middle class home, with a maid serving a meal in the right background. A theorbo is a member of the lute family, and is plucked, while a cittern has metal strings and is more like an ancestor of the guitar.

Several musical instruments also feature in his Allegory of Vanity from 1633, one of his vanitas paintings. An older woman is passing a fine-tooth comb through the long tresses of a younger woman, to check and remove parasites like lice. She is holding a mirror, and resting a foot on a human skull rather than a foot-warmer. The conventional lapdog is replaced by a golden statue, and the young boy in front of her is holding a device used to make bubbles. The woman’s jewellery is on display on a table at the right, and her make-up shown in a dressing table on the left.

Molenaer painted many scenes inside taverns and other places where drinking and gambling took place. His Card Players by Lamplight from about 1634 shows a card game in progress by the light of a lamp mounted on a stand in the foreground. The player looking directly at the viewer clearly thinks he holds the winning ace.

In about 1635, Molenaer painted his family playing music together. Judging by the portraits hanging behind them, the artist is at the extreme left, but his wife Judith Leyster only seems to be shown in her portrait.

Two years later, he painted The Five Senses, relatively small works on panels whose origins are obscure. Most series like these are commissioned, as the chances of finding a purchaser for the whole series are low. These appear to have been completed when he was in Amsterdam, and were only purchased for the Mauritshuis in 1893.

Sight is one of the more straightforward to read, with a man gazing wistfully into an empty flask by the light of the lamp on the table in front of him.

Hearing is more of an allusion, as three men carouse noisily over a mug of drink.

Taste stays in the same drinking room, as one man savours the last drop of drink, while another lights his pipe from the hot embers in a small earthenware container.

Touch is rich in ribald humour. The man on the left has thrust his left hand up to grope inside the woman’s skirts, for which she is about to bring her slipper down forcefully on his head.

Smell completes the series with the best of his visual jokes. The woman on the right is cleaning up the bum of the infant on her lap. This also shows severe fading on her skirt, which was painted using indigo with lead white. The original was far darker, as can be seen by the deeper blue at the edge of the panel, where the frame has shielded the pigment from light.

Although Molenaer continued to paint prolifically, this series marks his zenith, with fine examples of genre paintings during the Dutch Golden Age.

Oil paint has been applied to many different supports, of which the most popular and enduring have been wooden panels and stretched canvas. Panels have tended to become uncommon in recent centuries because of their weight and cost, but in the nineteenth century reappeared in novel form among those sketching in front of the motif, who took to using wood from cigar boxes.

Smoking cigars became popular during that century, particularly among the better-off living in cities. Made from chopped tobacco wrapped in a tobacco leaf, cigars are delicate and affected by humidity, so are sold in small wooden boxes often made from cedar wood. Their lids, particularly those of about 13 by 26 cm (5 x 10 inches) size, were repurposed as the support for many oil sketches. When reading their description, if they’re given as oil on panel with similar dimensions, you should suspect that they may well have been painted on a cigar-box.

The earliest artists who are known to have painted on cigar-boxes are the Italian painters known as the Macchiaioli, a breakaway movement centred on Tuscany in northern Italy from about 1850, that in many ways anticipated Impressionism.

Odoardo Borrani joined the Macchiaioli in 1855, and in about 1865 painted this Peasant Child at Castiglioncello on a wooden panel of 23.3 x 14.7 cm that had almost certainly originated in a cigar box. The unusual linear cracks seen here are characteristic of the thin cedar wood popular in cigar boxes, when used without an adequate ground.

Giovanni Fattori’s plein air paintings are characteristic of the Macchiaioli: using small panoramic wood panels, he painted in macchia (taches or patches), in a style not dissimilar to that of the Barbizon School in France. This panel showing The Rotonda at Palmieri (1866) is slightly wider at 12 x 35 cm.

Fattori’s Portrait of Silvestro Lega, Painting Beside the Sea from 1866-67 is on another panel of 12.5 x 28 cm. This also shows the underlying grain, and its lack of any substantial ground. The artist shown appears to be painting in a pochade box onto another panel that may well be a cigar box.

Later in the century others followed, among them James Abbott McNeill Whistler.

In the 1880s, Whistler painted small outdoor views on panels, such as Harmony in Blue and Pearl: The Sands, Dieppe from about 1885. Although its dimensions are slightly different at 14 x 22.9 cm, this is almost certainly on a cigar box. The vertical streaks seen here are probably the result of a thin ground underneath the surface paint layer.

The greatest European exponent of painting on these small wooden panels was Georges Seurat, who mostly used them for studies made in preparation for his larger paintings. When Seurat started work on his monumental painting Les Poseuses (Posers, or Models) in 1886, he made a series of figure studies that are now in the Musée d’Orsay.

Each was painted using Seurat’s Divisionist technique on the wooden lid of a cigar box of about 24 by 15 cm size, which the artist termed a croqueton, his favourite support for such sketches.

In the late 1880s, several artists started painting in the rural area of Heidelberg, east of Melbourne, adopting a style that later became known as Australian Impressionism. They came together in a momentous exhibition in the history of Australian art, the 9 by 5 Impression Exhibition, in Melbourne, in 1889, named from the dimensions in inches of the standard Australian cigar-box lid of 13 by 23 cm.

Its principal artists were Charles Conder, Tom Roberts, and Arthur Streeton, many of whose rough-worked and colourful plein air sketches were painted on cigar boxes.

Roberts’ Going Home from about 1889 has dimensions of 23.4 x 13.6 cm. Linear marks in the lower section appear to be the result of the grain in the wood.

His oil sketch of Hutt Valley from 1900 is slightly smaller at 10.3 x 19.1 cm.

Conder’s view of the Dandenongs from Heidelberg from about 1889 uses a more standard size of 11.5 x 23.5 cm.

His Ricketts Point, Beaumaris (1890) is 12 x 21.5 cm with rounded corners.

In the twentieth century, many smokers switched to cigarettes sold in cardboard packets, and the supply of cigar-boxes dried up.

The first story on the fourth day of Boccaccio’s Decameron was told by Fiammetta, and relates the tragedy of Ghismonda and her love for Guiscardo.

Ghismonda was the daughter of Prince Tancredi of Salerno, who was known for being a benevolent ruler, but in his later years became a possessive father. He refused to let her marry until she was older than was usual, and when she did, her husband died soon after. She returned to live with her doting father, who had no interest in seeing her married for a second time, so she decided to take a lover instead.

She fell in love with a young valet to her father named Guiscardo, and he fell in love with her. Ghismonda devised an ingenious way of passing him messages concealed inside a reed. They met in an old cavern underneath the palace: Ghismonda’s room had a long-disused door that opened into the cavern, and Guiscardo descended into it from a shaft outside the walls.

Before meeting in this cavern, Ghismonda dismissed all her ladies-in-waiting, telling them she wanted to sleep. She then locked herself in her room, opened the door to the cavern, and descended its staircase to meet her lover, who had roped down from the entrance to the shaft. The couple then spent much of the rest of the day making love in her room before Guiscardo departed.

One day when the couple had arranged to meet in this way, Prince Tancredi came looking for his daughter. Seeing her outside, he settled down in a corner of her room and fell asleep. She was unaware he was there, and proceeded with her lovemaking, during which her father awoke. He remained silent and was undiscovered, eventually climbing out of a window while the couple descended into the cavern to make their farewells.

Later that night, Guiscardo was arrested on the orders of the Prince, and confined to a room in the palace without Ghismonda’s knowledge. Tancredi went to his daughter’s room, where he told her of the dishonour she had brought upon herself. She showed no contrition, nor did she seek her father’s forgiveness, but told her father honestly of the love she shared with Guiscardo, of her youth, and amorous desires. She pleaded her lover’s virtues, and asked that she should bear the brunt of any punishment, rather than her lover.

Prince Tancredi decided to take revenge not on his daughter, but on her lover. He had two of his men strangle Guiscardo, then cut his heart out. The heart was placed inside a gold chalice, and presented to his daughter “to comfort her in the loss of her dearest possession, as she had comforted her father in the loss of his”.

Before she could be given this gruesome present, Ghismonda had called for poisonous herbs, which she turned into a highly toxic potion. When the servants delivered her the chalice, she removed its lid, saw her lover’s heart, and was given her father’s message. Ghismonda raised her lover’s heart to her lips and kissed it. She then thanked the servants for her father’s priceless gift to her, bade farewell to her lover’s heart, and cried profusely over it.

Francesco Bacchiacca’s early painting of Ghismonda with the Heart of Guiscardo from about 1525 shows the rather distant figure crying over the heart, with her apparently disinterested ladies-in-waiting around her. In the foreground is her father’s servant who brought the chalice.

Francesco Furini made at least two similar paintings of Ghismonda, here known by her alternative name of Sigismunda, crying profusely over the chalice. This version is thought to be from about 1620-30, and remains in Prato, Italy.

Thought to date from about 1640, this version known as Sigismunda with the Heart of Guiscardo is now in Birmingham, England. It had previously been attributed to Correggio, and was the inspiration for Hogarth’s much later painting shown below. It had only just been purchased at auction by Sir Thomas Sebright.

Interestingly, Furini’s painting of Mary Magdalene from about the same time is almost identical to the earlier version now in Prato, except that a chalice of myrrh had been substituted for that containing Guiscardo’s heart. All three works are notable for their dramatic chiaroscuro.

Mario Balassi’s Ghismonda with the Heart of Guiscardo from 1650 depicts Ghismonda being taken aback, although in Boccaccio’s account her response is strong and resolute despite the horrific cruelty of her father.

It is perhaps Bernardino Mei, in his Ghismunda from 1650-59, who captures her resolute response best of all, as she stands squeezing the heart in her hand, tears still on her face.

William Hogarth’s Sigismunda Mourning over the Heart of Guiscardo from 1759 may come as something of a surprise. Hogarth seemed determined to prove that the ‘modern’ English painter could compete with the “old Italian masters” in handling such heroic narratives. This was one of his last commissions, for Sir Richard Grosvenor, in 1758. He studied Furini’s version (that now in Birmingham), which had been much admired, but when this was completed in 1759, Grosvenor rejected it.

Hogarth then exhibited it with seven other paintings at the Society of Artists in 1761. It was there savaged by the critics, who were apparently repelled by the conflict between the beauty of Sigismunda and the gruesome heart she is touching. Hogarth replaced it in the exhibition, and appears to have made changes to try to assuage its detractors. Unable to sell it or have it engraved for prints, the artist was forced to abandon it, and almost ceased painting for the remaining three years of his life.

Her ladies-in-waiting asked her why she was crying so, as they had not understood what had happened. Ghismonda then poured the deadly potion over Guiscardo’s heart, drank it, and lay down on her bed to await death. Her father was summoned, and Ghismonda asked him a final favour that she should be laid to rest beside Guiscardo. The Prince realised his cruelty and repented for it, ensuring that the two bodies were buried together in honour.

Bosch’s greatest masterpiece, and one of the greatest paintings in the world, presents an intriguing and intricate vision. Unique in its content, it remains a conversation piece half a millennium after it was painted. Having looked at the structure and higher-level reading of this extraordinarily complex triptych, this article completes my account by delving deeper into some of its details, and trying to put this together in a better understanding of its reading and purpose.

Garden of Eden

The Garden of Eden in the left panel is the most conventional part of the painting, and compares with other works showing similar scenes from Genesis, if you overlook Bosch’s idiosyncratic beasts and structures.

God, Adam, and Eve are fairly traditional in their depiction, and Bosch chooses a happy moment. At this stage, there is no danger from the serpent, and no warning of the Fall that is to come.

On the left, the prominent tree bears bunches of grapes, but others in this wood carry apples, one of which has fallen to the ground. At the right are two rabbits and a crow, two of the few recognisable rather than fanciful species; another is the cat carrying prey in its mouth in front of the tree.

The strange species seen by the small lake in the immediate foreground are portmanteaux, in that each is made up of a composite of parts from other species, with visual references made to peacocks, spoonbills, seals, ducks, unicorns, and others. One duck-fish in the lake is even reading a book, and a bird on the shore has three heads. Several other paintings by Bosch use the same technique to create strange creatures.

The other dominant object is the fountain tower in the middle of the panel, the centre where the Tree of Knowledge (of good and evil) might be expected. This fantastic structure is made up of elements derived from plants, a technique Bosch used in other and earlier paintings. Like the panels themselves, this tower has informal symmetry about its midline, which is placed along the midline of the whole panel.

The small rocky cliff at the right edge is arranged to look like the profile view of a human face, with its eye closed.

A mixture of real, legendary, and portmanteau creatures decorate this area as well. Recognisable species include the ox, deer, elephant, monkey, black bear, giraffe, porcupine, egret, duck, and rabbit, but the more fanciful includes a lizard with three heads. Coiled around the tree at the right is a black snake, the serpent that led to the Fall.

The distant spires are the domain of the birds. Swift-like birds swirl out of the rock at the left, the flock weaving its way through the upper parts of its spire, and off into the sky. Others flock on the ground by species. The more distant blue pinnacles are based on plant structure, incorporating forms from other objects too.

Overall these details make this panel a most explicit and detailed vision of Paradise before the Fall of Man, assembled from Bosch’s rich and inventive imagination.

Pleasure garden

The pleasure garden in the centre panel is all about people, their pleasures and pleasuring. In stark contrast to the left panel, which contains only three human figures, the centre panel contains many hundreds. Although other objects are also involved, one of the main themes associated with pleasure here is fruit.

With limited facilities to store or preserve soft fruit in particular, eating fruit and fruit itself was associated with sensual, even carnal, pleasure. Although Bosch’s innumerable figures are naked, almost without exception, strict convention forced him to allude to carnal pleasures indirectly, often here through the eating of fruit.

In the left foreground, men and women are seen playing with fruit, often of greatly exaggerated size, and feeding fruit to one another. One couple is touching one another inside a transparent sphere, placed on top of a fanciful fruit floating on the lake. Another couple, who have progressed further in their lovemaking, are discreetly tucked inside the part-closed shell of a blue mussel. Giant birds watch this from the left, and a huge small tortoiseshell butterfly investigates a blue thistle flower.

There are similar scenes in the right foreground, where just below the camel at the top there is a threesome taking place under a transparent dome, in which the woman to the right is clearly pregnant.

The procession of animals and riders in the middle distance still uses symbolic fruit extensively, but also alludes to riding, hunting, and other mounted sports, common pleasures among the nobility of the day. The central circular pond contains figures of women, while those riding animals appear to be exclusively men: this may allude to the hunting of partners and the division of roles in courtship.

Flying in the skies above are several strange objects, based sometimes on angels (right), sometimes on legendary or imaginary creatures, complete with more fruit and one tree.

The towers in the background form the stage for other activities, and in the single example seen in the porthole in the base of the central dark blue tower, almost show explicit sexual activity. As with other structures, Bosch bases these towers on largely vegetable forms, and gives them informal symmetry about the midline of the panel.

The centre panel thus gives a delicately non-explicit and figurative account of the many physical pleasures which the nobility would have engaged in. It matches what we know of Bosch’s likely patron, Count Henry III of Nassau-Breda, who had a vast bed onto which drunk guests would be placed, so that he could act as voyeur over what they got up to.

Garden of Hell

The ‘garden’ of Hell in the right panel is derived from the more restrained panels that Bosch had painted of Saint Anthony, such as that in his Hermit Saints triptych. This is here taken to its nightmare conclusion, in which its many figures are mutilated and tormented, in a landscape harking back to Bosch’s experience when, at the age of 13, he witnessed his home town almost burned to the ground. It moves from the mass of humanity in the centre panel to greater dominance of non-human creatures, and alarming objects.

In the foreground, a huge blue bird, wearing a cauldron on its head and swallowing a whole human, presides over the scene. That bird is sat on an elevated commode, defaecating blue bubbles containing the people it has been ingesting. Faces stare up from the foul brown waters of the cesspit underneath.

The two main groups of victims are clustered around objects associated with gaming and gambling, and those for making music. Placing the former on the road to hell isn’t surprising, but tormenting figures with a harp and other musical instruments may seem strange today. Various religious sects have viewed music as being sinful and the work of the devil, and some of its associated activities, particularly dancing, have attracted wider moral condemnation.

The instruments shown, at greatly exaggerated size, are (left) a lute, a harp, and a hurdy gurdy, a string instrument played by turning the crank shown at its top.

Another notable if not iconic feature in the foreground is the pig dressed partly as a nun, kissing a man, at the right lower corner.

On the near-black frozen surface of the river behind, there are skaters, one of whom has fallen through the ice. Another is tied to his ice craft. Above them is the Tree-Man, a unique structure to Bosch that appears in one of his drawings, presumably a study in preparation for this triptych.

At its top, on a circular disc, is another strange portmanteau object, which looks to be a cross between bagpipes and an alchemical vessel from an alembic. Further back is a pair of severed ears between which is the blade of a knife.

The background appears apocalyptic. Large armies are on the move: cavalry cross a bridge, and other battalions of infantry fill the roads and fields. A yacht, its sail lit, heads across the water in front of a city. Tiny figures are silhouetted against the light from fires within the large buildings there, apparently engaged in its capture and destruction. Other bodies fall spreadeagle through the air as they leap from the tops of buildings. The moon, hidden behind cloud, casts rays lighting broken clouds and the thick palls of smoke rising from the ruins.

The right panel builds a vivid picture of the torment and destruction of Hell.

Owls

There are some repeated objects shown across the triptych, of which I will consider owls. Several of Bosch’s earlier paintings, even those with little or no fanciful content, have incorporated owls, implying that he used them as a form of graphical signature. This triptych follows the pattern.

There are four obvious and prominent owls shown in the triptych. The first appears in the porthole cut out from the base of the central fountain tower of the left panel.

Another giant owl appears at the left edge of the centre panel, being embraced by one of its figures.

The second owl in the centre panel is perched on top of a couple towards the right edge. It’s being tempted by the offer of fruit, but doesn’t appear interested.

The third owl in the centre panel is perched on the ‘horn’ of one of Bosch’s fanciful creatures in the procession of animals and riders.

Claims that Bosch’s owls are symbols of ignorance, false knowledge, or evil, lack support in his paintings. That one appears in the Garden of Eden, three in the garden of pleasure, and none in the garden of Hell, supports their association with more positive concepts rather than bad ones.

Synthesis

A plain grisaille painting starts the sequence off with its depiction of the creation, the perfect cover for an account in three images of the condition of mankind. We then see the first step in our history, when Adam and Eve were still secure in the Garden of Eden, surrounded by the wonders of God’s creation.

Some have suggested that the left panel, with its depiction of the emergence of animals from water, somehow hints at an evolutionary process. Viewed with a modern mind, this might appear attractive and imbue the painting with even greater meaning and magic. Half a millennium ago that would have been inconceivable: Bosch makes clear his literal belief in the Biblical account, throughout this and his other paintings. Without concepts of geological time or processes (key to the concept of evolution), such modern thinking is as alien as quantum physics.

After the Fall of Man and the expulsion from the Garden of Eden, men and women flourished and engaged in pleasures that were highly carnal and very earthly, detached from God, and outwith his commandments. These only too easily, through sins of gambling and lascivious activities associated with music, take humanity on the road to Hell, with its many torments and great suffering. Ultimately, the final panel may also refer specifically to Armageddon, the end of humanity and its world too.

Bosch takes us through this narrative with some of the richest imagery of any painting in the European canon. Its little scenes may be beautiful, puzzling, enticing, amusing, alarming, gruesome, but they are always fascinating, and the most elaborate conversation piece that you could want.

References

Wikipedia.

Falkenburg R (2011) The Land of Unlikeness: Hieronymus Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights, WBOOKS. ISBN 978 9 040 07767 8.
Fischer S (2013, 2016) Hieronymus Bosch, The Complete Works, Bibliotheca Universalis, Taschen. ISBN 978 3 8365 3850 3.
Matthijs Ilsink, Jos Koldeweij et al. (2016) pp 356-379 in Hieronymus Bosch, Painter and Draughtsman: Catalogue Raisonné, Yale UP and Mercatorfonds. ISBN 978 0 300 22014 8.
Schwartz G (2016) Jheronimus Bosch, The Road to Heaven and Hell, Overlook Duckworth. ISBNB 978 1 4683 1373 4.

This weekend I look at one of the greatest paintings in the world, Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, painted between about 1495-1505. Unique in its content, it remains a conversation piece half a millennium after it was completed. This article starts at the top level, and tomorrow’s sequel delves a little into its rich and intriguing details.

Most triptychs were intended for use in places of worship, particularly as altarpieces. This one appears to have been commissioned primarily as a conversation piece for the well-educated nobility, specifically Count Henry III of Nassau-Breda (1483-1538), in what is now Belgium. It’s also one of Bosch’s best documented paintings, first being recorded only a year after his death, and described by a succession of viewers ever since.

Ilsink and others consider that Bosch’s main inspiration and source for the material in this painting was Hartmann Schedel’s extensively illustrated Weltchronik (history of the world) published in Nuremberg in 1493. This uses the same Biblical quotation that appears on the exterior of this painting. Despite those descriptions, extensive research, and many published studies since, it remains one of the most enigmatic paintings, with many different interpretations. Being so detailed, and with details which are so unusual, it is all too easy to get lost among its hundreds of cavorting figures and weird portmanteau objects.

The exterior presents an understated grisaille showing the creation. The interior has three extraordinary panels showing fantastic landscapes which are quite densely covered with figures, real and fictional creatures, and bizarre structures. At first sight these may appear overwhelming, but on more careful examination each panel has a theme and its own pictorial structure. The themes (from the left) are based on creation (the Garden of Eden), pleasure (a pleasure garden), and destruction (the garden of Hell itself).

Exterior

The exterior features a grisaille painting of a portion of the earth within an orb. The surface of that earth is shown at the end of the third day of creation according to the account in Genesis: the land has been separated from water, and plants have started to develop and grow. At the top left is a miniature showing God the Father, apparently based on an engraving in Weltchronik (1493).

The inscription above the painting reads: (left) Ipse dixit et facta sunt (right) Ipse mandavit et creata sunt. This is verse 9 of Psalm 33 from the Latin Vulgate, and is translated into English as ‘For He spake and it was done; He commanded, and it stood fast.’ Opening this restrained and modest cover brings a heady rush of bright colours, greens, reds, and blues, and its seething mass of detail.

Left panel, creation

The left panel shows an innovative view of the Garden of Eden, divided into tiers as it recedes into the background. The foreground is dominated by a scene from the account of the creation of man in Genesis, in which God has just created Eve, and introduces Eve to Adam. Adam is seated on the ground on the right hand of God. God holds Eve, on his left, by the right wrist. She appears to be kneeling on the grass on which they are stood. God wears red robes, Adam and Eve are of course naked.

Closer to the viewer is a small lake which is teeming with extraordinary fish, other aquatic creatures, birds, and land animals. In all about thirty are shown, few of which resemble earthly species. Behind this foreground is dense woodland, with one tree of strange form prominent at the left, similar to a type of palm.

The wood drops down to another lake, in the middle of which is a rocky outcrop containing gems, on which a strange red fountain tower stands. The base of that tower is a sphere with a porthole cut out, and an owl peering out from that hole. At the right is a small rock cliff, with an exotic tree growing at the top. This lake has various waterfowl on it, and at the upper left several mammals including a unicorn are drinking.

Further into the background the land is open grass with scattered trees, and a menagerie of animals including an elephant and a giraffe. At the far (top) left is a complex rock structure from which, and into which, a dense and long flock of swift-like birds are flying. In the far distance to the right is a low but rugged range of pale blue rock spires. The sky is clear, blue, and has many birds in flight.

Centre panel, pleasure

The centre panel shows a rolling deer park with lakes, overrun by a dense mass of naked men and women, and bizarre objects.

The foreground contains a dense group of people frolicking on grass with large fruit objects, including strawberries, blackcurrants, blackberries, apples, cherries, and others. Behind that on the left is a small lake, again densely packed with people and extremely large birds, including a kingfisher.

The middle distance is dominated by a central circular pond, in which there are more groups of people. Around them is a procession of people riding horses, camels, and other mammals, in an anticlockwise direction around the central pond. To the left and right are more groups of people interacting, apparently in playful ways, with bizarre objects, such as the tail of a massive lobster.

Further into the distance is a larger lake, fed by two rivers leading off into the central distance, and one at each side of the panel. Five fantastic tower structures are by or on the river. The central deep blue tower is based on a sphere, in and on which people are active. The other four towers alternate red and blue in colour, and feature various strange superstructures and ornaments. The two in the far distance, towards the top of the panel, are built over the river.

Far beyond is rolling, wooded countryside. The skies above are blue, cloudless, and contain several bizarre flying contraptions.

Right panel, destruction

The right panel is a complete contrast to the other two in showing a nighttime scene full of suffering, violence, and destruction. It is segregated into three tiers by dominant colour.

The foreground, based on mid-browns, shows two substantial groups of naked men and women apparently in torment or violence. The nearer group has playing cards, dice, a backgammon set, and the trappings of gaming and gambling. Behind them is a separate group apparently undergoing torment with large musical instruments including a lute, harp, and hurdy gurdy. These scenes, on the left, are being overseen by a large bird sitting on an elevated commode.

The middle distance changes to dark grey and black. There is a frozen river, and rising up from that is a weird shell similar to the upper torso of a man’s body, and head, with its arms formed from hollow tree trunks resting in small boats. People there are being tormented by bizarre portmanteau creatures.

The far distance, based on black with red fire and pale yellow shafts of light, is far darker and objects are only made out in silhouette. It shows strife, fire and destruction in the massive buildings of a city.

Composition

Each of the three panels shows a landscape receding into the background. The prominent features within each panel are composed with informal symmetry within that panel, and across the triptych as a whole.

In the left panel, the dominating passages are the foreground figures, centred on God who is in the midline, the red tower in the lake, which is in the midline, and in the distance four pinnacles spread across the skyline.

In the centre panel, the round pond in the middle distance is in the midline, and just above the centre of the panel. The five distant towers are arranged symmetrically about the midline, with the central dark blue tower in the midline.

The dominant feature of the right panel is the ‘man-tree’ structure, which is in the midline just above the centre of the panel.

There are no comparable paintings from the same era, or indeed any period prior to the twentieth century, against which this can reasonably be compared.

History

There has never been any serious doubt that this is an authentic work by Bosch’s hand, and its provenance has been traced back to 1517, when it was at the Nassau Palace in Brussels. Later that century it moved to Spain, and was presented to the Escorial by Philip II in 1593.

Various periods of conservation work have been undertaken, including some retouching and other work to address wear and deterioration in the paint surface. The last major work was undertaken in 1999-2000.

References

Wikipedia.

Falkenburg R (2011) The Land of Unlikeness: Hieronymus Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights, WBOOKS. ISBN 978 9 040 07767 8.
Fischer S (2013, 2016) Hieronymus Bosch, The Complete Works, Bibliotheca Universalis, Taschen. ISBN 978 3 8365 3850 3.
Matthijs Ilsink, Jos Koldeweij et al. (2016) pp 356-379 in Hieronymus Bosch, Painter and Draughtsman: Catalogue Raisonné, Yale UP and Mercatorfonds. ISBN 978 0 300 22014 8.
Schwartz G (2016) Jheronimus Bosch, The Road to Heaven and Hell, Overlook Duckworth. ISBNB 978 1 4683 1373 4.

Although nature is sometimes very fragile, decades of conservation rhetoric have perhaps overstated that fragility.

Just after Christmas, on 29 December, we will commemorate the centenary of the death of one of the most curious French painters of the time. Félix Vallotton (1865–1925) followed the academic tradition, became one of the Nabis, painted a series of disturbing domestic interiors, and some of the finest landscapes of the early twentieth century. This brief series scratches the surface of his eclectic art.

Félix Édouard Vallotton was born in Lausanne in Switzerland, and moved to Paris in 1882 to study under Jules Joseph Lefebvre and Gustave Boulanger at the Académie Julian. His early influences included the paintings of JAD Ingres, and he started painting portraits following the academic tradition.

Among those early works is this Self-portrait at 20 from 1885.

In the late 1880s he learned to make prints, apparently through his friendship with the Polish artist in his painting of Félix Jasinski in his Printmaking Studio from 1887. Although Jasinski was successful at the time, his work now seems to have been largely forgotten. Vallotton soon became fascinated by Japanese woodcuts, including ukiyo-e that had become so popular in the late nineteenth century. He collected them, and in 1891 started making his own woodcuts.

The year that he left the Académie Julian, he started painting his long series of domestic interiors that could be read as ‘problem pictures’ with open narrative. He began gently with The Visit or The Top Hat, Interior (1887), the year that he also exhibited his first two paintings (both portraits) at the Salon. A top hat and walking stick are parked on a chair just inside an apartment, whose door is partly open. Everything looks in order, except for the painting hanging on the wall at the right, which is at an odd angle.

The Sick Girl from 1892 uses a theme that was popular with Naturalist painters throughout the 1880s and into the 1890s. His model was his muse and lover Hélène Chatenay, whom he had met in 1889. They remained a couple until the late 1890s, and in 1907 she was tragically killed by a car.

His detailed realism here extends to showpiece surface reflections from the glassware and polished wood, but he curiously obscures the face of the young woman in her sickbed by reversing the bed’s normal orientation. Many of his apparently humdrum interiors have unusual twists such as this, adding the strangeness later to be formally exploited in Surrealism. Another odd feature in this painting is that the maid who has just entered the room appears to be heading towards the viewer, and isn’t even looking towards her patient.

The Cook at the Stove, or simply The Cook, from 1892 is another domestic genre scene drawn from Naturalism, and features Hélène Chatenay again. She stands at the solid-top range in a kitchen strangely almost devoid of the one thing that kitchens are for: food. The only edible item visible is a bunch of onions suspended in mid-air. Everything – the chairs, pots and pans, and the range itself – is spotless as if they have never been used, and appear unnatural.

In 1892, Vallotton made lifelong friendships with key members of the Nabis, including Pierre Bonnard, Ker-Xavier Roussel, Maurice Denis, and Édouard Vuillard. Because of his Swiss origins, he was dubbed the Foreign Nabi.

His most overtly Nabi painting is Bathing on a Summer Evening from 1892-93. These flattened and stylised figures representing women of all ages have been applied like collage to a background reminiscent of some of Ferdinand Hodler’s alpine meadows.

In 1893, Vallotton painted his remarkable Waltz, on which he appears to have sprinkled thousands of multi-coloured dots to give its surface a fine sparkle. Couples sweep across an unseen dance floor, embraced in a lover’s waltz, with just one of their faces clearly visible.

Unlike Pierre Bonnard, Vallotton doesn’t appear to have painted many views of Paris, but this Street Scene in Paris from 1895 shows more Nabi style and some overlap with Bonnard’s contemporary motifs, even down to the dog wandering in the middle of the road.

Like the other Nabis, Vallotton became involved with the Natanson brothers, and their magazine Revue Blanche published a series of ten of his prints of interiors in 1898. He provides us with a glimpse into the private life of Misia Natanson, as she was at the time, in his Misia at Her Dressing Table (1898), again in Nabi style.

Vallotton remained under Nabi influence when he painted The Red Room in 1898 to the extent that he used distemper, a traditional medium the group had resurrected. A man and woman stand in a loose embrace in the doorway of a living room with brick red decor. Above the fireplace is what could be a mirror, or a painting, in which a person dressed in black is standing in the distance, apparently looking away from the couple.

A similar well-dressed couple embrace more closely in The Visit from 1899, also painted in distemper. Once again, Vallotton leaves the painting’s underlying narrative open.

As he moved on from his brief affair with the Nabis, and the group itself disintegrated, Vallotton experimented with unusual points of view, as in The Ball from 1899. A young girl is chasing her red ball, as two women talk in the distance. This is seen from mid-air above the girl, forming a simple but compelling motif with an air of mystery.

In the last year of the nineteenth century, he turned to painting landscapes on the north coast of France.

On Dieppe Beach from 1899 reduces this scene as only a printmaker could, to discrete forms filled with colour: the textured sand, sea, sky, and the simplified shapes of the three figures with a parasol.

He even painted one of the formative coastal landscapes of Impressionism, in his Seafront at Étretat (1899). Watching a gathering of fashionable ladies on the promenade is the cyclopean eye of the Manneporte.

In 1899, Vallotton married Gabrielle Rodrigues-Henriques, a rich young widow who already had three children. The following year, he was granted French citizenship. In the early years of the new century, he was to concentrate on painting further strange motifs.

By about 1650, Aelbert Cuyp (1620–1691) had demonstrated his proficiency in painting a wide variety of subjects and genres, from mythological landscapes to farm animals. He had become influenced by Jan Dirksz Both (c 1610-52), who had recently returned from working with Claude Lorrain in Rome.

At their best, Cuyp’s coastal landscapes, such as The Maas at Dordrecht from about 1650, are full of rich light, earning him the title of the Dutch Claude Lorrain. This shows another passage boat packed with passengers, together with its drummer.

Also thought to have been painted in about 1650, shortly before his father’s death, it’s possible that Two Cavalry Troopers Talking to a Peasant is a collaboration between father and son. Although there’s a slight awkwardness in the figures, the horses are finely painted with great detail on their saddlery, including glinting buckles.

Some of his landscapes from this period appear to have been painted in very different terrain. His Migrating Peasants in a Southern Landscape from about 1652 shows people dressed for the more temperate climate of northern Europe in a landscape that could be further south.

Cuyp’s grand view of The Valkhof at Nijmegen from about 1652-54 shows the Imperial castle that was demolished in 1798, on its small hill beside the river. The landscape is bathed in golden light, and broken clouds are tinged with similar Claudean colour as they drift through its lucent sky.

In about 1655, Cuyp painted this narrative landscape with the story of Saint Philip Baptising the Ethiopian Eunuch, referring to the account of Philip the Evangelist in chapter 8 of the Acts of the Apostles. Following the instructions of an angel, Philip went to the road between Jerusalem and Gaza, where he met the treasurer to Candace, Queen of the Ethiopians. As the Ethiopian Eunuch was sitting reading Old Testament scripture in his chariot, Philip explained the text and taught him the Gospel of Jesus. The eunuch was converted and baptised as a result.

Cuyp sets this story in a golden Claudean landscape more akin to the south of France or even Italy, with rich detail in the riverside plants, the figures and animals.

Although Cuyp doesn’t appear to have painted many winter scenes, his Ice Scene Before the Huis te Merwede near Dordrecht from about 1655 is up with the leaders. Notable here are his foreground reflections, and another wonderful sky with its warm clouds. This castle was built to the south-east of Dordrecht in the early fourteenth century, and ruined a hundred years later.

A Senior Merchant of the Dutch East India Company is a fascinating double portrait painted during 1650-59. It’s thought to show Jacob Mathieusen and his wife, against a background of the company fleet in Batavia roads. This city in what was then the Dutch East Indies is now the site of Jakarta in Indonesia. There’s no record of Cuyp ever having visited this imagined location, and he appears to have painted the background on the basis of contemporary topographic images, then painted his subjects in the studio.

A Road near a River from about 1660 is the last of Cuyp’s paintings for which I have a date, and perhaps his finest closing summary. It’s a landscape in the style of Claude Lorrain, with long shadows and the warmth of the setting sun. There’s a small flock of sheep and a sleeping dog, the shepherd chatting with a friend. Further down that road are two more figures, one of them sat on a pony. On the other side of the river with its broken reflections, is a cottage and more people. In the distance is a thoroughly alien crag and the ruins of a castle. Above all this is the peaceful sky of settled weather, divided into two by a pair of finely crafted trees.

Cuyp’s undated Interior of a Cowshed is a fine portrait of a cow leading the herd into a shed, with good use made of chiaroscuro and details of the tools, tackle and equipment inside.

In 1658, Cuyp married Cornelia Bosman. Within two years, he had apparently stopped painting completely, and was a deacon of the Reformed Church. It has been speculated that it was his marriage that brought an end to his art. Whether that’s true or not, for the final thirty years of his life he seems not to have made another painting.

Reference

Wikipedia.

Artists like Rembrandt and Vermeer are exceptional in any period in history. Among the thousands of artists in the Dutch Republic, there were a few dozen who never achieved such greatness, but whose paintings have endured the collapse of the market in the late seventeenth century. Among them is Aelbert Cuyp (1620–1691), who is also a bit of a mystery in that he appears to have stopped painting soon after 1660, although he lived for another thirty years.

Cuyp was born into an artistic family, who were also quite rich. He was taught to paint by his father, Jacob Gerritsz Cuyp, who was primarily a portrait painter, and lived in Dordrecht. Trained as a landscape painter, he often used views as a platform for genre scenes, animal and human portraits, and more, and seems to have been both happy and highly proficient at painting almost anything. During his early career, he was mostly under the influence of the prolific artist Jan van Goyen (1596-1656), but doesn’t appear to have been his pupil.

Cuyp is thought to have painted this Landscape with Cattle when he was only about nineteen, in 1639. It’s set against the background of the city of Dordrecht, situated on the Rhine-Meuse-Scheldt river delta. The herdsman and animals in the foreground are engaged in diversions from that landscape: the man is taunting a billy goat, while the cow at the far right is urinating copiously. Above them is a lucent sky with slightly unnatural clouds.

Cuyp was soon using his landscapes with more diverse themes. Orpheus with Animals in a Landscape from about 1640 is one of at least two different paintings he made of this story from mythology. Here he has included a wide range of both domestic and exotic animals and birds, including a distant elephant, an ostrich, herons and wildfowl.

Throughout his career, Cuyp seems to have made detailed sketches in front of the motif, to inform his studio paintings. This View of Arnhem from the South from about 1642-46 was made using grey wash, watercolour and black chalk.

His dramatic Thunderstorm over Dordrecht from about 1645 is amazingly effective and accurate, considering it was painted more than two centuries before anyone saw high-speed photographic images of lightning.

Many of Cuyp’s landscapes show more varied terrain than he could ever have seen in the Republic. Although the cliffs at the right of his Herdsmen with Cows (c 1645) may have been fairly local, the more substantial crags in the left distance are far from being Dutch. It’s not known whether he travelled to other countries, or perhaps relied on the paintings of artists who did.

His paintings of domestic animals also took him indoors, for example in this fascinating painting of Sheep in a Stable from about 1645. The sheep are faithfully depicted, and surrounded by objects suggesting this was more of a still life. In the foreground are empty mussel shells, a couple of earthenware pots, and two wickerwork baskets with some scarlet cloth. He also renders the texture of the fleeces using painterly brushstrokes, particularly that of the standing ram.

View on the Rhine also from about 1645 appears to have been the result of a trip up river into steeper terrain inland. It’s wonderfully painterly, and might even be mistaken for one of Turner’s landscapes from nearly two centuries later.

In the mid-1640s, Cuyp is believed to have come under the influence of Jan Dirksz Both (c 1610-52), who had returned to Utrecht by 1646 following a formative period spent in Rome. When he was in Italy, Both transformed his painting thanks to the work of, and working with, Claude Lorrain. As a result, Cuyp changed the direction of light in his landscapes to elongate shadows and enrich his colour ranges. His father was still alive for much of this period, and it’s thought that in some paintings prior to about 1650, the son painted the landscape and father the figures.

Cuyp continued to make fine studies in front of the motif, such as this View of the Groote Kerk in Dordrecht from the River Maas from about 1647-48, made using a combination of black and brown chalk and watercolour washes. Like the previous study, it sadly wasn’t intended to be seen by the public.

He also painted a few nocturnes, including this view of the Sea by Moonlight from about 1648, where he extends his exploration of the effects of light.

Although Cuyp never seems to have become a more dedicated marine specialist, his paintings of ships including The Passage Boat from about 1650, are landmarks at the height of his career. This ferry was most probably run between Dordrecht and Rotterdam, a distance of little more than twelve miles (20 km) by river. The figures in the boat are finely detailed, including a drummer towards the stern, and the clouds are also finely crafted.

Reference

Wikipedia.

There’s good evidence that learning to live with your loved ones just as they are leads to more happiness for you.

Paintings made in oils in front of the motif, en plein air, are a surprisingly recent innovation. Although often ascribed to the inconvenience of handling oil paint before it was offered in tubes in the middle of the nineteenth century, in fact it had become popular if not mandatory for the aspiring landscape painter well before that. Instead of taking their paints in tubes, those pioneers used pig bladders, that had become widely available from artists’ colourmen, as were used by Constable, Turner and many others.

Initially, plein air oil sketches weren’t intended to be seen by the public or patrons.

Among the earliest artists to paint regularly in front of their motif was Alexandre-François Desportes (1661-1743), a professional painter of hunting scenes and animals, whose Landscape Study was painted in about 1700.

Plein air oil sketching was described and recommended by Roger de Piles in his book Cours de Peinture, published in 1708, contemporary with Desportes’ sketches. Other books on painting and art in the eighteenth century also cover the topic, and Claude-Joseph Vernet was recorded as having painted oil sketches en plein air, but none have survived.

At Vernet’s suggestion, the young Pierre-Henri de Valenciennes made copious oil sketches such as this of Farm-buildings at the Villa Farnese: the Two Poplar Trees when he was painting in the Roman Campagna in 1782-85. He not only built himself a large visual library of sketches from nature, but published a widely used book on landscape painting in which he recommended the practice.

Jacques Sablet’s Portrait of the Painter Conrad Gessner in the Roman Campagna shows one of the early plein air landscape painters in 1788, over fifty years before the first paint tubes became available.

Although this detail of Giovanni Battista Quadrone’s Every Opportunity is Good shows a studio in 1878, the low table at the left has several bladders containing oil paint. They remained popular with many artists until towards the end of the nineteenth century. Although not as convenient as tubes, the better colourmen still offered a wide range of pigments in bladders that were significantly less costly.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir painted Monet Painting in his Garden in Argenteuil in 1873. Claude Monet is using a conventional lightweight wooden easel, with a small canvas that allows him to work standing. His oil paints are in the pochade box under the easel. Although just outside his house, he would have used the same equipment when further from home.

In about 1885, when they were painting together, John Singer Sargent took this opportunity to paint Claude Monet Painting by the Edge of a Wood. Seated on a traditional three-legged folding stool, Monet is here working on a much larger canvas, his pochade box again under the easel for ready access.

This detail of Virginie Demont-Breton’s Portrait of Marie Duhem (1889) shows one of her close friends and colleagues in the Wissant School, at work en plein air on the coast near their house. She appears to have set her easel up by a wooden groyne on the beach.

In John Singer Sargent’s An Out-of-Doors Study (c 1889) he shows his friend Paul César Helleu working on a canvas propped up in the grass by a single pole, a precarious arrangement only suitable for the calmest of days. It also forces him to work very low, and he squats in a position of tension, his pochade box in the grass below his left knee.

Hans Andersen Brendekilde’s L.A. Ring Paints at Aasum Smithy (1893) shows his friend painting the primary school in the village of Åsum (or Aasum), to the east of Odense in Denmark. Clearly visible in the pochade box behind is a substantial collection of shiny paint tubes.

The American artists Jane de Glehn and her husband Wilfrid were long-standing friends of John Singer Sargent. His plein air oil sketch of The Fountain, Villa Torlonia, Frascati, Italy (1907) shows Jane working at a lightweight wooden easel in the grounds of this villa.

Joaquín Sorolla here shows his daughter Maria Painting in El Pardo in 1907. She’s painting with a pochade box, and has a large parasol with a specialist mount so that it can provide her with shade.

One of Brendekilde’s earliest surviving paintings shows L A Ring by his Fallen Easel (1883). Both of them had a struggle achieving recognition, and at this stage Ring was verging on abandoning art altogether as a result. He is seen on the outskirts of a wood, looking down dejectedly at his easel that has dropped paint-first onto the fallen leaves on the road.

Plein air painting has many challenges. In fine sunny weather you’re normally limited to thirty to sixty minutes painting time. Any longer than that and the light and shadows have changed too much over the course of time, but overcast lighting allows greater tolerance. Even with modern portable lighting systems, painting en plein air at night is an astonishing feat that few even attempt.

This remarkable painting by JC Dahl of Dresden at Night appears to have been painted on a sheet of cardboard one night in 1845. There really is no limit to what can be achieved in front of the motif.

The stories told each day in Boccaccio’s Decameron follow a theme appointed by the ‘ruler’ of that day, as they decree when they are crowned with laurels at the end of the previous day’s storytelling. The theme chosen by the queen of the fifth day, Fiammetta, was the adventures of lovers who survived calamities or misfortunes and reached a state of happiness.

The eighth such story concerns the misfortunes of Nastagio degli Onesti, as told by Filomena. This appears to have been instantly successful, and by the early sixteenth century had been painted by both Botticelli and Ghirlandaio.

Nastagio degli Onesti was a young man from an old and noble family in Ravenna, who inherited a huge fortune, then fell in love with the daughter of a more noble family. His love for her wasn’t returned, though, and she was persistently cruel towards him. This caused the young Nastagio so much grief that he even contemplated suicide.

He continued to try to win her over, and in the course of that spent much of his inheritance. Friends and relatives feared for him and his future, and tried to persuade him to leave the city for a while. He was very reluctant, but finally travelled to Classe, three miles away, in May when the weather was fine.

Once there he wandered off into the local pine woods, thinking as he always did about his cruel love. As he walked in the wood, he heard the screams of a woman in distress. He then caught sight of her running naked towards him. In hot pursuit was a pair of large mastiff dogs, and behind them was a mounted knight brandishing a sword and threatening to kill her.

Nastagio took up a tree branch in her defence, but the knight ordered him by name to keep out, and let him and his dogs give the sinful woman what she deserved. Nastagio challenged the knight, who dismounted and introduced himself as Guido degli Anastagi. He then explained that he had fallen deeply in love with this woman many years ago, but she too had rejected him cruelly. As a result, Guido had killed himself, and was condemned to eternal punishment for that sin. The woman had died shortly afterwards, without repenting her cruelty, and she too was condemned to eternal punishment for her sin.

Their punishment consisted of Guido having to hunt her down in the woods, kill her using the same sword with which he had committed suicide, then cut her back open and remove her stone cold heart. That and her other organs he then has to feed to his dogs. After a short break, she is magically restored, and he has to resume hunting her as before.

Nastagio was horrified by this, stepped back, and watched the dead Guido kill the dead woman with his rapier, and go through the sequence of cutting out her heart and organs. A few moments later, after the ghostly dogs had eaten her organs, the dead woman jumped up and the hunt started all over again.

When he had recovered from the shock, Nastagio came up with a plan to deal with his own predicament. He summoned his friends and relatives, and agreed to stop trying to woo the woman that he loved on one condition, that she and her family should join him in the same place in the pine wood exactly one week later, for a magnificent breakfast banquet.

A week later all her family were present at the meal in the wood, and Nastagio carefully seated the woman he loved so she would get a grandstand view of the proceedings. No sooner had the last course been served, than they heard the dead woman’s screams, and she ran right in front of them.

Many of the guests tried to stop Guido from carrying out this punishment, so he explained to them what he had told Nastagio the week before. Eventually the ghostly couple rushed off again, and the guests talked avidly about what they had witnessed. But the person who was most affected by the spectacle was the cruel woman who Nastagio loved, who had perhaps already put herself in the position of the dead woman.

Nastagio’s plan paid off: the woman he loved soon sent him a servant to inform him that she would do anything he desired. She quickly consented to marriage, and they were wedded the following Sunday.

One perhaps unintended consequence of Nastagio’s breakfast demonstration was that, for some time to come, the women of Ravenna were so frightened of what could happen to them that they responded more favourably to the approaches of men.

The title page of this story in this illustrated manuscript copy of the Decameron from the fifteenth century features a small reminder of the grim human hunt scene at its head.

This gruesome story and ingenious reversal of conventional Christian values became popular and well-known through the fifteenth century, sufficient for it to be depicted in four tempera panels given on the occasion of the arranged marriage of Gianozzo Pucci and Lucretia Bini in 1483. The couple were particularly fortunate in that one of those who made the arrangement, and who had this gift made for them, was Lorenzo de’ Medici, ‘the Magnificent’, who was also Botticelli’s patron at the time, and the ruler of the Florentine Republic.

The first panel shows the two figures of Nastagio, at the left, in the pine wood, with the naked woman running towards him, a mastiff sinking its teeth into her buttock. Behind them at the right is Guido, his sword ready to kill the woman when he catches her. In the distance is a coastal landscape intended to locate this near Ravenna, which is close to the Adriatic, although that’s idealised not representative.

Botticelli continues to tell the story using multiplex (‘continuous’) narrative in the second painting. The dead Guido has now caught the dead woman, killed her with his rapier, and with her lying on her face, he is cutting her back open to remove her cold heart. His dogs are already eating her organs at the right, and Nastagio is visibly distressed at the left.

Behind that composite scene is an earlier scene of Guido and his dogs still in pursuit of the woman, preceding the image of the first painting in the series.

In the third painting, Botticelli shows the breakfast banquet a week later, with the dead woman being attacked by Guido’s dogs, and Guido himself about to catch and kill her, in front of Nastagio’s guests.

Nastagio’s love is sitting at the table on the left, from which all the women have risen in distress at the sight, spilling their food in front of them.

The fourth and final panel shows Nastagio’s wedding, the bride and her women sitting to the left, and the men to the right, in formal symmetry. The groom is sat on the other side of the same table as the bride.

Botticelli’s series seems to have been celebrated at the time, and shortly afterwards Ghirlandaio, another Florentine master, was asked to make not copies, but paintings in the manner of Botticelli’s series. Two have survived, and are now both in the US.

Ghirlandaio’s first panel, now in the Brooklyn Museum, is based on Botticelli’s first, with the addition of an extra scene to its multiplex narrative. Up in the right, he adds the scene from Botticelli’s second panel, showing Guido cutting out the dead woman’s heart through her back.

Ghirlandaio’s second panel shows an almost identical breakfast banquet to that in Botticelli’s third panel. This is now in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I don’t know whether Ghirlandaio’s series extended to a third, completing the story with the marriage feast of Nastagio.

Boccaccio’s strange tale, twisted from source material by Dante, resulted in even more curious paintings. Today we might be only too happy to watch it in a horror movie, but seeing it come to life in a series of panels as a wedding gift? That’s surely typical of the late Middle Ages.

Caregivers are at the brink of despair.

While artists from around the world had gathered in the colony at Grez-sur-Loing, little more than 12 km (7 miles) downstream, French Impressionism was flourishing at Moret-sur-Loing. Alfred Sisley and his family moved there in 1880, and this was to be the centre of his painting for most of the rest of his life. Their first house there was in Veneux-Nadon (now Veneux-Les Sablons), on the road to the village of By.

Moret had good rail connections with central Paris, although in 1881 Sisley wrote that the journey took two hours, sufficiently long for him to excuse himself from visiting the city. He lived there in quiet isolation with his family; a few visitors including Berthe Morisot and Stéphane Mallarmé made their way out to see him. But the nineteen years that he lived in or near Moret were highly productive, with a total of 550 oil paintings, several sketchbooks, and a few pastels.

Sisley experimented with his facture and style at this time. On the Hills of Moret in the Spring – Morning from 1880 looks down from one of those low hills towards the town. The brushwork in the foreground is composed of short strokes of near-white and colour, giving the hillside a distinctive texture.

By the end of 1881, the Sisley family had moved into the town of Moret. This was apparently financed in part by a loan from his dealer Durand-Ruel. About a year later, Sisley decided that the air in Moret didn’t suit him, or possibly he needed to keep on the move from his creditors, and the family moved to Les Sablons until 1886.

During Sisley’s time at Moret, he explored the banks of the rivers and canal, producing some of his best-known paintings. The Banks of the Loing towards Moret from 1883 is one his earlier riverside views, showing unusual combinations of reflections of tall trees, working craft and small industry, and distant chalk cliffs.

This view of The Loing Canal from 1884 is another fine example from near Saint-Mammès. This waterway runs parallel to the River Loing, connecting the Briare Canal to the River Seine, and is one of the series of waterways joining Paris to Lyon known as the Bourbonnais Route. These were constructed in the early eighteenth century, and still carry barges of grain from the farms in central France.

As with many of his waterside paintings, much of the canvas is occupied by the sky, which Sisley wrote that he always painted first so as to set the scene and mood for the whole painting.

Although Sisley, unlike Monet and Pissarro, painted few formal series, some of his motifs group together. The Canal du Loing, here seen in 1885, is in one of those groups. These typically have a low horizon, and reiterate his emphasis on the sky setting the mood and tone of his paintings. Below that, the water shimmers with the reflected buildings and relatively coarse brushstrokes rather than the more staccato style seen developing in Pissarro’s landscapes of this time.

Another group is exemplified by Moret – The Banks of the River Loing, probably painted in the autumn/fall of 1885, with its slightly coarser marks and strong colour contrasts. These bring the foreground closer, and push the background deep.

Sisley also recognised the visual potential of the town of Moret and its bridge, a motif that was to dominate his later work. The Bridge at Moret, Storm Effect from 1887 is an early plein air sketch capturing the approach of a storm, with the sky remaining bright for the moment, but the gathering wind already driving up small waves on the River Loing.

Sisley seems to have started another group showing the avenue of poplars at Moret-sur-Loing in 1888.

In 1892 he painted this barren winter landscape of The Canal du Loing at Moret, with its pale stand of poplars beating their rhythm across the canvas before curving into the distance.

In Moret Bridge in the Sunlight from the same year, Sisley settles on an angle of view over the town that was to prove his favourite, capturing the main spans of the bridge, the Porte de Bourgogne and the town’s Gothic church beyond.

Sisley’s most formal and conscious attempt at series painting is that of the Church at Moret-sur-Loing, a tight series with two branches consisting of fourteen paintings, completed in 1893-94, when Monet was reworking his Rouen series in the studio.

Sisley’s emphasis in this series is shown well in The Church at Moret, Evening, from 1894, and is quite different from Monet’s. As MaryAnne Stevens puts it, “Monet painted the air that lay between his eye and the façade”, while “Sisley focused on the physical mass of the structure, using different light conditions to accentuate his subject’s architectonic quality.”

Sisley remained in Moret, painting in poverty and isolation, until 1897, when he and his longstanding partner Eugénie visited South Wales and married at long last in Cardiff Town Hall. They arrived back in Moret-sur-Loing on 1 October 1897. On 8 October the following year, Eugénie Sisley died at Moret. By then, Alfred had developed his terminal illness, cancer of the throat, and was gravely ill himself. He died at Moret-sur-Loing on 29 January 1899, shortly before Asai Chū arrived in Grez-sur-Loing.

One of the small villages on the southern edge of the Forest of Fontainebleau grew into an artist’s colony in the last quarter of the nineteenth century. Grez-sur-Loing is on the bend of the River Loing where it turns to the east to head for Moret-sur-Loing and empty into the River Seine at Saint-Mammès. The village lies between the road north from Nemours to Fontainebleau, and the river meandering in its floodplain.

Among those who painted there are John Singer Sargent, Carl Larsson who met his wife there, Bruno Liljefors the Swedish animal painter, PS Krøyer and other Nordic Impressionists of the Skagen group, Theodore Robinson and Willard Metcalf from the US, and the Glasgow Boys.

Like many others, the British artist Louis Welden Hawkins came to Grez from Paris, in his case by about 1880. He painted rural scenes in a style strongly reminiscent of Jules Bastien-Lepage, who was only slightly older than Hawkins, and at the time making a great impression at the Salon. This is Hawkins’ Peasant Woman from about 1880.

Hawkins’ first success came with Orphans (1881), which shares Bastien-Lepage’s muted colours, attributed to the light supposedly peculiar to Grez. A young brother and sister are in a neglected graveyard, looking together at a pauper’s grave, apparently of one or both of their parents. This painting was awarded a third-class medal at the Salon that year, and marked the start of a run of his paintings exhibited at the following three Salons. It was purchased by the state in 1887 for 10,000 francs, and was also exhibited at the Paris World Exhibition in 1900.

Hawkins continued this style in The Last Step (c 1882), showing an elderly woman walking slowly with a stick in what may be the same graveyard. In the distance, a gravedigger is digging a new grave through the stony soil. The two engage in conversation, probably discussing where she will be buried in the not too distant future.

By 1882, the colony at Grez was becoming popular with Nordic painters who were developing their skills in France. Among them were the Swedish artists Carl Larsson and Karin Bergöö, who met there and later married.

Larsson’s paintings from Grez also appear to have been influenced by Jules Bastien-Lepage. His watercolour of The Old Man and the Nursery Garden from 1883 shows similar muted colours, and common rural themes.

Larsson painted this touching portrait of The Bride at Grez the same year. It almost certainly shows his wife Karin, and was presumably intended as a wedding gift to her.

In the Country (1883) is typical of a number of views that Larsson painted of the rural poor in and around Grez, in the same realist style with soft colours. That year, he had his first painting accepted by the Paris Salon, and was getting valuable commissions for book illustrations.

The single figure in Larsson’s watercolour Autumn (1884) is dressed anachronistically in clothing from the previous century. This was most probably to please the Salon jury, as eighteenth century scenes were fashionable at the time. Its setting at Grez and his soft realism combine to make this one of his finest watercolours of this period.

Well before the Glasgow Boys came, John Lavery visited from Glasgow. Although he was born in Belfast, he moved to Glasgow when he was a child. After initially attending the Haldane Academy in Glasgow, he went to Paris in the early 1880s, where he was a student at the Académie Julian, where he was influenced by Jules Bastien-Lepage and Millet, and painted at Grez-sur-Loing in 1884.

Lavery’s plein air oil sketch of The Principal Street at Grez from 1884 shows one of the many artists at work in the village, which had become popular internationally. Although following the course recommended for Naturalist painters, Lavery’s style is here thoroughly Impressionist.

At its height, Grez drew artists from all over the world, including some of the pioneers from Japan. In 1889 Asai Chū founded the first group of western-style (yōga) painters in Japan, and in 1898 was appointed professor of the forerunner of the Tokyo University of the Arts. In 1900 he moved to Paris for two years of study of Impressionism, and went to Grez to paint en plein air.

His Washing Place in Grez-sur-Loing shows small huts used by the village women to wash laundry in 1901.

The following year he painted this Bridge in Grez-sur-Loing before returning to Japan.

For much of that time, just over 12 km (7 miles) downstream, one of the great landscape artists of French Impressionism had been painting alone.

Until the Industrial Revolution brought the wide availability of iron, and even well into the twentieth century, the carpenter who worked wonders in wood was one of the key trades. It’s thus odd that remarkably few paintings show carpenters at work, at least until the middle of the nineteenth century.

They also play no role in the best-known classical myths, with the exception of one painting by Piero di Cosimo.

Piero sometimes assembled his own mythical narratives, such as that in Vulcan and Aeolus from about 1490. From the left the figures are a river god, Vulcan forging a horseshoe, a figure (possibly Aeolus, keeper of the winds) riding a horse, a man curled asleep in a foetal position, a couple and their infant son, and four carpenters erecting the frame of a building. Among the animals are a giraffe and a camel. It’s thought this shows early humans developing crafts at the dawn of civilisation.

Christian religious painting has a better opportunity, with Joseph, husband of the Virgin Mary, the most famous carpenter in European history.

Tintoretto’s Annunciation is thought to have been painted in about 1582. Its composition is unusual by any contemporary standards, with natural rendering of brickwork, a wicker chair, and a splendidly realistic carpenter’s yard at the left. This is coupled with an aerial swarm of infants, at the head of which is the dove of the Holy Ghost in a small mandorla. Christ’s origins are here very real, tangible, and contemporary, in stark contrast to most traditional depictions of this scene.

John Everett Millais’ painting of Christ in the House of His Parents, also known as The Carpenter’s Shop, is one of the foundational paintings of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, from 1849-50. It was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1850 with a quotation from the Old Testament book of Zechariah 13:6: “And one shall say unto him, What are those wounds in thine hands? Then he shall answer, Those with which I was wounded in the house of my friends.” It shows an entirely imagined scene, one not even alluded to in the Gospels, in which the young Jesus Christ is being comforted by his kneeling mother, after he has cut the palm of his left hand on a nail.

It’s rich with symbols of Christ’s life and future crucifixion: the cut on his palm is one of the stigmata, and blood dripped from that onto his left foot is another. The young Saint John the Baptist has fetched a bowl of water, indicating his future baptismal role. A triangle above Christ’s head symbolises the Trinity, and a white dove perched on the ladder is the Holy Spirit. A flock of sheep outside represents the Christian flock.

In William Holman Hunt’s later painting of The Shadow of Death from 1870-73, the young Jesus Christ is seen in his father’s carpentry workshop, holding his arms up to savour the bright sunlight. His cast shadow on the rack of tools and wall behind shows him crucified on the cross, with his mother Mary already on her knees, as shown in so many paintings of the crucifixion.

Christian allusions to carpentry became more popular from the start of the nineteenth century.

William Blake’s The Christ Child Asleep on the Cross, or Our Lady Adoring the Infant Jesus Asleep on the Cross from 1799-1800 is among the few of his glue tempera paintings that has retained its colours. This shows at best an apocryphal if not invented scene, in which the young Jesus anticipates his eventual fate by sleeping on a wooden cross, surrounded by the carpenter’s tools, including compasses or dividers.

Fritz von Uhde’s A Difficult Journey from 1890 imagines Joseph and the pregnant Mary walking on a rough muddy track to Bethlehem, in a wintry European village. Joseph has his carpenter’s saw on his back as the tired couple move on through dank mist.

There’s a more complex story behind Hans Andersen Brendekilde’s People by a Road from 1893. The group at the left are old road-workers, breaking larger rocks into coarse gravel. They lived out under the wooden shelter behind them, as they made their way slowly around the country roads. The woman holds what is either a small shovel or spade used in their work. Standing and apparently preaching to them is a cleanly dressed carpenter, his saw held in his left hand. The building behind them, on the opposite side of the road, is a church, from which a large congregation has just emerged.

This association with the Holy Family may extend to Erik Henningsen’s Evicted from 1892 with its family of four being evicted into the street in the winter snow. With them are their meagre possessions, including a saw suggesting the father may be a carpenter. In the background he is still arguing with a policeman.

It was only then, at the end of the nineteenth century, that artists started to paint portraits of carpenters at work.

In 1891 Laurits Andersen Ring painted these Workers at a Water Pipe at Søndersø, in the north of the central Danish island of Fyn (Funen). Two are skilled carpenters, who are sawing a plank of wood to be used in the construction work in progress behind them. The third worker, in his light blue jacket, wears rubber overboots on his wooden clogs, implying he has been working down in the trench. This is one of a series painted by Ring showing trades and crafts.

By happy coincidence, while I’m exploring paintings of the Dutch Golden Age, one of its outstanding artists celebrates the four hundredth anniversary of his infant baptism on 20 November 1625: Paulus Potter, who died tragically young in early 1654, but in that short period established himself as a founding father of animal painting.

He was born in Enkhuizen, a busy port in the north of the Dutch Republic, but moved to Leiden and then Amsterdam while still a child. His father was a painter, and young Paulus learned and worked as an apprentice in the family workshop.

He painted God Appearing to Abraham at Sichem in the middle of his apprenticeship, in 1642, making it one of his earliest surviving works. The human figures at the left have some odd proportions indicating his inexperience, but the most striking feature is the magnificent pair of cows stealing the centre. How these cattle came to dominate this painting is a mystery: it’s as if he was told to paint the Biblical story, but lacked interest and decided to liven it up according to his desires.

Once he had completed his apprenticeship he moved to Delft, where he became a member of the Guild of Saint Luke (the painters’ guild) in 1646.

Peasant Family with Animals (1646) appears to be another example of a hijacked motif, of a peasant family with a curiously grotesque young daughter, their cottage, and some wizened trees. Potter has added to that an extensive collection of farm animals, including two cows (one being milked), a calf, and sundry sheep, lambs, and a goat, in a sampler of farm animals.

His Figures with Horses by a Stable from 1647 shows his maturing composition. The farmer and his wife, who is feeding a child at her breast, still have a slight awkwardness about them, but the horses, chickens, dog, and distant cattle are finely painted, as is the magnificent tree in the centre. The sky contains several birds, another consistent feature of his mature works.

He completed his development in his Driving the Cattle to Pasture in the Morning (1647) with a superb dawn sky, providing the warm backlighting to the cattle and barren trees. The farmer’s child has grown, but is still feeding at the breast, as was common at the time. At the far left a pair of pigs are shown in repose.

His first masterpiece, for the next couple of centuries ranked alongside Rembrandt’s finest, is The Bull (also widely known as The Young Bull) (1647), which is almost life-sized, and vivid in its surface details. Originally intended just to be a portrait of the central bull, Potter enlarged the canvas to accommodate (from the left) a ram, lamb, ewe, herdsman, cow, and above them a bird of prey, possibly a buzzard. Beyond them are more cattle in the meadows receding to the church of Rijswijk, between Delft and The Hague. There are also many finer details including a frog in the foreground, textured bark and lichen on the tree, and several flies on the cattle.

A Husbandman with His Herd (1648) is a variation on a similar theme, this time with a lifelike cow-pat in the centre foreground.

In 1649, Potter moved to The Hague, where he married, and worked until 1652. His wife’s family were well-connected and provided entry to the upper class. At this time he apparently painted a work showing a cow pissing that was bought with glee by Amalia of Solms-Braunfels, Princess of Orange by marriage.

His Two Pigs in a Sty (1649) shows two hairy pigs at rest inside. Many of the older breeds of pig were hairier than modern varieties, and Potter has painted their coats realistically, as well as skilfully lighting the face of the sow sat on her haunches.

Two Horses near a Gate in the Meadow (1649) shows that Potter still had some room for improvement in his equine works: the head of the horse in the centre has some slightly peculiar proportions.

The Bear Hunt (1649) is another large canvas, showing a swarthy man armed with a scimitar, his hounds, and others attacking two Eurasian brown bears. Although the bear had become extinct through hunting in the British Isles by about 1000 CE, it may still have been rarely encountered in the Netherlands in Potter’s day. His first-hand knowledge of the animal appears limited, though, as their body proportions are quite different to those shown here.

Orpheus and Animals (1650) is one of Potter’s most unusual paintings, showing a wide range of different species, some of which weren’t well-known then, and one of which (the unicorn) didn’t even exist. They include a Bactrian camel (two humps), donkey, cattle, ox, wild pig, sheep, dog, goat, rabbit, lions, dromedary (one hump), horse, elephant, snake, deer, unicorn, lizard, wolf, and monkey.

In 1652, Potter moved to Amsterdam.

Cattle in the Meadow (1652) develops the effects of light together with the early autumn season almost to the point of being impressionist in its use of colour. In addition to the cattle, the painting is enhanced with a sow and her piglets in the right foreground, and exuberant lichen growth on the split tree-trunk by them.

Resting Herd (1652) shows another variation of his standard composition for cattle.

His Cows Grazing at a Farm (1653) was one of his last paintings, and apart from its meticulous detail, its rich lighting effects might have been more typical of Corot two hundred years later.

In 1654, when Paulus Potter was still in Amsterdam, he died from tuberculosis at the age of only 28. In his tragically brief career, he had painted over a hundred oil paintings, most of which survive today. His faithful depictions of farm animals set the standard for art for the next couple of centuries, and were inspiration to Constant Troyon and others who painted animals.

It happened that the Dutch Golden Age coincided with some of the coldest years during the Little Ice Age. In the previous century, the pioneering Flemish landscape painter Pieter Brueghel the Elder recorded the snow and ice during those exceptionally cold winters.

Brueghel’s masterpiece Winter Landscape with Skaters and Bird Trap from 1565 is one of the first paintings to show Netherlandish people on the ice in the winter. Although a few similarly wintry views were painted in and around Antwerp, they didn’t really catch on until the middle of the following century. Among their earliest exponents in the Dutch Republic was Hendrick Avercamp, who was born in Amsterdam but painted for most of his career in Kampen, to the north-east, and was probably the first to specialise in winter landscapes.

Avercamp’s Winter Landscape with Skaters is seen in his 1608 version above, and from around 1630 below. The whole population seems to have spilled out from the warmth of buildings to take to the ice. The fashionable parade in their best clothes and company, children play, and the occasional less able skater ends up sitting on the ice.

His Winter Scene on a Canal from about 1615 is even richer in detail. In the right of the painting are two tents with flags flying. These are popular koek-en-zopie, literally ‘cake and eggnog’ cafés, selling handheld snacks like cake and pancakes, together with alcoholic drinks such as beer laced with home-made rum.

Avercamp’s Kolf Players on Ice from 1625 features another common sight, the game of kolf, an ancestor of modern golf that became popular in the Netherlands during the thirteenth century, and has all but vanished today. Although also played indoors, it was played widely on frozen bodies of water during these cold winters. This involved striking a ball around a simple course with a club, with the aim of reaching the opponents’ starting point first. In this painting, the player about to strike their ball might be aiming for the post being held in the distance.

Adriaen van de Venne’s early painting of The Winter from 1614 shows two ice yachts under full sail, and dense crowds in the distance.

Although Aelbert Cuyp doesn’t appear to have painted many of these, his Ice Scene Before the Huis te Merwede near Dordrecht from about 1655 is among the finest. Notable here are his foreground reflections on the mirror-like surface, and the wonderful sky with its warm clouds. The castle seen here was built to the south-east of Dordrecht in the early fourteenth century, and ruined a hundred years later.

Skating on the ice using long curved blades of wood or metal, seen on the shoes of the man in the left foreground, was also popular. Younger adults made it a sport, and there were long-distance races.

Aert van der Neer’s beautifully-lit Sports on a Frozen River (c 1660) includes several kolf players. The reflection of the low sun on the ice is particularly well shown here, giving the ice a polished sheen.

Van der Neer was another specialist in painting these views. These contrasting Winter Landscapes show his command of light and skies in his mature works. That above dates from about 1660, and that below from about 1665-70.

Adriaen van de Velde’s Kolf Players on the Ice near Haarlem (1668) affords a closer view of a game in progress, with a koek-en-zopie tent in the distance, ready to warm the players up.

Many of the greatest paintings succeed in part because they use optical effects in their paint layer. This takes advantage of the fact that thinner layers of paint aren’t completely opaque, so allow some light to pass through them. In watercolours, transparent paints are often referred to as transparent watercolour, while those that are opaque are known as gouache or body colour. In oils, different pigments result in degrees of opacity, expressed as their covering power.

This cross-section of the paint layer from Honoré Daumier’s The Strongman (c 1865) demonstrates how many oil paintings consist of a series of layers, with several pigments present through their depth. Generally, the most opaque are applied first, and on top of those come a series of thinner transparent layers or glazes. Together these allow complex combinations of reflection and refraction of light, generating optical effects.

Layered oil painting technique is best seen in paintings that have been abandoned before completion.

The British portrait painter Sir Joshua Reynolds received a conventional training in traditional and conservative methods with roots dating back to the late 1600s. He painted in layers, starting with dead colouring, the laying in of shadows and lights, then blending in transitions of shading and colour wet-on-wet. Highlights were then brought out, and shadows glazed, to produce a series of thin layers of oil paint, and a smooth, finished paint surface.

Those early stages are shown well in this abandoned portrait of Mrs Robinson from about 1784, where most of the paint layer is sufficiently thin as to allow the texture of the canvas to show through. When used with ‘lean’ paint, this dried quickly and complies with the longstanding edict of applying ‘fat’ over ‘lean’, so that the lowest layers dry first.

Richard Parkes Bonington’s unfinished Venice: The Piazza San Marco (1827-28) shows signs that it might have been among his best. Its buildings have a golden glow from the setting sun, but those colours would undoubtedly have been enhanced by rich glazes had he lived long enough to complete it.

Occasionally the paint layer develops problems that demonstrate the effects of glazes.

In Abraham Bloemaert’s The Adoration of the Magi from 1624, the cloak of the Virgin Mary appears to use two different blues, with its lower passages painted in the duller hue of indigo, which has faded. The dullest areas are those that had the thinnest ultramarine glazes applied, much of which have now abraded away during subsequent cleaning of the painting. The unprotected indigo has therefore suffered sufficient exposure to fade, as well as losing those rich glazes.

JMW Turner’s Approach to Venice (1844) was painted with very thin transparent glazes over thick white impasto, creating a distinctive flickering effect in its highlights.

Despite the artist’s efforts to get the white impasto to dry more quickly, the glazes dried first, and cracked as they became stressed over the white that was still wet. This hasn’t been helped by the later conservation process of lining, which places an additional layer on the back of the canvas to help the support do its job.

Although a wide range of pigments have been used successfully in glazes, some were developed specifically for the purpose. From the fifteenth century onwards, verdigris pigment was mixed with natural resins for use in glazes. This produces a different pigment from regular verdigris, as the copper combines with the resin acids to form what is known as copper resinate.

A popular technique among many masters to produce an intense green was to paint an underlayer using verdigris, over which several glazing layers of copper resinate were then applied. Although generally reliable and stable, verdigris and copper resinates have a tendency to turn brown on the surface. Thankfully this affects relatively few paintings.

Tintoretto used copper resinate glazes in several of his paintings, most notably the rich, varied, and often lush vegetation in his Saint George and the Dragon from about 1555.

Studies at the National Gallery, London, have found copper resinate in three of the four paintings in Paolo Veronese’s series The Allegory of Love. In the third of these, Respect (c 1575), the pigment was found in the man’s intense green cloak, and the duller gold-brown brocade patterning on the wall behind his hand (detail below). The surface of that wall has superficial brown discoloration of the paint layer.

One of the last major uses of copper resinate is in Arnold Böcklin’s Triton and Nereid from 1874. This is reported as being painted in tempera, but copper resinate glaze appears to have been used to develop the intense green patterns on the sea monster in the foreground. This is consistent with Böcklin adhering to traditional techniques despite working in the late nineteenth century.

During that century, painting slowly in multiple layers with glazes progressively fell from favour. By the end, many oil painters had adopted techniques in which much or all of a painting was made at once, known as direct, alla prima or au premier coup.

Many great literary works are compilations of shorter tales, set in a framing story. Among the best known are One Thousand and One Nights and Sanskrit epics including Mahabharata. Among the most enduring in post-classical Europe is Boccaccio’s Decameron, whose stories have also proved popular with painters. Over the next couple of months I’m going to summarise those that have been well depicted in this new series, and show those paintings.

Despite the number of scholars who have researched Giovanni Boccaccio’s life over the last seven hundred years, much of it remains vague. He was either born in Florence, or perhaps near the village of Certaldo to the south-west of the city. His father worked for the Bardi bank, but he is thought to have been illegitimate and his mother hasn’t been identified.

We do know that he was born on 16 June 1313, and while still a child his father married a woman from a rich family, then moved to Naples. At the time, that was a major cultural centre, and as a young man Boccaccio immersed himself in that. His father expected him to become a banker, and Giovanni started work as an apprentice in his father’s bank in the city.

Boccaccio had no interest in banking though, and persuaded his father to let him study canon (ecclesiastical) law at the city’s university. When he was in his twenties, his father introduced him to the Neapolitan court and cultural circles around Robert the Wise, King of Naples. Among Boccaccio’s most important influences at this time was the scholar Paolo da Perugia, who had amassed much information about classical myths. Boccaccio became a scholar, particularly of the classical world, a writer rather than an ecclesiastical lawyer, and his future started to crystallise when he wrote his first poetry.

His early works became sources for Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde (Troilus and Cressida), and the Knight’s Tale.

Boccaccio left Naples in 1341, as tensions were growing between its king and the city-state of Florence, and returned to live mainly in Florence, although he also spent time in Ravenna. He developed great admiration for the work of Dante Alighieri, who had died in Ravenna twenty years earlier, and the great poet Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch) (1304-1374), whom he regarded as his teacher.

Giorgio Vasari is now more famous for his biographies of the important painters of the Renaissance and earlier, but was also an accomplished artist himself. His tribute to some of the greatest writers of the period is Six Tuscan Poets from 1544. From left to right, I believe these to be Dante Alighieri, Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch), Guido Cavalcanti, Giovanni Boccaccio, Cino da Pistoia, and Guittone d’Arezzo.

William Bell Scott’s undated painting of Boccaccio’s Visit to Dante’s Daughter shows the writer paying indirect homage to his illustrious predecessor. Boccaccio wrote the first biography of Dante, at about the same time he was writing the Decameron.

During the 1340s Boccaccio appears to have been developing the idea of a book in which seven characters take it in turns to tell stories. When the Black Death struck Florence in 1348, killing Boccaccio’s stepmother, this provided him with its framing story. He was already building his collection of tales to form the bulk of the book, and it’s thought he started its writing shortly after the Black Death. What is more doubtful is whether Boccaccio was living in Florence when the epidemic struck. However, as it raged through the whole of Tuscany in that year, hardly sparing a village, it’s most unlikely that he didn’t observe its effects somewhere, perhaps in Ravenna.

In 1349, Boccaccio’s father died, leaving Giovanni as the head of the household. In spite of that, he pressed on and had largely completed the first version in 1352. He revised it in 1370-71, and ever since it has been widely read, translated into all major languages, and its stories have inspired many works of art.

Egide Charles Gustave Wappers painted Boccaccio Reading from the Decameron to Queen Johanna of Naples in 1849. Queen Joanna I of Naples (1328-1382) had a reputation that was more than controversial, but Boccaccio was a supporter, and wrote a complementary account in his collection of biographies of famous women, De Mulieribus Claris (On Famous Women).

This miniature by the Master of 1482 and Follower conflates Boccaccio, the Black Death in Florence, and the framing story of the Decameron: Giovanni Boccaccio and Florentines who have Fled from the Plague was painted in about 1485 on vellum, in what must have been one of its first illustrated editions.

The Decameron opens with a description of the horrific conditions and events that overwhelmed Florence when the Black Death struck, then takes us to a group of seven young women who are sheltering in one of its great churches. They decide to leave the city rather than waiting amid its rising pile of corpses, to spend some time in the country nearby. They take some servants and three young men to accompany them there.

Once settled in an abandoned mansion, the ten decide that one of the means they will use to pass their self-imposed exile is to tell one another stories. Over the next two weeks, each tells one story on every weekday, delivering a total of one hundred, hence the title of the book.

Raffaello Sorbi show the group of ten during one of the story-telling sessions in The Decameron from 1876, with the city of Florence in the distance.

Salvatore Postiglione’s undated, ornate and almost illustrative Scene of the Narration of the Decameron is unusual for omitting one of the seven young women, but links visually to their other musical and craft activities.

Relatively few of the hundred tales in the Decameron have been committed to paint. Some are little more than brief fables, or what used to be known as shaggy dog stories. Others are more lengthy novellas with intricate twisting plots. But many have been painted from the Renaissance until well into the twentieth century, and were particularly popular with the Pre-Raphaelites.

The tale of Griselda has cropped up in folk stories across Europe before it was told as the final tale (Day 10, Story 10) of the Decameron. It was then taken up by Chaucer in the Clerk’s Tale, and by Charles Perrault. Francesco Pesellino painted it in this Scene from the Life of the Griseldis from around 1450.

One of the most significant series of paintings of the Decameron is Sandro Botticelli’s Story of Nastagio Degli Onesti, of which this is the first. Boccaccio includes this horrific tale as the eighth story on Day 5, shown by Botticelli in four panels that were commissioned as a wedding gift for a couple whose marriage was partly arranged by Lorenzo the Magnificent (Lorenzo de’ Medici), ruler of the Florentine Republic in the late fifteenth century, and Botticelli’s patron.

One of the earliest and greatest examples of Pre-Raphaelite painting is John Everett Millais’ Isabella (Lorenzo and Isabella) from 1848-49. When exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1849, it was accompanied by lines from John Keats’ poem Isabella or the Pot of Basil, referring to the story of the ill-fated love of Lisabetta for Lorenzo, the fifth told on Day 4.

Later in the nineteenth century, Marie Spartali Stillman painted The Enchanted Garden of Messer Ansaldo (1889), showing a scene from the fifth story of Day Ten. This was also painted by John William Waterhouse in 1916-17.

Perhaps the most popular of all the stories in the Decameron with visual artists has been the romance of Cymon and Iphigenia, here shown in Frederic, Lord Leighton’s luscious and languid painting from 1884.

I hope that you will join me in looking at many more wonderful paintings exploring Boccaccio’s stories from the Decameron in the coming weeks.