For all its toxicity, vermilion proved an enduring red, unlike less dangerous pigments such as crimson, with its natural origin.

People have dyed their clothes and other fabrics using vegetable colourants for as long as we have evidence. Dyes are quite unsuitable for use in durable paintings: instead of solutions of small molecules of colourant that work well applied to fabrics and paper, we much prefer to paint using pigments, in which the colourant is packaged and protected in much larger particles.

One of the early challenges in the history of art materials was the transformation of vegetable dyes into pigments, in a process generally known as laking. The need was simple: take a vegetable dye such as the crimson derived from Madder plants, and fix it into pigment particles that can be dispersed in gum solution for watercolour, or a drying oil medium.

Neither the Romans nor the Greeks appear to have solved this on any scale, but at some time between the Classical civilisations and the pre-Renaissance, someone discovered that aluminium salts will combine with the colourants in madder extract and make a pigment suitable for fine art painting, in madder lake.

Over time, many different recipes for the preparation of madder lakes were evolved. By using different species of Madder plant, adjusting the method of extracting the colourants from its root, and using different salts for the laking process, madder lakes covered a broad range of hues from pale purples through pinks to brilliant scarlet.

As a result, madder lakes were very widely used, and generally sought-after, except that they weren’t lightfast, even when protected in an oil paint film, and many faded rapidly, over months or just a few years.

Friedrich Herlin’s High Altar made for the church of St Jacob in Rothenburg in 1466 is one of the earliest paintings in which madder lake has been demonstrated. Its abundant reds seem to have stood the test of time, although because Herlin’s painting was normally stored with its wings closed, its madder lakes will have had limited exposure to bright daylight.

The two or three different shades of red used by Herlin in the panel of The Presentation of Christ in the Temple are still brilliant, although something odd appears to have happened in the blue robes of the Virgin Mary.

The Mass of Saint Hubert, the right hand shutter of the Werden Altarpiece from about 1485-90, has also retained its deep madder lake reds.

Madder red was mixed with a little lead-tin yellow for the sleeve (at least) in Altobello Melone’s Christ Carrying the Cross, dating back to about 1515.

Niklaus Manuel’s Demons Tormenting St. Anthony, on the left wing outside from the Antonius Altar of 1520, features several different reds, at least one of which contains madder lake as its main pigment. It also appears that some of those reds may have faded: Saint Anthony’s cloak looks pale and anaemic, for example.

Jan Vermeer’s Christ in the House of Martha and Mary from about 1654-56 is a good example of the use of madder lake by one of the Dutch Masters.

When industrial chemistry started to look for improved dyes and pigments in the nineteenth century, attention turned to the humble Madder, in an attempt to isolate the most lightfast components of its root extract, then to synthesise them on an industrial scale.

The main colourant, alizarin, was isolated in impure form in 1826, following which rose-red alizarin lakes became available. The other major colourant, purpurin, was more of a mystery, as little was found in fresh root extract, but it was generated during manufacture and storage; its purification took a few decades longer to achieve.

I suspect that the delicate reds in Henri Fantin-Latour’s Still Life with Chrysanthemums (1862) owe much of their colour to partially-purified alizarin crimson derived from Madder root.

Alizarin was first synthesised in about 1869, became available as a pigment in its own right from 1891, and was considered to be both more consistent in its colour and more lightfast. However, its lightfastness didn’t prove as good as had been hoped, and since the late twentieth century the fading of alizarin crimson has been used in lightfastness testing to demonstrate that sufficient light exposure has occurred. It has effectively become the benchmark for non-lightfastness.

Modern professional watercolour ranges, here those from QoR, often include a paint designated as Permanent Alizarin Crimson, which doesn’t contain alizarin or any other derivative of the Madder plant.

A few ranges, including Winsor & Newton Artists’ Watercolour Sticks, do still offer genuine alizarin crimson (PR83). Unless you are content for that colour to fade on exposure to light, you should avoid using it in any significant work.

This is true even in oil paints, where ranges such as Williamsburg’s offer a Permanent Crimson using a more lightfast pigment.

It’s a great pity that the crimson used by Vermeer and extensively by JMW Turner has such fugitive colour. At least we now have several excellent alternatives.

Reference

Helmut Schweppe and John Winter (1997) Artists’ Pigments, vol 3, ed Elisabeth West Fitzhugh, Archetype. ISBN 978 1 904982 76 0.

As I approach the end of this series looking at paintings of interiors, I reach the rooms well out of sight, those that weren’t talked about in polite company. They often used to be known as the scullery, and now as utility rooms. These are where the dull maintenance tasks took place, where the washing was done by maids, the vegetables prepared for the kitchen, and so on. Although never popular in paintings, they have also brought us one of the masterpieces in the European canon.

Portraits of women washing linen first became popular in Dutch and Flemish ‘cabinet’ paintings, such as Gabriël Metsu’s Washerwoman (c 1650), along with other scenes of household and similar activities. This painting appears authentic and almost socially realist: the young woman appears to be a servant, dressed in her working clothes, with only her forearms bare, and her head covered. She’s in the dark and dingy lower levels of the house, and hanging up by her tub is a large earthenware vessel used to draw water. She looks tired, her eyes staring blankly at the viewer.

It took Jan Vermeer to transform a maid at work in a scullery into a masterpiece, in his Milkmaid from about 1658-1661.

A maid is pouring milk from a jug, beside a tabletop with bread. In the left foreground the bread and pots rest on a folded Dutch octagonal table, covered with a mid-blue cloth. A wicker basket of bread is nearest the viewer, broken and smaller pieces of different types of bread behind and towards the woman, in the centre. Behind the bread is a dark blue studded mug with pewter lid, and just in front of the woman a brown earthenware ‘Dutch oven’ pot into which she is pouring milk.

At the left edge is a plain leaded window casting daylight onto the scene. One of its panes is broken, leaving a small hole. Hanging high on the wall on the left are a wickerwork bread basket and a shiny brass pail. The wall behind is white and bare apart from a couple of nails embedded towards its top, and several small holes where other nails once were. At its foot, at the bottom right, five Delft tiles run along the base. In front of those is a traditional foot-warmer, consisting of a metal coal holder inside a wooden case. The floor is dull red, with scattered detritus on it.

Although now much better-known for his still lifes, Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin’s Laundress (c 1735) is one of his many fine genre paintings. This shows a more humorous view of life ‘below stairs’ in a contemporary household. A woman has her voluminous sleeves rolled up and her head well-covered as she launders in a large wooden tub. She looks off to the left of the painting, with a wry smile on her lips.

In front of her, a small child in tatty clothing is blowing a large bubble from a straw, perhaps using some of the soapy water from the washing tub. At the right is one of the cats, looking as inscrutable as ever. Through a partly open door, a maid is seen hanging clean washing up on an indoor line.

Jean-Baptiste Greuze’s Laundress (1761) is in the dilapidated servants’ area, probably in a cellar, where this provocative and flirtaceous young maid is washing the household linen.

The archetype of the maid who seems to have spent all her time in the scullery is Cinderella, in the popular European folk tale.

Edward Burne-Jones’ Cinderella from 1863 shows her reverted to her plain clothes after the ball, but still wearing one glass slipper on her left foot. She is seen in a scullery with a dull, patched, and grubby working dress and apron. Behind her is a densely packed display of blue crockery in the upper section of a large dresser.

John Everett Millais’ version is very different. A much younger girl, Cinderella is sat in her working dress, clutching a broomstick with her left hand, and with a peacock feather in her right. She also has a wistful expression, staring into the distance almost in the direction of the viewer. The only other cue to the narrative is a mouse, seen at the bottom left. She wears a small red skull-cap that could be an odd part of her ball outfit, but her feet are bare, and there is no sign of any glass slipper.

Early in his career, Edgar Degas started painting a series of laundresses toiling indoors. Woman Ironing (c 1869) shows one of the army of women engaged or enslaved in this occupation in Paris at the time. She is young yet stands like an automaton, staring emotionlessly at the viewer. Her right hand moves an iron (not one of today’s convenient electrically-heated models) over an expanse of white linen in front of her. Her left arm hangs limply at her side, and her eyes are puffy from lack of sleep. The room is full of her work, which threatens to engulf her.

Degas’ less gloomy painting of a Woman Ironing (c 1876-87) maintains the impression of this being protracted, backbreaking work, only slightly relieved by the colourful garments hanging around the laundress as she starches and presses white shirts.

As one of the primary colours, yellow is a vital paint for artists. For many centuries there weren’t any particularly good greens that were also enduring, so many oil and watercolour paintings have relied on the mixture of blue and yellow to generate most of their greens. This weekend I show and tell the stories of three of the yellow pigments that have featured in well-known paintings. Today’s is about one pigment that went missing from the palette for two hundred years, and tomorrow I’ll consider two other yellows with unusual histories.

For much of that period many of the pigments used in artists’ paints were closely guarded secrets. Their precise manner of preparation, even the source of their ingredients, were considered part of the craft of paint-making, whether performed by a supplier or in the artist’s workshop. On at least one occasion, this led to the loss of a pigment from the palette: Lead-Tin Yellow, widely used in many of the greatest works of art prior to 1750, vanished until its rediscovery in 1940.

Like several other pigments, Lead-Tin Yellow seems to have originated in glassmaking, and there’s some evidence of its use as a pigment in glass made as early as about 400 CE. Its earliest use in paintings probably dates back to Giotto in about 1300, following which it became extremely popular.

My earliest example is this painting in egg tempera attributed to Jacopo di Cione: Noli me tangere from around 1368-70. Examination of the brilliant yellow lining to Christ’s robe has shown that its pigment is Lead-Tin Yellow of type II. That is a variant consisting of a lead-tin oxide with free tin and silicon that’s more strongly associated with glass-making, and prepared slightly differently from the ‘purer’ type I.

Both types of Lead-Tin Yellow have proved robust and stable pigments in a range of different binders, including egg tempera and oils.

The centre panel of Rogier van der Weyden’s St Columba Altarpiece, showing the Adoration of the Magi, from about 1455, has been found to contain Lead-Tin Yellow in the rich yellow sleeve of the king in the centre. This is shown better in the detail below.

By about 1450, Lead-Tin Yellow type I was increasingly being used in paint. For example, the infant Christ’s lemon yellow dress in Ambrogio Bergognone’s The Virgin and Child with Saint Catherine of Alexandria and Saint Catherine of Siena (c 1490) has been found to contain this ‘purer’ type.

Another very similar painting by Bergognone, his The Virgin and Child from 1488-90, has not, as far as I can tell, been examined to test for the use of Lead-Tin Yellow, but I strongly suspect the infant Christ’s dress here contains the pigment too. This is shown particularly well in the detail below.

Although believed to be a stable colour, one of the more surprising examples of the use of Lead-Tin Yellow is in one version of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Virgin with the Infant Saint John the Baptist adoring the Christ Child accompanied by an Angel, better-known as The Virgin of the Rocks. The panel from the S. Francesco Altarpiece of Milan, painted between 1491-1508 and now in the National Gallery in London, is shown here.

The light brown lining of the Virgin’s blue cloak, shown in the detail below, contains Lead-Tin Yellow type I. The version in the Louvre, in which that lining is a bright yellow, doesn’t appear to have been reported on.

Yellow is a prominent colour in the paintings in Paolo Veronese’s series The Allegory of Love. In this the third, Respect from about 1575, Lead-Tin Yellow type II has been found in the primrose yellow impasto on the man’s tunic.

Veronese used type I in the first of the series, and type II in the third and fourth, suggesting that he used different sources of supply for his pigments over this period. The two types appear visually indistinguishable, and don’t seem to handle differently in oil paint.

Several of Peter Paul Rubens’ paintings, including his Hippopotamus and Crocodile Hunt from about 1615, have been found to contain Lead-Tin Yellow, although I don’t know which type he used.

Another fine example of the extensive use of Lead-Tin Yellow, here of type I, is in Rembrandt’s Belshazzar’s Feast (c 1635-38). Many of Rembrandt’s paintings have been found to contain the pigment, but here it has been applied in thick impasto to model the highlights on Belshazzar’s cloak.

Rembrandt here used a double ground, over which he applied earth pigments before applying the uppermost layers of lighter colours, including Lead-Tin Yellow, to model the detail. These are shown in the detail below.

Jan Vermeer is another of the Old Masters whose paintings often contain Lead-Tin Yellow. In The Milkmaid (c 1660), for example, it accounts for much of the pale yellow of the woman’s bodice.

What happened next is rather strange. During the first half of the eighteenth century, Lead-Tin Yellow declined markedly in popularity, and by 1750 it appears to have been replaced by other, sometimes less stable, pigments, including Naples Yellow (highly toxic lead antimonate). Once replaced, the recipes for its manufacture appear to have been lost, and its use was forgotten.

During the eighteenth century, there were also changes in the supply of pigments and paints to artists, and by the nineteenth century most were sourced from specialist colourmen, who appear not to have known about Lead-Tin Yellow as a pigment. By the time that commercial manufacture of oil and other paints became widespread in the late nineteenth century, the pigment had been long forgotten. This was aided by uncertainty over its traditional name, which led to confusion with the pigment Massicot (lead oxide or Lead Yellow).

It was Richard Jacobi, working at the Doerner Institute in Munich in 1940, who stumbled across the pigment when analysing yellow paints in Old Master paintings. He reported his radical findings in 1941, and from the late 1940s and 1950s onwards paint analyses looking for it have been performed quite widely, and have found its extensive use in works between 1300 and 1750. Since then it has even been re-introduced in some commercial paint ranges.

Reference

Hermann Kühn (1993) Artists’ Pigments, vol 2, ed Ashok Roy, Archetype. ISBN 978 1 904982 75 3.