John Glover (1767 – 1849)

His best-known work was produced in Lutruwita, which offered a more accurate perspective on various different flora and fauna than previously recorded. His style is illustrative, almost cartoonish, and his choice of where to include detail is telling. ‘Natives on the Ouse River: Van Diemen’s Land’ is one of his best-known paintings, and has been criticised as portraying an ‘Antipodean arcadia’, a paradise-like presentation of a land that neglects the devastation caused by European colonisation. Notably, the painting was completed after the Black War which would have still been raging when Glover arrived in Australia. The Black War was a period of unspeakable violence between British colonists and Aboriginal Tasmanians from the mid-1820s. During this genocide, the Aboriginal population was decimated: the original population of several thousand Aboriginal Tasmanians was reduced to just 46 people by 1847.

Glover’s choice to depict around 23 Aboriginal people in his painting is an uncomfortable decision. Hideously, this would have represented a significant proportion of the population at this time. The figures are lacking in any physical, individual, and cultural detail, and are depicted as stick figures and silhouettes, a great contrast to the painstakingly observed forms of trees, leaves, and topography. This theme is echoed in another painting, ‘Mount Wellington and Hobart town from Kangaroo Point‘. Here, around 33 Aboriginal people are brought to the foreground, positioned as features of the natural landscape rather than as sitters. This is reflected in the title, which neglects to mention the presence of the group, and chooses to focus on the painting as a landscape of the nearby town and mountain.

Glover’s choice to paint ‘landscapes of people’ is typical of the colonial gaze. Here, Indigenous human beings are included as landscape features, rather than as subjects in themselves, typifying the genocidal views of European colonists. Glover’s paintings are not landscapes: they are weapons used to obliterate the presence and agency of Aboriginal populations, and to omit the lens of oppression and genocide is a misunderstanding of the very world that he was capturing.

Thomas Daniell (1749 – 1840) and William Daniell (1769–1837)

As British colonialism spread across the globe, so too did artists seeking to capture the form of far-off lands. Uncle and nephew partnership, Thomas and William Daniell, travelled around India from 1786 to 1793 with the intention of capturing the landscape and architecture of the subcontinent for viewers in Britain (the word ‘capturing’ is not accidental – like the work of Hodges and Glover, the deeply colonial perspective imprisoned the landscape as a subject of the colonial gaze).

Upon their return from India, the Daniells set about turning their sketches and observations into a series of aquatints called ‘Oriental Scenery’, which saw huge commercial success. Overall, the paintings were heralded as accurate and ‘representative’ of India. However, we must again turn to the wider context of India during that period, to understand the bucolic, selective, and amnesic serenity of the landscapes.

Despite not becoming a formal British colony until 1857, the British had been establishing increasing control through the East India Company. The East India Company was not just a trading body – it was supported by its very own private army, which exploited local resources and led to increased social and political control.

Throughout the eighteenth century, the Company had fought more than ten individual wars as part of the power struggle between Indian rulers and British forces. Although war was not raging when the Daniells arrived in 1786, they would have almost certainly witnessed the carnage caused by the First and Second Anglo-Mysore Wars; what’s more, they were actually travelling in Mysore as the Third Anglo-Mysore War was coming to an end.

Nevertheless, their landscapes of Mysore and beyond give no indication of a country that had been fighting, almost continually since 1686, to fend off the ever-encroaching British presence. ‘Ousoor, in the Mysore’, 1792, shows the Company’s Indian soldiers (known as Sepoys) sporting the distinctive red jackets of the British Army, resting by a temple. Only months earlier, this had been the setting of some of the most violent conflicts of the Third Anglo-Mysore War. Some plates, like ‘Shiva Temple, Elephanta Island’ show partially ruined temples, reflecting perhaps the ruins of an ancient empire, foreshadowing the foundations of what was to become the jewel in the crown of the British empire.

The colonial gaze in the work of Thomas and William Daniell can be reduced to the omission of conflict. The colonial gaze portrays peaceful landscapes in places where there would have been death and destruction. It makes local people into passive bystanders within a landscape, used as an artistic means of contextualising the scenery. People are not portrayed as resistant, and they are given no ownership of their land. Here, the colonial gaze is a selective and reductive use of propaganda.

In the beginning, it was beautiful

Sculpture is an ancient tradition that has been used for millennia as a way of pushing the artistic boundaries of a solid material. Whether it’s celebrating an individual’s achievements or philanthropy, or crafting an expression of an abstract form, sculpture has always been first and foremost, an art form.

And it is an art form that has grown from ancient and humble beginnings. Thousands of years ago we began using carving and modelling as a way of creating a likeness of deities in wood or clay. Across the globe, tools and techniques slowly evolved to allow the exploration of harder materials, allowing artisans to chisel into stone and marble. We can look to the sculptures of ancient empires in Greece and Rome, who brought new artistry to these materials. Fast forward to the Renaissance, and Italian masters had elevated sculpture to entirely new levels. Think of the water-like fabric of Giuseppe Sanmartino’s Veiled Christ. Or the outstanding craftsmanship of Bernini’s Rape of Proserpina that makes you question how the sensuality and passion of what you’re seeing could possibly be cold, hard marble. All over the world, artists were challenging the limitations of materials to innovate new ways of capturing form in the third dimension.

Admittedly, sculpture is not everyone’s bag. Artful fragments of white marble can get a little overwhelming in classical museums, and not many people can tell a Bernini from a Michelangelo. But there’s been a few news articles recently which have made me stop and wonder: what happened to sculpture? 

Missing the goal

I’ll start off with a bit of old news: Emmanuele Santos’s cringe worthy attempt at capturing world famous footballer, Cristiano Ronaldo. I actually feel really bad for Santos, who was a fervent defender of his sculpture and seemed genuinely really proud of it. Jose Antonio Navarro Arteaga gave it another go, and the likeness of the second version was praised. But if all we wanted from sculpture was likeness, then why not just take a photo? 

A right royal mess

A little earlier this year, Antrim Castle Gardens in Northern Ireland unveiled a new sculpture by Anto Brennan of Queen Elizabeth II. To be fair, headlines did acknowledge the fact that it looks absolutely nothing like her. But likeness aside (and I really do believe there is more to a good sculpture than just likeness), the bronze is clumsy, clunky, and dull. There is no finesse to the craftsmanship, and while I don’t claim that I could do any better, I point you back to the standard of sculpture we were dealing with 600 years ago. And don’t forget, this is the late Queen of England, from a family who has seldom been short on excellent sculptors to capture their likeness (whether we like it or not). 

Sculpture vs. Statue

I think what it comes down to in the end is statue vs. sculpture. Towns and cities across the world showcase historic sculptures, commissioned from renowned artists, and placed on pedestals (even when they’d be better off at the bottom of the Bristol harbour), but the standard of work being produced today is a world away. The difference is: sculptures are artworks, considered for their form, composition, and iconography; their choice of material, the patina, the positioning, and everything else that requires years of study, preparation, and meticulous planning. Whereas the public statues we see today are just that; lifeless, 3D renderings of an approximate likeness, made for nothing more than to to tick a council-funded box.

I think overall it likely comes down to budget, too. It’s a little harsh to say that there are no contemporary public statues worthy of our great sculpting past, because there definitely are. But it’s usually the bad ones that make the headlines. And if an artwork is being commissioned by a cash-strapped local council, it is likely to cut a few corners artistically, leaving the very public it was created for wondering: what happened to sculpture?

Who was Cardew?

Michael Ambrose Cardew was a British studio potter born in 1901. Cardew is well-known for being the first apprentice potter at the Bernard Leach Pottery in Cornwall, where he worked in the seventeenth-century English slipware tradition. Following the onset of the Second World War, hand-made ceramics became irrelevant and unnecessary, prompting Cardew to accept a salaried role in the Colonial Service as a ceramist at the elite Achimota School in Ghana.

It is at this point where we must examine the motives for Cardew’s journey to Africa: Ghanaian pottery was a well-established traditional craft. The Achimota school had not requested a studio potter, but had been assigned one by the British Colonial Service. It appears that Cardew’s initial intentions for travelling to Afrcia was not for the benefit of African pottery, but for the benefit of the Cardew and the Colonial Service.

Eventually, the school’s pottery department turned to industrial-style manufacture to provide pottery for British West Africa. Principally serving the army and the rubber trade, the new pottery in Alajo was ultimately unsuccessful – it failed to become profitable, apprentices rebelled, and the kilns were failing. The Alajo pottery eventually closed in 1945, so Cardew relocated to Vume on the southern Ghanaian coast, where he ran another unsuccessful pottery. He returned to England in 1948.

Keen to return to Africa, Cardew was offered the position of Pottery Officer in Abuja, Northern Nigeria, now known as Suleja. His time at the Abuja Pottery Training Centre, working alongside British and Nigerian potters, will be the focus of this blog post.

Not dissimilar to his time spent in Ghana, Cardew was appointed by a colonial office to bring British studio pottery techniques to West African communities.

The Abuja Pottery Training Centre

The traditional local pottery in Abuja was known as Gwari pottery. This type of ceramic centred around domestic and functional pots, made by coiling, pinching, and beating clay. They were distinctively decorated with geometric patterns and motifs inspired by the natural world, including lizards, birds, crocodiles, and insects.

With an admiration for the robust and practical Gwari vessels, Cardew’s intention was to combine British studio pottery techniques, such as glazing and wheel throwing, with the Gwari forms and decorative traditions. Cardew carried the master-apprentice model to Africa based on his belief “that Africans should not make the ‘blind leap’ from ‘primitive’ to twentieth-century life and should, accordingly, undergo some kind of apprenticeship, reproducing the various stages of European development” (1).

Despite the fact that existing Gwari pottery techniques were complex and long-established, Cardew’s purpose in Nigeria was to teach people new skills, whether they needed them or not. He introduced modern tableware to the Abuja Pottery in the form of glazed earthenware, with a new sgraffito technique that involved sketching Gwari designs into the slip; Cardew felt that this would satisfy the need to introduce new techniques, whilst appealing to the “primitive” (as described by Cardew himself) tastes of the local people. For this, he needed to import a different type of clay that was able to withstand the intense firing temperatures. He also needed to import the glazes themselves.

Ladi Kwali

Ladi Kwali was born in 1925 in the Gwari region of Nigeria. Pottery was traditionally considered a women’s craft, and Kwali learned to coil pots as a child. She later became a master potter, and one of the few women to join the Abuja Pottery Training Centre. The fact that Cardew’s pottery upheld a clear gender divide is something that is often overlooked in scholarship. As a white male, Cardew was able to turn a traditionally female craft into an art form, demonstrating how colonialism and patriarchy are mutually upholding. 

Having mastered Western techniques under Cardew’s tutelage, such as the wheel, he encouraged Kwali to combine her knowledge of traditional Gwari methods with Western techniques including glazing and kiln firing. This resulted in a fusion of traditional Nigerian ceramics and Western studio pottery. As well as pots, she also made bowls, mugs, and dishes, decorated by dipping the vessels in red or white slip and then scratching the designs into the slip using a porcupine quill. 

Under Cardew’s influence, Abuja ceramics were transformed into art forms, and retailed to tourists and foreigners for high prices; Kwali’s individual pots have sold for over £8,000 each. Ultimately, the pottery was started by an Englishman, invited by a colonial government, and bought by Europeans. Cardew himself noted the downside of Kwali’s high-fired, glazed stoneware water pots: “it is arguable that there was something slightly false in the idea, seeing that they were too heavy and too expensive to be used as water pots or for any purpose other than decoration” (2).

Nevertheless, Kwali’s enormous skill as a potter should not be overlooked – although Cardew’s influence introduced Kwali to the Western art market, she was a talented and successful potter in her own right, and had been long before Cardew set up the Abuja Pottery.

Cardew and the Colonial Problem

The Abuja Pottery Training Centre can be considered Michael Cardew’s African success. After his failings in Ghana, the Abuja pottery produced highly saleable ceramics that gained international recognition and went on to become collectors’ pieces. However, we must consider Cardew’s time in Africa in its inextricably colonial context.

Cardew’s fusion of traditional Nigerian and Western techniques ultimately altered the function of the pottery. To Cardew, success was measured by financial gain and global recognition, whereas the success of Gwari pottery was measured by its utilitarian value. Kwali altered the design of the traditional pots to suit collectors and tourists who were in search of a something beautiful – Cardew’s pot provided not only a fusion of techniques, but a fusion of cultures into something that was comfortably Western, with a hint of ‘African’ – there is a reason traditional Gwari pottery was never as popular with foreign tourists as Cardew’s hybrids.

Ultimately, Kwali modified her designs to suit the Western palette. Her once functional water pots became unsuitable for local use: the thick glazes made them too heavy to carry once filled, “and prohibited the evaporative cooling process for effective use as water coolers in the village” (3).Cardew’s interference in Gwari pottery can be considered in one of two ways:

1. He turned Nigerian pottery into an internationally-desirable art form, bringing revenue and tourism to the Gwari region, and catapulting Kwali into the awareness of the Western ceramics scene.

2. Cardew’s fusion of Western studio pottery and traditional Gwari techniques was a self-serving vanity mission to prove that Cardew could successfully educate Nigerian people in the art of British ceramics. It was successful because it provided buyers with a product that was acceptably African, without being too African. It also worked as a way to encourage local potters to adapt and build on their existing skills. Ultimately, the Abuja training centre was a cultural imposition because it was produced for a colonial agenda.

It may seem cynical to condemn Cardew’s intentions through a contemporary lens; that is to say, holding him to the ethical standards of today which were not the same in the 1940s and 50s. However, it is necessary to consider his legacy and the way in which the Abuja Pottery is remembered. His influence on Kwali’s career is undeniable, but it important to acknowledge that she was the driving force behind her artistic production – Cardew simply introduced new techniques that would appeal to new audiences. Nonetheless, his capitalist approach came at the cost of traditional Abuja pottery, whose function and purpose was lost in the transition from utilitariansim to art.

Interestingly, the legacy of the Abuja pottery has lived on, leaving Cardew’s name behind; today in Nigeria, Ladi Kwali is a household figure, and Michael Cardew is not.

(1) (‘The Breath of Reality’: Michael Cardew and the Development of Studio Pottery in the 1930s and 1940s’, Tanya Harrod, Journal of Design History, 1989, 2:2/3 (1989)

(2) Michael Cardew, ‘Ladi Kwali: The Potter from England Writes on the Potter from Africa’. Craft Horizons (32): 34–37, (April 1972)

(3) African Voices, (2004) “Ladi Kwali, An African Potter‟

Glasgow-based artist Ross Muir uses his paintings to recreate traditional and iconic artworks with a contemporary twist. Born in 1981, Ross Muir grew up in Alexandria in the Vale of Leven, Scotland before moving to Glasgow in 2009; he was 30 when he started painting. His practice evolved from a sort of escapism, and his technical ability went from strength to strength. From Adidas tracksuits to witty slogans, Muir coaxes art history into the modern world, making paintings more relatable (and more fun) for viewers today. He has reimagined masterpieces by the likes of van Gogh, Mattise, and Picasso, but it was his reinterpretation of Sir Henry Raeburn’s ‘Skating Minister’ that caught my eye. 

‘The Skating Minister’ is the affectionate nickname for ‘The Reverend Robert Walker Skating on Duddingston Loch’, painted by Raeburn* in the 1790s. The painting was never intended to be a finished work for public display – we know this because the subject and composition are so unusual for late eighteenth century portraiture. It was likely a study completed as an exercise, or just for fun. 

Surprisingly, it took 200 years for the painting to reach the spotlight. It was included in the National Portrait Gallery’s 1997 exhibition of Raeburn’s work and featured on the exhibition advertisements all over London. The playful subject, appealing colours, and unusual composition quickly won the nation’s hearts, and the artwork has been a symbol of Scottish painting ever since. 

*A debate surfaced recently that asserted the painting was actually by a French artist, Henri-Pierre Danloux.

But, as Ross Muir noticed, famous paintings from art history don’t speak to everyone. Even as an artist, he would see traditional, renowned, and celebrated paintings in museums and galleries, but could never really engage with them. They lacked relevance to his own life, and he struggled to bridge the gap between art history and the world we live in. He has likened his experience to kids nowadays watching black and white movies – they just don’t connect. 

Muir decided to reinterpret the Skating Minister for the modern age. He even renamed it after Avril Lavigne’s 2000s classic, ‘Skater Boi’. He made just enough witty tweaks – a smoking cigarette firm between the minister’s lips, white wired earphones (yes, like the ones you used to get before AirPods were a thing), and Adidas branding on the skates that looks surprisingly eighteenth-century, to bring the painting into the context of today (or, at least the 2010s). It is a wonderfully warm and witty way to encourage new audiences (and younger people in particular) to engage with art history. Muir’s technical ability doesn’t quite rival Raeburn, but that is not the point of the artwork. The landscape, the colours, the minister’s facial features – although these blur together slightly, perhaps frustrating the technique of one of Soctland’s greats, the work has its intended effect. It is not a work to be taken too seriously or overanalysed. It’s a bit of fun, and it breaks down the barriers that can make art seem dry and fusty. I think it’s brilliant. 

You can hear Muir discussing his inspiration for the painting on the National Gallery of Scotland’s free audio tour on Smartify.

An Introduction to Chauray

Jean-Claude Chauray, also known as J.C. Chauray (1934 – 1996), was a little-known French artist active through the mid-twentieth century. He grew up in Mauzé-sur-le-Mignon, a tiny hamlet in the western Deux-Sèvres department of France, a stone’s throw from La Rochelle. His childhood, aligned with the outbreak of World War Two, was defined by turbulence, and sadly little is known about his artistic training. Nevertheless, he pursued a fascination with Dutch-inspired still life paintings with an accuracy and luminosity that the masters of the Golden Age could only dream of.

Luminous oranges, golden cherries, and succulent apricots, set against dark backdrops of glistening pewter and iridescent glassware. Despite their captivating opulence, Chauray’s indulgent still lifes are somewhat obscure. He was simply a master of the wrong century; his works were perhaps unappealing to a mid-twentieth century art market that was otherwise occupied by garish Pop Art, playful Neo-Dada, and provocative Minimalism. It was a world away from Chauray’s 17th Century-inspired hyperrealism. 

An Appropriation in Porcelain

Not unlike the capitalist appropriation of nameless great artists, Chauray’s work was also reformulated for the everyday consumer. Just two years before the artist’s death, the French manufacturer of Limoges porcelain, Bernardaud, used Chauray’s paintings on a collection of tableware, primarily dessert bowls and decorative plates. Taken out of its artistic context, Chauray’s work appropriated onto porcelain looks twee and dated. Rather than fit to hang on the walls of the world’s finest galleries, his flaming red and orange fruits have been warped into tableware, destined to become outdated and obscured. It is a tragedy that his work, once exhibited across the globe in Paris, New York, and Japan, retains its most prominent public appearance through Bernadaud’s porcelain. 

Although it proved to be a somewhat unpopular genre through Chauray’s lifetime, he wasn’t alone in his revival of traditional still life painting. One of his close forebears, Daisy Linda Ward (1883–1937) also rendered immaculate still lifes, combining a razor-sharp composition of luxurious fruits with silverware and decorative faience tableware, and a traditional chiaroscuro colour palette ensuring the clarity of light and colour.

Exotic Still Lifes & Colonial Power

Although characterised by painting, the Dutch Golden Age can be more broadly surmised by wealth. This is evident in the extravagant still life paintings which featured exotic fruits, luxurious fabrics, and opulent tableware that so inspired Chauray. So what brought about this influx of wealth? Like many European countries in the seventeenth century, the Dutch capitalised on colonial trading, extortion, and land colonisation. In particular, the Dutch East India Company (responsible for the colonisation of Indonesia and enslavement of Indonesian people), which was set up in 1602, prospered until the end of the eighteenth century. 

The representation of wealth in Dutch paintings can be directly linked to foreign goods extracted from colonial endeavours, which lifted the region from its dour past defined by poverty and the humble minimalism of protestantism. 

An Unrivalled Mastery 

The Dutch had been early masters of oil paint, capturing light and lustre with unrivalled radiance, echoing the earlier proficiency of greats like Jan van Eyck. This seventeenth century still life of the Italian School pictured below makes for an illuminating comparison with the Dutch tradition. It is clear from this example how Italian techniques lacked the full-bodied vibrancy of Dutch still lifes from the same period. The colours are dull, the forms less rounded, and even the composition leaves something to be desired when compared to the likes of Christiaen van Dielaert, Pieter de Ring, and Clara Peeters.

The magnificent Dutch Golden Age has inspired countless artists throughout the centuries; some abstracting their techniques and compositions, some elevating their hyperrealism to the point of perfection. Jean-Claude Chauray is one of those artists who refined the tradition into nothing short of mastery. Despite the corruption of his work into Limoges porcelain, his paintings live on in a category of their own: a modern master of the Dutch Golden Age. 

*This blog post, like all of the content on this website, is representative of my own personal views and not those of my employers*

I was thrilled when I found out that the ‘Legacies of Empire’ exhibition at Edinburgh’s National War Museum had been extended. Enormous hype and clever PR had promised a ground-breaking exhibition that challenged the dark colonial histories of some of Scotland’s extensive museum collections, and for me, it was an absolute must-see.

Surprisingly, ‘Legacies of Empire’ was a first in Scotland. The glaring history of violent imperialism that is entwined in every fibre of Scottish heritage, and nowhere more so than in the nation’s world-class collections, had never been directly addressed in a Scottish exhibition before. And where better to start the conversation than the National War Museum in Edinburgh Castle, an impressive historic display of Scotland’s military history situated in one of the country’s most significant tourist attractions. Needless to say, I was pretty excited.

Meandering on to the next room, I was confronted by three more themes: ‘collectors’, ‘relics, mementos and memorials’, and ‘allies, gifts and trades’. This section focussed more on the ‘legitimate’ acquisitions of Britons in empire through the means of trading and purchasing, and collecting discarded objects from battlefields as personal mementos with very little immediate value.

One interesting object was a leopard skin cape that was apparently given to the British Indian Army officer Robert Napier (also known as the 1st Baron Napier of Magdala) during the Abyssinia Expedition in 1868. The expedition was a rescue mission to relieve missionaries and British diplomats who had been taken hostage by Emperor Tewodros II of Ethiopia, presumably because he opposed the ethically questionable intentions of foreign Protestant missionaries.

The label tells two conflicting stories: one, that the cape was supposedly gifted by Dejazmatch Kassa Abba Bezbez to Napier as a symbol of good diplomatic relations as Napier crossed Kassa’s territory to locate Tewodros II. And two, that it was looted from Tewodros II’s palace during the siege of Maqdala, and was gifted by the British government to Napier following a successful mission. I think I know which story is more likely to be true, and I was left wondering why National Museums Scotland (NMS) felt it was necessary to perpetuate both as equally likely to be true.

This room made an important contribution to portraying the whole story of colonial collections – there were undoubtedly legitimate dealings, and the explanation of taking low-value battlefield mementos for memorial purposes was an interesting addition. Keen to see how the exhibition would address the actual, modern legacies of empire (that is to say, the emotional impact on the modern-day viewer of these objects, what can be done about half-baked interpretations of colonial collections, and the ever-pressing question of repatriation), I pressed on. Following the lead of the exhibition space, I turned the corner only to find… that the exhibition was over. That was it. The blockbuster, narrative-challenging, perspective-flipping exhibition that promised a candid look at Scotland’s colonial history… was two small rooms, a handful of semi-interpreted objects, and some painfully unchallenging text panels.

I circled the exhibition again, just to make sure I wasn’t missing a discreet passageway or subtle door. I wasn’t. Trying to understand the position of NMS, I can see that this exhibition is a first step in confronting Britain’s role in empire and its material legacy. Positioned in a war museum, it takes a gentle, unchallenging, and even neutral stance when addressing these powerful topics, demonstrating the museum’s trepidation: the fear of upsetting visitors, lenders, and trustees with an overly ‘woke’ exhibition appeared to be off the cards. God forbid a museum might rattle the cage and question the glory of Britain with too much fervour. It’s 2022. Museums should be inherently woke spaces, working tirelessly to make amends (which isn’t really possible but no one ever seems to have tried) for the historic rape of colonised countries.

Exhibitions like ‘Legacies of Empire’ make a start, and I accept and appreciate that they are trying. But there is a very real risk that weak and cowardly analyses of this legacy are further damaging an already fractured process. I couldn’t help feeling disappointed by this exhibition, but I am encouraged that NMS at least tried. ‘Legacies of Empire’ is a very small step in the long journey towards addressing Britain’s violent colonial history, and I commend them for making a start. I just wish it was better.

The ‘Arnolfini Portrait’ by Jan van Eyck not exactly the kind of painting you’d hang on your wall at home… frankly, it’s creepy. But this makes it even more intriguing! There is so much to learn about this work, and once you know, you’ll enjoy it so much more.

The first interesting point about this painting is the date. If you know a little bit about the Renaissance, you’ll know that 1434 was very early in this period, and van Eyck painted this masterpiece even before Botticelli was born! The painting is incredibly detailed, and the paint quality still has a rich lustre – this is because this is one of the first, and best examples, of oil painting, and the colour and vibrancy of the paint often lasts in pristine condition for hundreds of years.

Giorgio Vasari (if you don’t know who he is, don’t worry; once you start learning about the Renaissance, you won’t be able to get rid of him) upheld Jan van Eyck as the inventor of oil paint, but it is more likely that he just pioneered the use of the medium.

However, there are certain flaws in this argument. In the fifteenth century, typical betrothal ceremonies would not have depicted the bride, but instead, just the men of the family. In the case of a wedding portrait, the bride’s hair would have traditionally been worn down to symbolise virginity. This style can be seen in paintings such as van Eyck’s ‘Virgin of Canon van der Paele’, 1436.

Additionally, the room in which the ‘ceremony’ takes place would have been an unusual choice for members of the Arnolfini family. The room is not a nuptial chamber or a bedroom, as can be seen from the lack of a fireplace, and so would hint towards this being a clandestine marriage, otherwise known as a shotgun wedding. The church would have condemned this, and although legal, a couple of such high social status wouldn’t have needed to perform a ceremony of this kind. So, it’s unlikely that this painting shows a wedding… so what is it?

This would make it a posthumous representation which captured Arnolfini in life, standing with his deceased wife… creepy. It was common for van Eyck to paint women with rounded abdomens to emphasise fertility, but in this case it’s likely that Mrs Arnolfini actually was pregnant and died during childbirth. We know this because the artist has left subtle clues all over the painting.

One of these clues is the symbolism of the dog, which can be found in the bottom centre of the composition. Dogs were a symbol which was often see on women’s tombs. These tombs would have included a full-length portrait of the woman with a dog at her feet. This link to imagery on a tomb effigy strongly enhances the idea that Costanza is deceased in the painting. Van Eyck may have meant for the dog to symbolise her being accompanied into the afterlife, much like angels in religious imagery.

The reflectograms show that there was no under-drawing of the chandelier or the dog, two areas of the painting which seem to have links to the theme of death. Therefore, it is likely that Costanza died after van Eyck had begun painting the portrait, and so he decided to add in symbolic imagery in her honour.

But wait! There’s more… the chair in the background behind Costanza’s head has a wooden carving featuring St Margaret who is the patron saint of pregnancy and childbirth – the reflectograms have shown that this was not part of the original composition and so it seems likely that the artist added these aspects to try and enhance the theme of Costanza’s death, likely in childbirth. Another point to note is the chandelier – the candles are lit above Arnolfini’s head, whereas the flames are extinguished above Costanza’s head.

If you’re ever lucky enough to go and see this painting in London’s National Gallery, you will probably be surprised at how small it is. There is a huge amount of intricate detail, and you’ll have to look hard to see it all, but this painting is testament to the extraordinary skill of Jan van Eyck.

The incredibly advanced painting technique of northern European artists is something I will be discussing more in Art in Depth – there is much to find out! So hopefully you have learnt something new about this mysterious artwork, and can enjoy it even more next time.

This blog post was last updated on 03/02/2022.

Against a backdrop of knobbly grey mountains and a cloud-stained sky, the once magnificent South African National Gallery adorns the Government Avenue Gardens like a huge slice of architecturally colonial wedding cake.

The mish-mash of Doric columns, tiled cornices, mosaic niches, and Cape-Dutch windows makes for an awkward façade. Yet perhaps this is an accurate reflection of Cape Town’s own complex and convoluted history, which is in itself, is a mish-mash of cultures, colonisers, and controversy.

The Gallery’s permanent collection leans heavily towards the contemporary, with vast, vacuous rooms dedicated to artworks made from plastic bags and soil. It’s certainly not for everyone, although the collection does offer some respite through internationally acclaimed works by Irma Stern, Moses Tladi, and John Mohl, not to mention a wonderful exhibition of drawings from the permanent collection.

Once you have waded through the displays of challenging contemporary themes, you discover the gallery’s most recent exhibition. ‘Framing Landscape: The Picturesque and The Sublime’ is irresistible. Small but pleasantly formed, the exhibition encourages the viewer to consider the development of the romantic landscape alongside the expansion of European colonialism. It questions whether the African landscape could ever have found its place within such a euro-centric genre, and considers “the historical insecurity regarding the place of the artist of European heritage in the African landscape”, which is concluded to be an “insecurity not without cause”.

Through the works of Heinrich Wilhelm Hermann, John Roland Brown, Jans Wijnants, and prints by JMW Turner (to name but a few), the exhibition draws the somewhat complex distinction between the concepts of the sublime and the picturesque, between emotion, glory, and aesthetic idealism.

There is endless scope for an exhibition with such an investigative title. The (text-heavy) text panels introduce scintillating ideas that, sadly, are not fully reflected by the artworks on the walls. The idea of the romantic landscape evolving alongside colonialism, and the place of the African landscape and African artists within it, is an enormous topic that could warrant a true blockbuster show.

I would like to have seen more African artists on the walls – quite how a South African landscape exhibition can escape the work of John Mohl I am not sure – it is almost as though the exhibition perpetuated it’s own ideas about the place of the European landscape technique in Africa by its lack of representation.

Nevertheless, the high-quality artworks made for a thought-provoking and unusual take on a truly classic theme, and I highly recommend a visit.

The Harlem Renaissance was a cultural movement, active throughout the 1920s and 30s, specifically between the end of the First World War and the onset of the Great Depression. The movement is best known for its literary and performing arts, but painting, sculpture, and photography also played a role in the generation-defining period. 

This movement encouraged the migration of black communities from the southern states who were fleeing racism imposed by Jim Crow laws. Northern cities such as New York, Chicago, Detroit, Columbus, and Cleveland also promised better housing, education, and employment for black communities. 

In 1919, the movement was sparked by race riots known as the Red Summer. Based in Harlem, New York, the movement represented black pride through art and culture, and strived to draw attention to racial injustice and inequality. The movement cannot be defined by a style, but by the concept of African American expression through the arts. Common influences include slavery and abolition, modern art genres such as Dada, and West African art (which was considered closely related to black American heritage). 

Aaron Douglas (1899 – 1979)

Douglas was an artist and graphic illustrator who is often referred to as the father of African American art. As one of the most famous and recogisable artists of the movement, his work focused on the African American experience, and was heavily influenced by themes of slavery. His paintings are visually influenced by the African mask tradition of Benin, Senegal, and the Congo, as well as Egyptian figures, and European Cubism. 

James Van Der Zee (1886 – 1983)

Van Der Zee was a photographer of African American life in Harlem. He primarily photographed Harlem’s flourishing middle class through a mixture of formal studio photography and candid street scenes, with locations such as churches, barbershops, cabarets, and restaurants. His black and white photographic style went on to gain international recognition; his influence can be seen across the world, including in the work of Malick Sidibé, a photographer from Mali who was active throughout the 1960s. 

The significant contribution of women to the Harlem Renaissance is only just being considered: sculptors Augusta Savage and Meta Vaux Warrick Fuller defied boundaries as black, female sculptors, and advocated for equal rights within the arts. Find out more about these ground-breaking women of the Harlem Renaissance.

The artistic energy of the Harlem Renaissance dwindled with the onset of the Great Depression. Nevertheless, the movement was a defining period in twentieth-century black art and black history. The period can be considered as a creative outlet for the anger and inequalities of a generation, whose legacy is still as strong as ever; the message and advocacy of the Harlem Renaissance was bold, unapologetic, and powerful, and as pertinent today as it was then.

Shin-hanga was a twentieth-century movement of Japanese woodblock prints, and translates literally as ‘new prints’. The movement can be seen as a revival of the earlier ukiyo-e movement, which declined in popularity following the deaths of its most significant artists; contemporary tastes also began to reject the genre, as it was seen to represent an obsolete era.

The subject matter of ukiyo-e was highly influenced by imperialism and the military; shin-hanga took the traditional methods and styles of the earlier movement and combined it with western influence.

The driving force behind the scenes was not an artist, but a publisher called Watanabe Shozaburo (1885-1962). Shozaburo was responsible for publishing all of the shin-hanga prints, the majority of which were sent to the USA and Europe where Japanese art played a key role in defining artistic trends. 

Shin-hanga is significant because it created a fusion of Western art and Japanese values, including the traditional method of woodblock printing. Common subjects of shin-hanga prints included birds, animals, and flowers, actors, and beautiful women, but the movement is most synonymous with landscapes.

What is woodblock printing and how does it work? 

• Japanese woodblock printing is a tradition that has been practiced by artists in Japan since the seventeenth century
• The process begins by designing a scene or an image, and transferring it onto a block of wood 
• The artist then uses a range of knives and sharp tools to cut the design into the wood – this process can be extremely detailed, but the most effective prints often focus on minimal detail and flat plains of colour
• The image is carved so that the details are raised, and the background is lowered
• Sumi ink is then applied evenly to the block. Paper is laid over the block, and then rubbed onto the ink using a tool called a baren
• Layers of colour are added by carving new blocks, which are then printed over the top to create layers of colour. Complex colour prints often used up to 20 individually carved blocks

Hiroshi Yoshida

Yoshida is regarded as one of the greatest artists of the shin-hanga style, and is noted for his excellent landscape prints. Born in 1876, he studied art in Kyoto where he was trained in the Western oil painting tradition. Following a solo exhibition in Detroit in 1899, Yoshida returned to Japan to work with Watanabe Shozaburo, and gained international recognition. Interestingly, the artist often reused wood blocks with different colours of ink to create different moods and atmospheres.

Ohara Koson

Koson was a master of kachō-è, a genre of shin-hanga that specialised in images of nature with a particular focus on animals and flowers. Koson started working with Shozaburo from 1926, and his prints became very desirable in the USA. throughout his life, he exhibited all over the world, including the USA, The Netherlands, the UK, Canada, and New Zealand.

Shin-hanga is a demonstration of modernising Japanese art; most of the artists involved attended art school and trained in painting, and lacked the workshop training in block printing of earlier artists. Their awareness of western influences in subject and style, particularly French Impressionism, combined with traditional Japanese imagery and symbolism created a modern fusion of cultures and movements.

The twentieth century was a radical new era in Japan, and was defined by industrial modernisation, air travel, urbanisation, and popular media: these are all defining influences on Shin-hanga.