Even if all earlier oil paintings had perished, and they have not, it is evident from the level of skill shown in the painting that Van Eyck was highly accomplished in the medium. This level of painting requires many years of practice, almost certainly under the guidance of a tutor with a high degree of skill of his own.
Just look at the rendering of the fur trimmings of the garments of the man and woman, the hair of the dog, the wooden planks of the floor, the leather of the pair of discarded clogs, the brass chandelier, the fabrics of the four-poster bed. There is no doubt that Van Eyck had a real regard for the surface of things. It is impossible in this short space to enumerate the surfaces we see in the painting; hair, fur, lace, velvet, wood, cork, leather, glass and skin.
If this painting were nothing else, it would be an apotheosis of the surface of things and it set the scene for later Dutch paintings. Consider The Courtyard in a House in Delft (National Gallery) painted by Pieter de Hooch (1629 – 1684) two centuries later. Though it is not a still life, we see the same elements that absorbed Jan Van Eyck; the surfaces of wood, brick, tile, stone, hessian, linen and the twigs of a broom, to name but a few of them. We know there is a drama unfolding between the figures in the painting, the serving woman leading the young child into the courtyard, the lady of the house standing with her back to us leaning against a wall, apparently gazing at the outside world, awaiting someone. We can speculate but we are immediately lost in the sensuous world of surface about us. This northern obsession with surface was in contrast to the artists of the Italian Renaissance.
In the fifteenth century artists like Ucello and Masaccio had experimented with the rules governing anatomy, perspective and colour. Their panels and frescoes were highly coloured evocations of scenes from the Bible and events from history. Italian artists paid great attention to anatomy, both of humans and animals, and used colour quite differently to the artists of the North. Just look at the Mystic Nativity (National Gallery) by Sandro Botticelli (c1445 – 1510). Angels dance in a circle over the stable where the Saviour has been born. They are dressed, by turns, in robes of white, amber and black. The artist has been careful to juxtapose the angels so that no two dressed in the same colour come in contact with one another. This visual harmony cannot be accidental.
But the artists of the north were not unaware of drama. In a detail from The Adoration of the Kings (National Gallery) by Peter Breughel the Elder (active 1550- died 1569) we can see the Christ child seated on Mary’s lap, surrounded by the three ‘kings’ or wise men bearing gifts, from the East. Many scholars have interpreted the expressions and actions of the figures surrounding Christ and whatever is happening, it is obvious that Breughel had a knowledge of the inner feeling that gave rise to physical action and facial expression. But he simply has not paid the same attention to the anatomies and draping of the figures that an artist of the south like Botticelli has done.
But other artists were experimenting with the surface. Spaniard Francisco de Zurbaràn (1598 – 1664) had painted Cup of Water and a Rose on a Silver Plate (National Gallery) in the sixteenth century. Unlike the paintings of the Dutch artists, we can indeed enumerate the surfaces seen here; the dark wood that the silver tray is placed upon, the silver of the tray itself, the petals of the rose, the pale ceramic of the cup seen both on its own and through the surface of the water. And that is it. It is not the intention of the artist to overwhelm or dazzle us. He wants us to meditate on the simple, beautiful few things we see.
However, the still life was not to be merely about the surface of things. In 1533 Hans Holbein the Younger (1497/8 – 1543), the court painter of Henry VIII painted The Ambassadors (National Gallery).
The painting is a double portrait of two men, Jean de Dinteville and Georges de Selve, who came to England from France as ambassadors. They are standing on either side of a shelf covered in objects that include globes, maps, books and musical instruments. The painting is actually a paean to the Renaissance, the age of discovery and advances in science and navigation. But there is a lot more going on. In the lower part of the painting is a curious, elongated object that is almost unrecognisable until viewed from a certain angle to the right of the painting. There we can see it is a skull. Holbein is experimenting with a device called anamorphosis, a form of coded visual representation in which objects are unrecognisable until seen in a specially modified mirror or viewed from a certain angle. Despite the serious intent of the painting the artist is unable to resist having fun with advances in the science of optics. But why did he choose to paint a skull? What Holbein has actually given us is an early rendering of a type of still life known as the vanitas.
The artists of this genre paint memento mori or objects that remind us of our own mortality, of the transient nature of everything we see about us and the swift passage of our own lives. Although the vanitas did not emerge as a genre until the early seventeenth century, most notably with the paintings of David Bailly (1584 – 1657), Hans Holbein had the prescience to nod to a time when the sensual enjoyment of the surface would be tempered with dire warnings of the fleeting nature of life and the enjoyment of all things. The vanitas are generally objects like a skull, a burning candle, a mirror, a posy of flowers, a book, a lute or other musical instrument and maybe an item of decorative jewellery, like a necklace. Interestingly these are not sacred icons but secular emblems of vanity, appropriate in a society that was tolerant of all religions, unlike Catholic Spain and Italy.
Another form of the vanitas was the flower painting. In the painting Flowers in a Terracotta Vase, (National Gallery) by the Dutch artist Jan van Huysum (1682-1749), we see a vase of blossoms arranged with bunches of grapes, other fruits and a birds nest with eggs in it. The blossoms have that over-blown look of flowers that are just about to lose their petals. The fruit is at its ripest and we know the eggs are about to hatch. Most strangely, carnations are arranged alongside poppies and other flowers that never bloom in season together. It is of course an entirely artificial arrangement that would never occur in nature. Everything in the painting is about to wither, rot or die. The eggs in the nest remind us that birth is just one stop on the journey to the grave.
By contrast Still life with the Drinking Horn of Saint Sebastian Archers’ Guild, (National Gallery) by Willem Kalf (1619 - 1693) is a joyous celebration of the good things of life. In his painting we see the remains of a feast; crystal and silver wink enticingly on a table laid with a highly decorative cloth, skewed by a shiny red lobster. Dutch artists were not the only proponents of the genre, however. Spanish artist Luis Melendez (1716-1780) was the painter of Still Life with Oranges and Walnuts (National Gallery). In contrast to the sparkle and glister of the Kalf painting we see a light-absorbing vista of wood, terra cotta, pumpkin skin and yes, oranges and walnuts. The still life genre did not stop with Melendez. In the nineteenth century French artists like Cezanne pushed the still life into a new dimension. But the French still life or nature morte is a subject in itself.
The National Gallery Companion Guide, by Erika Langmuir, National Gallery Publications, 1994.
Copyright © Artyfacts 2007