Briquet Watermark 15441 – Brabant – 1449
And All Best Wishes for 2014
From Lucy Vivante and Vivante Drawings
It’s surprising we don’t talk of stripists and stripism because so many 20th artists, and especially American ones, worked with stripes. Barnett Newman, Myron Stout, Agnes Martin, Ellsworth Kelly, Jasper Johns, Dan Flavin, and Frank Stella are some.
Striped cloth and flags, rows of text, shelves of books, prison bars and uniforms, and skyscrapers could be things behind the stripes, but stripes in themselves, without reference to striped things, became enough of a subject for many artists—and for their publics.
Egon Schiele’s approach to stripes bridges traditional and modern art. Schiele and Schiele’s subjects were fond of stripes. The drawing just below, its title, Reclining Nude Girl in a Striped Frock [Liegender Mädchenakt im gestreiften Kittel] has arresting stripes.
They work as pattern fields, much the way Klimt used richly encrusted cloth—they’re not there to define the body underneath. The title, and I do not know if it’s Schiele’s title, is apt since it echoes the two-sided character of stripes—that they’re neither one thing nor another, and the girl is described as both being naked and in a striped frock. It is an ambiguous title and subject. I wouldn’t know how to title the drawing.
Another drawing of Schiele’s that features stripes is the one below of his wife Edith. (There are at least two photographs of Edith wearing the dress of the drawing.) Here the stripes, and the breaks in the stripes, do more to define Edith’s figure and this makes it closer to the traditions of 19th century and earlier art.
Closer, say, to the 18th century Watteau drawing of a reclining woman in British Museum, where the direction of the stripe segments give full meaning to what’s below. They are a kind of hatching.
Watteau’s drawing of a Persian in a turban is especially wonderful because of the zigzags and hatching that make up the bold stripe of the man’s jacket. Watteau did his drawing in France, but the slightly younger Swiss artist, Etienne Liotard, lived in Constantinople and saw turbaned Ottomans firsthand. Many of his sitters, both men and women, wear opulent striped clothes and rest on comfortable-looking sofas. Domenico Tiepolo, a near contemporary of Liotard’s, also drew turbaned people dressed in stripes, Venice being a crossroads for east and west. Examples of Domenico Tiepolo’s stripes can be found in an earlier post.
Michel Pastoreau wrote a book on stripes, engagingly titled The Devil’s Cloth: a History of Stripes. From a quick look, I understand that he concentrates on striped cloth in France, beginning in the Medieval period, when stripes were associated with the devil and such outcasts as prostitutes and lepers. This continued, at least in France, until the 18th century, when stripes became favored throughout society because of flags/patriotism/nationalism. This must be a terrible oversimplification, but it is interesting because in the 18th century, there was this burgeoning of stripes.
Neither relating to flags or the east, are these two drawings by Giuseppe Maria Crespi. They are illustrations for a tale about a boy named Cacasenno and his family. It’s a story about three generations of country people, who lack sophistication, but who are at times terrifically sensible (very close to the storylines of TV sitcoms). The whole series of drawings is in Bologna and viewable online here. The watercolors are derived from a series of drawings and etched illustrations. They were probably for a deluxe edition commissioned by a collector, although the Genus Bononaie site relates that Roberto Longhi had the idea that they were for ceramics. The Metropolitan has a preparatory drawing for the etching, where Cacasenno’s mother wears a plain dress, as in the etching. To enliven the richly ornamental watercolor, Crespi added the stripes.
Finding drawings with stripes before the 18th century becomes more difficult, even in Italy. There are frescoes and paintings, such as Raphael’s Mass at Bolsena, with the Swiss Guards in their wide stripes; Raphael’s Madonna della Seggiola with stripes that make one think of Palestine; and the Master of the Pala Sforzesca’s painting at the Brera, where Beatrice d’Este wears wide devil-may-care stripes.
Farsettiarte, an auction house known for 20th century art and design, will be offering a drawing attributed to Mantegna in an 8 November sale in Prato. Maddeningly, the lot can’t yet be viewed online. However, ArtsLife and Art Daily provide images and details. Here are images of the drawing:Just below are too small images of the Mantegna drawing at Brescia, which the above sheet is being compared to. The writing is apparently the same, and both versos share red wax dots used for affixing the works into an album. The Farsetti dots are barely visible.
And here is the British Museum drawing:
David Ekserdjian helped Farsetti with the catalogue entry and is writing an article on the drawing.
There are two new wetsuits for surfers that are meant to protect wearers from shark attacks. There was an article and video in the Guardian (18 July 2013) on the suits, and here’s the LINK. One has a wavy camouflage print and the other has bold black and white stripes.
The makers say the camouflage suit will hide you from a shark, while the striped suit will warn a shark to stay away. It’s the striped one that made me think of stripes in art. First, because of Raphael’s Swiss Guards in the Mass at Bolsena fresco in the Vatican. However friendly and fetching the stripes of the Swiss Guard are, I guess they’re not meant to be so. (His Madonna della Seggiola in the Pitti has stripes that bring to mind the ancient Middle East and are more refined.)
Mostly, when I think of stripes I think of Domenico Tiepolo and have posted a number of his drawings below. Most of Domenico Tiepolo’s drawings are wonderful, but when he puts in stripes, they get to be extra wonderful. They’re worn by biblical era characters, entertainers, footmen, ladies and gentlemen, and even donkeys. Details of the stripes are below, and the full drawings are in the gallery.
In Italian the word for inkwell is calamaio, which is very close to the word calamaro, meaning squid, as in the calamari fritti one sees on the menus of seafood restaurants. Looking at a squid, you wouldn’t think that it’s part of the mollusk family, but by eating the chewy rings, you realize it’s pretty close to a clam. It’s a soft bodied mollusk or cephalopod, like cuttlefish or octopus. Unlike a clam, it doesn’t have a hard shell for protection. Instead it has “ink” that it can squirt out to confuse and arrest predators. (Nautilus are the only cephalopods with protective shells.)
As calamaio (inkwell) and calamaro (squid) are so close, it’s natural to want to recognize a calamaio as a receptacle for squid ink. However, this isn’t the case. Squid ink, or any other type of cephalopod ink, was rarely used, largely because of its tendency to fade. For a post on sepia ink, please see below or follow this link.
The Italian word calamaio actually comes from the Latin word calamus (kalamos in Greek) which means cane or reed. Pens, which were made from reeds, were known as calami, as were other objects made from reeds, like flutes and fishing poles. (Pens made from bird feathers or quills came into use only later, in the early Middle Ages.)
What’s fascinating about squid is that they carry not only ink, but also a reed-like pen within them. Just below is a photograph, courtesy of Shannan Muskopf and her site biologycorner.com, of drying pens dissected from squid. The Latin word for squid is lolligo. So it seems then that the Italian word for the sea creature comes from calamus, or reed. In English, “pen and ink fish” is a colloquial name for squid, and it makes good sense.
To underscore the fact that cephalopod ink was seldom used, there aren’t squid decorated inkwells. Riccio, Severo da Ravenna, and the other crazily imaginative Paduan makers of small bronzes, would have found it irresistible to ornament inkwells with squid or cuttlefish if they were using their ink. Granted, they are not that easily represented, but this wouldn’t have stopped these sculptors.
It’s tempting to try and specify the kind of brown ink that’s been used in the making of an old master drawing. Iron-gall (black, but changes to brown over time) and bister were the two most commonly used inks. Sometimes, people will refer to any brown ink old master drawing as being in sepia. Maybe it’s because they’re so used to hearing that everything is made from petroleum, that the idea of ink coming from a sea creature is quaint and charming. Maybe it has to do with the 19th c. sepia drawings and the chemical approximation of sepia in 19th century photographs. (The continuing appeal of sepia coloration is clear from the photography edit for “sepia effect” on the computer or cellphone.) Instead, sepia was rarely used before the late 18th century.
Sepia (also called cuttlefish), as well as octopus and squid, are soft-bodied mollusks, known as cephalopods (cephalo-head/pod-foot). Most cephalopods produce a dark fluid that they can expel to hide themselves from predators. Its primary component is melanin, related to the pigment that colors our skin and hair. Aristotle, whose accuracy and method continues to surprise biologists, said of the cephalopod ink sac, “All the Cephalopods have this peculiar part but it is the most remarkable in the Sepia, as well as the largest in size. When the Sepia is frightened and in terror, it produces this blackness and muddiness in the water, as it were a shield held in front of the body.” [Aristotle, The History of Animals, Book IV. The translation comes from A.L. Peck & E.S. Forster. Aristotle XII: Parts of Animals Movement of Animals, Progression of Animals, 1937.)
Sepia (sepia officinalis), then, have more ink than other cephalopods. They have eight legs or arms, two tentacles, and are about ten inches long. Just below is a depiction of a cuttlefish from a Pompeian mural.
Because the mural is more pleasing than accurate, here is a scientific diagram of a cuttlefish.
Aristotle does not say that sepia fluid was used for writing, but there are Roman writers such as Cicero, who did. This link carries to the entry on atramentum, the Latin word for ink, in A Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities (1875), where passages of ancient writers are cited and linked to.
At its simplest, the ink can be used directly from the cephalopod, mixed with a binder. This is probably what the Romans did. The ink may have developed a bad smell, but their tolerance was greater than ours (think of garum, the fermented fish guts they ate, and loved). Sepia is known to be fugitive, and as far as I can tell, no ancient papyri with sepia ink exist.
James Watrous, in his 1957 The Craft of Old-Master Drawings, noted the “powerful fishy odor” of the dried sepia chips and sepia splinters, that he found imported into the US from Italy (1975 edition, 88). Zecchi, the art supply shop in Florence that specializes in old master materials, sells sepia pigment (10 grams for 24 euros and 100 grams for 200 euros) and maybe in the intervening 50+ years since Watrous was writing, a way of deodorizing sepia has been developed. The cost would warrant it.
Zecchi was founded in the 1950s with the idea of furnishing the materials that the 14th century Cennino Cennini details in his Libro dell’Arte. Cennini does not discuss sepia at all. In fact, the expert writers on the subject of old master materials–Joseph Meder, James Watrous, and Carlo James and company–say that sepia ink was hardly used, and written about, before the late 18th or early 19th centuries. Courtesy Google Ngram, here’s a graph of phrases with the word sepia, found in English language books, between 1800 and 2008, which shows that “sepia drawing” was most used around 1910. This takes into account novels, and everything else, so it has to be taken lightly.
Natural sepia drawings are supposed to have a cool, rather than warm, brown color, and a purplish or red cast. It’s known that Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840) drew with sepia ink. Just below is a Friedrich drawing at the Albertina, and the image is taken from the Google Cultural Institute. We can assume that they’ve taken some care in getting the color right. The Albertina describes the drawing as being in brown ink. The tendency in museum catalogues, and in museum databases, is to move away from describing the type/origin of ink, and describe it generically as brown ink. This makes a lot of sense, because you can’t get it wrong. However, because of Friedrich’s known use of sepia, and the color of this drawing, it would seem to me that it is in sepia.
Scrutinizing and testing every drawing in collections, where there are thousands of sheets, would be an enormous undertaking, and the preference for simple “brown ink” is easily understood. The fact that artists very often combined different types of inks and pigments, makes specificity even more complicated, and less documentable.
However, if one were curious enough, and were able to commission work from a lab, there is a test for sepia ink, which its developers describe as rapid and simple. The 2009 study is entitled Characterization of sepia ink in ancient graphic documents by capillary electrophoresis and is available as a pdf here. Ana López-Montes, Rosario Blanco and others, studied maps and drawings in Granada’s Royal Chancellery Archives. The earliest map was from 1570 and the latest from 1817. Since the maps and drawings related to court cases, as exhibits, the dating is precise. The study is interesting also because its writers discuss taking the ink sac from a cuttlefish, being careful that too much air didn’t come in contact with the ink, and mixing it with gum arabic and water.
Carlo James, Marjorie B. Cohn, and the other authors of the 1997 Old master prints and drawings: a guide to preservation and conservation, spoke of Genova and Venice as being two places where sepia ink was used, before the 19th century. While Granada isn’t on the coast, it isn’t far, at about 20 miles. So, maybe one should keep an open mind about whether old master drawings, and especially those made near the sea, are made with sepia. (You can think sepia, just don’t write it. Plain vanilla. Brown ink. Basta.)
March 30th, 2013 § Comments Off § permalink
Mostly, drawings are in housed in museum collections, but if you live in a city like Turin, with its Biblioteca Reale; or Milan, with its Biblioteca Ambrosiana; you know that rich collections of drawings are also found in libraries. Paper is the common denominator and it’s worth remembering that drawings were kept in albums before they were put in mats and solander boxes.
The Biblioteca Nacional de España, which is celebrating its 300 anniversary, has made available a wonderful database of their collections. They have about 3,500 drawings online. The work of digitizing the collection began in 2008 and this month it launched the new interface. There are many ways to search. I filtered for drawings from between 1550 and 1600, and useful subcategories of drawings in pen, preparatory drawings, mythological drawings, drawings in albums, drawings of flowers, and many others appeared on the left of the screen. The images that appear are high resolution and can be magnified.
Among its riches is the Madrid Codex of Leonardo. It is full of drawings of pulleys, cogs, wheels–the stuff of industrial design–but of unimaginable fascination. There are places in the codex where the drawings are labeled with a + sign, where if you click on it, a short animation of the machine’s action appears.
A friend recently let me know that The Hague’s RKD, the Rijksbureau voor Kunsthistorische Documentatie or Netherlands Institute for Art History, has a research service where you can send an image of an artwork and they will look for comparative material. Their archive of photographs is immense. Erik Löffler, a curator at the RKD, has kindly answered some of my questions about the service and the RKD in general.
LV: Is it right that only a small percentage of the RKD’s images are in the online database? Is it the eventual aim to have everything online? Has Google approached places like the RKD offering their digitization services?
Erik Löffler: At this moment we have some 200.000 images online, out of ca. 7 Million. Until recently a total digitization seemed impossible, but things change, I notice that the subject is being discussed as a serious option now. We also started digtizing other useful sources, like the Hofstede de Groot Index Cards (comparable with the Getty Provenance index, 1.1 Million cards).
LV: How hard is it to index the collection and find the right keywords? How do you deal with different languages?
Erik Löffler: We use ICONCLASS which is in English and freely available for everyone; for fine tuning we also have our own keyword list. The interface for our databases (soon to be substituted by a more up-to-date version) is in Dutch and English; soon most of the content will also be available in English.
LV: What is your typical day like?
Erik Löffler: We often work on special projects: 19th Century atelier scenes, female artists, historical interior decorations. I am currently working on some 2000 new records in our databases: art collectors (of whom 258 American: from George Abrams to John Wrenn). We also write for specific exhibitions, and receive visitors at our premises: Dutch and foreign dealers, researchers and museum professionals; curators from the MET or the Hermitage are among our regular clients. We get some 6000 visitors a year (and 200.000 databse users). On a weekly basis we also check new publications and add literature to our database records, especially concerning Dutch and Flemish artists, foreigners who worked in the Netherlands and foreign artists who were influenced by ‘our’ painters.
LV: Can you speak about the RKD research services? Where do the requests for research come from? How many might there be in a month? Do you confer with other curators? How many people are there in your department?
Erik Löffler: I have more than one hundred colleagues; we may get between fifty and eighty requests a month. There are curators for Early Netherlandish Painting, 17th C. Landscapes, Still Lifes, 18th C., several for the 19th C., ‘Foreign Art’, Portraits, Topography, etc. I am specialised in Dutch and Flemish OMD.
LV: I expect you receive a lot of Rembrandt and Rembrandt school works to research. Any great discoveries there?
Erik Löffler: I must say we get less and less framed Rembrandt calendar pages… Prints are usually late impressions (or early reproductions), but last year we had a great Jan Victors painting, from a French castle (people drive to us from Belgium, France and Germany on these days). But at our free Art Evaluations Sessions we always do nice discoveries in minor masters; still to be seen on our home page is a watercolor by George Hendrik Breitner which showed up at one of these days.
LV: What are the fees for the service? And, the fees for scans and photographs?
Erik Löffler: Our prices can be found here. But a ‘quick look’ is free, and we always ask your permission before starting a paid research.
LV: What’s with that fabulous ceiling?
Erik Löffler: The ceiling in the reading room, that’s after the Counts of Holland engravings by Cornelis Visscher II. As you may guess under these huge staring eyes non one would dare to maltreat our books and pictures…
LV: I see that there’s a site dedicated to The Rembrandt Database, which is in its early stages, and has 12 paintings and close to 2,000 written documents relating to those pictures. To start, the project will focus on paintings, then drawings that relate to paintings, and then drawings that are not connected to pictures. Any ideas when this will be?
Erik Löffler: To the Rembrandt Database we will first add more paintings, it would be great if in the end all known Rembrandt drawings could be included as well… The project is very important with a.o. money from Mellon.’
LV: You grew up partly in Italy?
Erik Löffler: As I grew up in Italy and speak Italian but also French, Spanish and German, and read Russian, my colleagues tend to put through to my phone everyone who speaks some ununderstandable language; especially Italians, French and Spaniards feel safer when they can speak their own language, so they tend to contact me. Even if I am not the specialist they need at least I understand their complaints about food and weather…. As a matter of fact the RKD has an important network function, no matter which museum you need to contact, there is always a colleague who knows someone there, and if not there is CODART which (as not everyone knows) is housed at the RKD!
LV: In an email you mentioned the writer Couperus.
Erik Löffler: I am myself also board member at the Louis Couperus Museum; he was a Dutch decadentist writer. It is of course useful for the RKD to have someone in the local museum world.
I was able to put some questions about paper and watermarks to Neil Harris and Peter Bower. Professor Harris is the Director of the Department of History and Conservation of the Cultural Heritage at the University of Udine, where he teaches courses in Bibliography and Library Science. An outline of his scholarly career can be found here at the University’s site. His work Paper and watermarks is available online through the site of L’Institut d’histoire du livre. Peter Bower is a forensic paper historian and paper analyst. He has published two books on the papers used by J.M.W. Turner–Turner’s Papers: A Study of the Manufacture, Selection and use of his Drawing Papers 1787-1820 and Turner’s Late Papers: A Study of the Manufacture, Selection and use of his Drawing Papers 1820-1851. Many thanks to both for their informative answers.
LV: Was the paper used for books also used for drawing and printmaking?
Neil Harris: No, is probably the general answer. Paper for printed books seems to have been different in some respect (though we don’t know what, possibly with less sizing). Paper for artists on principle may have been different; but then artists, especially when short of money, will draw on anything that happens to hand, so Yes is also a possible answer.
Peter Bower: For most of papermaking history in Western Europe paper was made for three basic uses: writing, printing and wrapping. All three types of paper were made on the same moulds, from the same kind of rags, the main difference between them being the degree of sizing used. Drawing papers as such were not specifically made until the mid-late 18th century. Artists drew and painted on hard sized papers made for writing, or in the case of coloured papers, wrapping. Printmakers would use similarly sized sheets to book printers.
LV: Can you say something about how artists bought paper?
Neil Harris: Not really. It depends how much money they had.
Peter Bower: Papers were stocked by stationers and artists’ colourmen and could be bought as single sheets, quires or half reams and reams. Stationers and colourmen stocked what they thought their customers would like. Some artists did buy paper from mills but this was not common.
LV: Watermarks can often help in dating and placing a piece of paper, but what about a piece of paper without a watermark? Are there some general pointers about century and place?
Neil Harris: Yes, there are elements, and a piece of paper without a watermark may have been cut from a larger sheet.
Peter Bower: There is always a huge amount of information about the date and origin of a paper within the sheet. The type of mould used, the wire profile, felt impressions, the method of pulping, ie: stamper or Hollander, the blend of fibres used, the colour and tone, all contribute to narrowing down an identification.
A single-faced mould is a papermaking mould on which the wire forming surface sits directly on the supporting ribs, this produces an increased density of pulp either side of the chain wires, which show as slight shadows when viewed in transmitted light. A double-faced mould has a second set of wires, beneath the forming surface, lifting it off the struts.
The Wire profile describes the relationship between the Laid Lines, tightly spaced parallel lines seen in laid paper when it is held up to the light and the Chain lines, parallel lines visible at 90° to the laid lines, usually an inch or so apart. The wire profile also includes any watermarks or countermarks present in the sheet. In wove papers the wire profile details the gauge and number of wires used for the warp and the weft of the woven wire cloth.
Felt impressions are the marks left in the surface of the sheet when the newly formed wet sheet is transferred from the papermaking mould to the woven woolen blanket, called a felt., caused by the fibres used to make the felt. These vary from area to area, country to country and over time.
Stampers are an early form of a machine for making pulp, consisting of several sets of large wooden hammers, driven by a waterwheel, falling into mortars, filled with rag. Often leave tell-tale traces within the pulp, such as small hard nuggets of dried pulp that didn’t get cleaned out of the mortars.
LV: Are there watermarks which are solely tied to one area?
Neil Harris: Successful watermarks will be faked or imitated in other areas, but generally they can be broken up on national lines. There are characteristics that tend to identity particular ways of making moulds, for instance the supplementary unsupported chainline for the watermark is a characteristic of Fabriano; the use of a countermark is Lake Garda; tranchfiles are French or Dutch and so on.
Peter Bower: Watermark designs do relate to specific areas, but they were often copied by mills in other areas or countries. A good example is the Dutch ProPatria mark which was also used by many different English makers.
LV: I‘ve read something about encircled object watermarks being Italian. Is this true?
Peter Bower: This is not strictly true, circled watermarks are found in use in Britain, Holland, Germany, Poland, Spain, Russia, etc
LV: I’ve read that J. Whatman paper was faked in Germany? Was counterfeit paper common?
Neil Harris: I think so, but of course “counterfeit” only really comes into play when paper-makers start using their names in watermarks and this only really happens from the 18th century onwards.
Peter Bower: In the 18th century several Italian Mills in the Veneto and also near Naples faked Dutch papers, including D & C Blauw, Cornelis Honig, Jan Honig & Zonen. They could charge more for “Dutch Paper” than their own products
Several famous makers’ initials were appropriated by other makers in Western Europe as a mark of quality, common examples include
WR Wendelin Richel from Strasbourg. His initials are found as pendant marks all over western Europe for three hundred years or more.
IV Jean Villedary. Several generations of Jean Villedarys worked mills around Angouleme in France as well as a mill at Hattem in Holland. The IV initials were very common as a countermark in English-made paper.
LVG Lubertus van Gerrevinck of the Phoenix Mill in Holland. His initials were used by many other makers, either as a pendant mark or as a countermark.