Cornelia Presenting Her Children, the Gracchi, as Her Treasures, by Angelica Kauffman, 1785

Another notable depiction of motherhood by Angelica Kauffman (1741 – 1807), one of two women who belonged to the Royal Academy at its inception.  The next female members would join 115 years later.

Ever the neoclassicist, Kaffman once again goes to the ancient world with Cornelia Presenting Her Children, the Gracchi, as Her Treasures, painted in 1785.  This large-scale painting illuminates the importance of motherhood on the course of history.  Cornelia Africana, the daughter of the general Scipio Africanus, was a Roman matron who exemplified the virtues of modesty, chastity, and honor. Her family was part of Roman high society, and she was an important social figure.  She is remembered by history as the mother of two sons with an enduring political legacy. Her sons, Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus, who are often referred to as the Gracchi, were politicians in the 2nd century BC. They attempted to pass land reform and other progressive measures to ease the hardships of the lower classes, effectively attempting to make the Roman Republic more democratic. Both were assassinated during their tenures as tribunes by their peers in the patrician class for their liberal sentiments.

In this picture, Cornelia is talking with another society matron who is showing off her jewels.  Cornelia, however, shows jewels of quite another type:  her two sons, the Gracchi.  These are her greatest treasures; indeed, Cornelia was an important behind-the-scenes player in their eventual political ascendancy.

This is a subtly colored work, filled with deeply felt sentiment.  Neoclassical work can often feel cold or lacking in emotional vitality, but here is a picture filled with simple humanity.  Perhaps the most priceless element of the picture is the expression on the face of the anonymous matron.  You mean, these pearls aren’t better, she seems to ask.

Fortunately, Kauffman had the artistic virtuosity to realize such a subtle emotional moment.  Look at the expressions on Cornelia, as well as those of her children – they look alike.  Not only that, but Cornelia uses nearly the same expression with her hand used in another picture, Self-Portrait Torn Between Music and Painting, where Kauffman is also indicating the more important choice.

A remarkable work.

Self-Portrait Torn Between Music and Painting, by Angelica Kauffman, 1792

I must confess, I love this picture.  As noted in an earlier column, Angelica Kauffman (1741 – 1807) was a child prodigy in both painting and music.  (Winckelmann wrote that Kauffman had a sublimely beautiful voice.)  Her prowess as a painter was formidable, and she and her father toured Europe, painting portraits for high society much as young Mozart played pianoforte for royalty. 

But the decision between painting and music was not an easy one, as can be witnessed in this 1792 self-portrait.  (Self-triptych?)  It’s fascinating; centuries before the birth of Freud, Kauffman splits her personality into three parts, including a mediating Ego.  And at this point, the decision is clear – the musician will become a painter.

Look at the figures.  Kauffman left holds a music roll and the hand of the center Kauffman: her face is both imploring and wounded.  This is the look of a lover who knows she is being left. 

Now, look at the Kauffman right; she holds easel and brush and points dramatically to the distance: get to work!  Kauffman right does not touch Kauffman center, but there is no need; she has won.

Kauffman center looks guiltily at Kauffman left while motioning towards Kauffman right – the look says I love you, but I love her, more. 

Kauffman left has a garland of blue flowers in her hair; she is perhaps the more ethereal and artistic of the three.  Soulful, perhaps is the right word.  That quality of soul is missing from Kauffman right, and one wonders to what degree she felt forced to choose painting over music.  But these doubts are subverted somewhat by the neoclassical and painterly background.  Music never stood a chance.

Painters without number have executed self-portraits, but few have so explicitly illustrated their thinking. 

Questions of choice seemed to be a constant throughout Kauffman’s life.  Here is an excerpt from Nollekens and his Times, written in 1828 by J. T. Smith:

The reader will probably recollect the manner in which Angelica Kauffman was imposed upon by a gentleman’s servant, who married her under the name of Count Horn, and the way in which his treachery was discovered; as related in the early part of the present volume.  Angelica, however, was universally considered as a coquette, so that we cannot deeply sympathize in her disappointment; and as a proof how justly she deserved that character, I shall give an anecdote which have often heard Mr. Nollekens relate.  When Angelica was at Rome, previously to her marriage, she was ridiculously fond of displaying her person, and being admired; for which purpose she one evening took her station in one of the most conspicuous boxes of the Theatre, accompanied by [painter] Nathaniel Dance and another artist, both of whom, as well as many others, were desperately enamored of her.  Angelica, perhaps, might have recollected the remonstrance of Mrs. Peachum, where she says,

Oh, Polly! You might have toy’d and kiss’d

By keeping men off you keep them on:

However, while she was standing between her two beaux, and finding an arm of each most lovingly embracing her waist, she contrived, whilst her arms were folded before her on the front of the box over which she was leaning, to squeeze the hand of both, so that each lover concluded himself beyond all doubt the man of her choice.

More Kauffman tomorrow.

Pliny the Younger and His Mother at Miseno During the Eruption of Vesuvius, by Angelica Kauffman, 1785

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.

Angelica Kauffman, Self Portrait, 1787

I was recently taken to task by New York arts advocate Clarissa Crabtree for the lack of women artists covered in The Jade Sphinx.  The simple – and lamentable – fact is that women, by and large, were not accorded opportunities to pursue artistic careers until the Modern Age.  There were exceptions, of course, and among them was Swiss-Austrian Neoclassical painter Angelica Kauffman.

Kauffman (1741 – 1807) was born in Switzerland, but grew up in Austria where her family originated; her father, Joseph Johann Kauffman, was a painter.  He taught her the fundamentals of drawing and painting, while her mother taught young Angelica several languages.  She also was a skilled musician, and the young woman was torn between which art was to be her master. 

However, her precocity in painting was immense, and Angelica was selling work and professionally painting portraits while still an adolescent.  When only 13 years old, Angelica went with her father to Milan, Rome, Bologna and Venice where, like the young Mozart and his music, she was displayed as a prodigy with the brush.  She spoke French, English and Italian (as well as German) and this facility with language allowed her to make a lucrative living painting portraits of visitors to Rome. 

She was introduced to Lady Wentworth, an English aristocrat, while in Venice, and returned with her to the UK.  There she painted the portrait of celebrated actor David Garrick (1771-1779) and became something of a society painter.  She also befriended painter Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723-1792), and worked with him to create the Royal Academy.  She was only one of two women (the other being Mary Moser, 1744-1819) to have R. A. after her name – however, her friendship with Reynolds and membership in the RA was not without dissent.  Painter Nathaniel Hone included a nude caricature of Kauffman in his satirical 1775 painting The Conjurer – but later painted it out.  The picture was not accepted by the Academy.

Kauffman was an annual exhibitor with the Royal Academy from 1769 until 1782, and in 1773 she was appointed by the Academy with others to decorate St Paul's Cathedral.  The work would never be completed. 

Upon the death of Kauffman’s first husband (they were separated – almost as much of a scandal as a lady painter!), she married Antonio Zucchi (1728–1795), a Venetian artist then living in the UK.  She became part of the social and artistic scene of Venice, and continued to contribute to the Royal Academy until 1797.  When she died in Rome in 1807, the entire Academy of St Luke followed her body to her tomb in Sant'Andrea delle Fratte, carrying two of her best pictures in the parade.

Today we look at Kauffman’s self-portrait from 1787.  It is a stunning work.  Kauffman does not paint herself as a society lady or a great beauty (though she is quite lovely), but, rather, as a working artist, complete with portfolio and drawing implement.  Her identification with her craft is clear.
 

Notice the exquisite handling of the images on the highly-cinched belt, which includes classical figures and clearly indicates her Italian sympathies.  Moreover, the landscape over her shoulder is clearly that of Italy, rather than England, Switzerland or Austria. 

She uses a great deal of transparent white to create the gauzy quality of her gown, and she depicts her oddly masculine hands with a deft touch.  Her hair is plaited atop her head and adorned with a simple ribbon.

One of the more interesting questions is – how did she do this picture?  In most self-portraits, the artist is looking at the viewer, mainly because the artist was – at the time – looking at a mirror.  But here, Kauffman has turned to the side – a remarkable act of virtuosity.

More Kauffman tomorrow.