We
continue our look at Angelica Kauffman
(1741 – 1807), one of two female painters inducted into the Royal Academy at its inception (the
other being Mary Moser, 1744-1819). Taught by her painter father, Kauffman displayed
extraordinary talent at an early age. She
moved to Rome in 1763, where she met Johann
Winckelmann (1717-1768), antiquarian and art historian who would prove to
be one of the most powerful influences on an Aesthetic Movement he would never live to see. Kauffman painted his portrait, along with
other such luminaires as Johann Wolfgang
von Goethe (1749 –
1832).
From
1766 to 1781, she lived in London, where she worked as a decorator and was
instrumental in the founding of the Royal Academy. After marrying painter Antonio Zucchi, she moved to Rome and lived among Continental European
artists.
Kauffman
mainly painted history pictures and mythological subjects, where she displayed sentimental
notes and a refined sense of color. In today’s
picture, Pliny the Younger and His
Mother at Miseno During the Eruption of Vesuvius (1785), Kauffman
dramatically depicts the destruction of the cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii,
both doomed to be buried by mud and lava following the eruption of Vesuvius (AD
79). Kauffman focuses on a family scene
to illustrate the horror of the moment.
Here, Pliney is clearly interrupted from his studies with his mother by
news of the catastrophe. The volcano
erupts in the background, and the resulting storm creates a tumultuous sea. The mother, more in-the-moment than her son,
uses her headpiece to protect herself from the tragedy; her scholarly son needs
to be roused from his books and papers by a messenger before he notices.
Pliney’s
letter to the historian Tacitus is a
first-hand account of the tragedy, and the starting point of Kauffman’s imaginings:
My dear Tacitus,
You ask me to write you something
about the death of my uncle so that the account you transmit to posterity is as
reliable as possible. I am grateful to you, for I see that his
death will be remembered forever if you treat it [sc. in your Histories]. He perished
in a devastation of the loveliest of lands, in a memorable disaster
shared by peoples and cities, but this will be a kind of eternal life for
him. Although he wrote a great number of enduring works himself, the
imperishable nature of your writings will add a great deal to his survival.
Happy are they, in my opinion, to whom it is given either to do something worth
writing about, or to write something worth reading; most happy, of course,
those who do both. With his own books and yours, my uncle will be counted among
the latter. It is therefore with great pleasure that I take up, or rather take
upon myself the task you have set me.
He was at Misenum in his capacity as
commander of the fleet on the 24th of August, when between 2 and 3 in the
afternoon my mother drew his attention to a cloud of unusual size and
appearance. He had had a sunbath, then a cold bath, and was reclining after
dinner with his books. He called for his shoes and climbed up to where he could
get the best view of the phenomenon. The cloud was rising from a mountain
-- at such a distance we couldn't tell which, but afterwards learned that it
was Vesuvius. I can best describe its shape by likening it to a pine tree. It
rose into the sky on a very long "trunk" from which spread some
"branches." I imagine it had been raised by a sudden blast, which
then weakened, leaving the cloud unsupported so that its own weight caused it
to spread sideways. Some of the cloud was white, in other parts there were dark
patches of dirt and ash. The sight of it made the scientist in my uncle
determined to see it from closer at hand.
He ordered a boat made ready. He
offered me the opportunity of going along, but I preferred to study -- he
himself happened to have set me a writing exercise. As he was leaving the house
he was brought a letter from Tascius' wife Rectina, who was terrified by the
looming danger. Her villa lay at the foot of Vesuvius, and there was no way out
except by boat. She begged him to get her away. He changed his plans. The
expedition that started out as a quest for knowledge now called for courage. He
launched the quadriremes and embarked himself, a source of aid for more people
than just Rectina, for that delightful shore was a populous one. He hurried to
a place from which others were fleeing, and held his course directly into
danger. Was he afraid? It seems not, as he kept up a continuous observation of
the various movements and shapes of that evil cloud, dictating what he saw.
Ash was falling onto the ships now,
darker and denser the closer they went. Now it was bits of pumice, and rocks
that were blackened and burned and shattered by the fire. Now the sea is shoal;
debris from the mountain blocks the shore. He paused for a moment wondering
whether to turn back as the helmsman urged him. "Fortune helps the
brave," he said, "Head for Pomponianus."
At Stabiae, on the other side of the
bay formed by the gradually curving shore, Pomponianus had loaded up his ships
even before the danger arrived, though it was visible and indeed extremely
close, once it intensified. He planned to put out as soon as the contrary wind
let up. That very wind carried my uncle right in, and he embraced the
frightened man and gave him comfort and courage. In order to lessen
the other's fear by showing his own unconcern he asked to be taken to the
baths. He bathed and dined, carefree or at least appearing so (which is equally
impressive). Meanwhile, broad sheets of flame were lighting up many parts of
Vesuvius; their light and brightness were the more vivid for the darkness of
the night. To alleviate people's fears my uncle claimed that the flames came
from the deserted homes of farmers who had left in a panic with the hearth
fires still alight.
Then he rested, and gave every
indication of actually sleeping; people who passed by his door heard his
snores, which were rather resonant since he was a heavy man. The ground outside
his room rose so high with the mixture of ash and stones that if he had spent
any more time there escape would have been impossible. He got up and came out,
restoring himself to Pomponianus and the others who had been unable to sleep.
They discussed what to do, whether to remain under cover or to try the open
air. The buildings were being rocked by a series of strong tremors, and
appeared to have come loose from their foundations and to be sliding this way
and that. Outside, however, there was danger from the rocks that were coming
down, light and fire-consumed as these bits of pumice were. Weighing the
relative dangers they chose the outdoors; in my uncle's case it was a rational
decision, others just chose the alternative that frightened them the least.
They tied pillows on
top of their heads as protection against the shower of rock. It was daylight
now elsewhere in the world, but there the darkness was darker and thicker than
any night. But they had torches and other lights. They decided to go down to
the shore, to see from close up if anything was possible by sea. But it
remained as rough and uncooperative as before. Resting in the shade of a sail
he drank once or twice from the cold water he had asked for. Then came a smell
of sulfur, announcing the flames, and the flames themselves, sending others
into flight but reviving him. Supported by two small slaves he stood up, and immediately
collapsed. As I understand it, his breathing was obstructed by the dust-laden
air, and his innards, which were never strong and often blocked or upset,
simply shut down. When daylight came again 2 days after he died, his body was
found untouched, unharmed, in the clothing that he had had on. He looked
more asleep than dead.
Meanwhile at Misenum,
my mother and I -- but this has nothing to do with history, and you only asked
for information about his death. I'll stop here then. But I will say one more
thing, namely, that I have written out everything that I did at the time and
heard while memories were still fresh. You will use the important bits, for it
is one thing to write a letter, another to write history, one thing to write to
a friend, another to write for the public.
Farewell.
More Kauffman tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment