Copies After Murillo
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| Murillo expert expert opinion National Gallery London copies Ludmila Kagan (c) Angulo Mayer Sullivan Gaya Nu o JMW Turner: the source
Ludmila Kagan (c) Angulo Mayer Sullivan Gaya Nu o
Gaya Nu o
art expert Murillo expert art expert
Excerpt from Rescuing Turner… “Commander
Guernsey was the one who added the postcard to the back of the
painting. He picked it up at the National Gallery in London and at the time
discussed his painting with the staff there; he was told it was “just a
copy.” As mentioned before, such an edict coming from the authority of a
large institution automatically thwarts further enquiry on the part of a
layperson. At no point did he inquire further about the legitimacy of his
adoptee. Suitably, the postcard he had appended to the painting was printed
for the National Gallery of London, where the painting it featured had hung
for many years: “A Peasant Boy Leaning on a Sill by Bartolom (c)
Esteban Murillo (1617- 1682).”
[1] As for
the breeding of the Commander’s own street urchin, it didn’t matter, he
never had any intentions of parting with him in the first place.
Peasant Boy
attributed to Murillo, National Gallery of London.
In comparison to the Guernsey Murillo note the hard-edged brushwork,
irregular transition of tone, summary paint application (of the ear in
particular), the angularity of the shoulder, and stringy articulation of the
hair.
Whether brushed aside as a mere copy of the original or condemned as a
forgery, the result is the same; the general public accepts the verdict of
institutional authority without question. Sixty years ago when the experts
accepted the Vermeer forgeries by Han van Meegren as genuine, everyone
immediately accepted their validity. “The inability of the public and,
indeed of trained experts to tell the genuine product from the fake showed
to the satisfaction of certain scientists and thinkers that a person’s
values are not derived from true insight, but simply from prestige imposed
by influential authority. Tell the average person that he is confronted with
the work or utterance of an esteemed author or artist and he will accord it
reverence.”[i]
Excerpt: Rescuing Turner: a New Age of Art Discovery
r malcolm setters / graham setters
“This brings back into focus the shift
that has taken place within the last century as the authentication process
has more and more been taken out of the hands of those naturally destined to
make such decisions’ “the artist-collector-connoisseur. Why has there become a
need beyond the artist’s eye for the appraisal of that which is artistic?
Undoubtedly the task has fallen largely to managers. Why has so often a
curatorial-expert who is allied with a bureaucracy, estate, or business been
given the prime authority to judge authenticity of artwork? Surely, many of
these people are qualified, but again, there is no guarantee as to how well
qualified. It is true that art has become integrated with mass culture, and
thus, for sake of shear volume and control over what has in many cases
become little more than merchandize, such administrative-managers have
become prevalent. There are two elements that these managers hold dear: one
is the fragile nature of the art market based on consumer confidence, and
secondly; the management of art resources in allocating benefits. On both
levels’ “the artistic, and the commercial levels’ “political biases and
commercial interests affect day-to-day decision making, including; decisions
over whether or not to support the authenticity of a work of art.
The resulting van Meegren courtroom expos (c) had a most detrimental impact
on the confidence of the art-world, and the well-publicized confrontation of
art experts by the legal system might be one reason for the present-day
caution by curators in giving authentications. Before he was exposed, it
would have been interesting to see the look on van Meegren’s face when
seeing the detail-embellished spread for his Christ and the Disciples of
Emmaus in, ‘’’: The Illustrated London News. It had the rhapsodic ‘support of
the Rembrandt Society of Holland, of that Nestor of Dutch art historians,
Dr. A. Bredius, and over a hundred generous donors.’”[ii]
Detail, Guernsey Murillo
Mistakes are made;
the fallibility of expertise is a recurring theme in the art-world. But what
options are available to help with making these oft-times onerous decisions
more reliable. Science? Kirsh and Levenson in their revealing book,
Seeing Through Paintings, help to prop support for a more pragmatic
approach to art study, but ultimately they too, uphold the status quo,
“interpretation of the [scientific] studies must always be grounded in
historical research.”[iii]
According to precedence scientists invariably give way to the preeminence of
the art historian. Is this merely established custom, or done for more
worrisome reasons’ “political reasons, ones that are related to the powerfully
influential art establishment’s fight for self-preservation? One seldom
hears that historical research must always be grounded in scientific
analysis, although scientists, themselves, often times subject their
analyses and conclusions to a higher standard of care.
In this undisputed painting by Murillo, note the brushwork of the hair, and
ear and compare these qualities to those of the above images.
Detail: Rest on the Flight Into Egypt;
The Hermitage
The Guernsey Murillo, fits so comfortably within the confines of the artist’s oeuvre that there was a need to discover why it was not considered genuine. Research drew a comparison between the, ‘’’: Peasant Boy’ at the National Gallery with that of the Girl Raising the Veil (below). As late as 1980 the relationship of the two paintings is described by Frank Herrmann as such, “A Young Girl Lifting Her Veil by Murillo [is considered] a companion piece to the same artist’s much loved A Peasant Boy Leaning on a Sill in the London National Gallery.”[iv] There appeared to be a problem when the girl was placed next to the , ‘’’: institutionalized’ boy. The two styles were disparate and the psychological connection between the two youngsters was not successful. The boy had an air of mischief and his expression was not imbued with innocent sincerity like that of the girl. Did the antisocial smirk on the boy’s face come from too long an incarceration at the National Gallery, or was he an illegitimate mate from the very beginning.
A Peasant Boy Leaning on a Sill
Girl Raising the Veil
National Gallery, London Carras Collection, London
Peasant Boy, the Murillo Impostor?
This
frightful engraving by J. Rodgers, titled Spanish Peasant Boy is done
after the painting donated to the National Gallery by Michael Zachary in 1929(?)
(above). Firstly, the freakish nature of the print captures in its worst
aspect, the wry spirit of the National Gallery Boy. In addition one
can see the way in which the engraver has repeated the mistake made by the
copyist who painted the National Gallery picture. The boy’s left arm is far
too narrow for the boy’s body, and is misplaced, giving him an appearance of
having a hunched back and pigeon chest. The illuminated shadow on the front
of the arm caused by reflected light off the boy’s chest (as seen in the
Guernsey Murillo) has been copied, but has been misinterpreted as part of
the boy’s chest in the National Gallery picture. In turn the engraver has
reproduced this unintended deformity, and in doing so has made the mistake
even more apparent than in the National Gallery picture.
The following
e-mail is to the person from whom the print was purchased:
I am very pleased with the
Murillo print that I recently received from you. Do you have any reference
to indicate its age? I assumed that because the painting was etched after it
was reportedly donated to the National Gallery by Zachary in 1929 that the
print would have been done after that date. The print indicates that the
painting was already in the national collection before it was made. You had
written that the print was from the 1830’s, and certainly, the print looks
much older than 1929. Was there any indication from the book or portfolio
that it originated from to determine the exact age?
Reply: “This print was extracted from an old book called “The National
Gallery of Pictures by the Great Masters, Volume I and II” it was published
in London by Jones and Co circa 1840. I hope this helps.
This did not make sense. The following is the provenance of the painting
as given in the 1983 catalogue Murillo: his Life and Work,
published by the Royal Academy of Arts, and; while the National Gallery
owned it:
Provenance;
1737 Paris, Comtesse de Verrue (as companion piece to A Laughing Boy
Crowned with Ivy);1777 Randon de Boisset sale; 1806 Marquis of Lansdowne
sale, London; 1921 M. Zachary; 1929 donated to the National Gallery.
Exhibitions; British Institution, London 1821; London 1947, no 23, pl. 20[v]
In addition to the strange Zachary date
of 1929; in the catalogue, the boy was given a spurious title’ “Laughing
Boy. Michael Zachary was an active collector 100 years earlier than the
date given here.
Anyone trying to nose through the available information about the
National Gallery Peasant Boy would likely smell an aging fish. The
confusion over titles, provenances, and pendant pairing is bewildering.
Another rendition of the misshapen provenance has, ‘’’: the boy’ passing from
Lansdowne to Zachary and being donated a century earlier: “che nel 1826 ne
fece dono al museo Iondinese.”[vi]
This would make more sense.
What
about the Girl’s provenance? According to Frank Herrmann in
1956, “The Murillo [girl] was bought by John Carras, a Greek ship owner, for
25,000. Goldschmidt had paid 6,300, and it had fetched 5,600 guineas
( 5,880) at the Holford sale in 1928.”[vii]
Compare the
crease at the corner of the Madonna and child’s mouths. This has been
identified as very characteristic of Murillo’s work
Sorrowing Mary; Provincial Museum of Fine Arts,
Seville
Murillo was
exceedingly popular. “Dutch and Flemish patrons of the arts residing in
Seville eagerly bought Murillo’s works. Art lovers in Britain and Germany
collected Murillo’s paintings from the early eighteenth century and by the
middle of the century he was the best-known Spanish artist in France.”[viii] This
popularity lasted up until the end of the nineteenth century when his work
lost favor because of its, ‘’’: sweet nature’. Even as late as 1877 James
Stothert wrote, “There can be no question that Murillo is the best known
painter of Spain; Velasquez even cannot compete with him on this. Not only
are there more pictures of his in foreign collections, but many more of them
rank among the highest efforts of the artist’s skill.”[ix]
Might
the legends surrounding the prodigious copying of his work have discouraged
many connoisseurs from trying to untangle the master’s work from the copies
of them? And could this have been part of the reason why Murillo was
forgotten for nearly a century? According to Stothert, “Frequent robberies
in foreign galleries are often mentioned in histories of Art. Copyists have
been known to leave their copies in the gallery, and carry away the
originals. Only a few months ago a valuable St. Anthony, by Murillo,
was abstracted from Seville Cathedral [1877], and carried to New York.” In
this case, fortunately, the painting was recovered by Spanish authorities,
and on its return to Seville was met with great “rejoicings”.[x]
The accepted lineage holds that both the girl and the boy were in the
collection of Countess de Verru (1737), sold to Paillet, and then they
“later appeared at the auction of the collection of Radon de Boisset in
Paris in 1777 (Curtis 1883). The paintings were identified as A
Peasant Boy Leaning on a Sill (National Gallery, London)
and Girl Raising the Veil (Carras collection, London). However,
Angulo (1981, 2, p. 298) voiced doubts that these works had been in the
Verru collection and that they had been produced as a pair.”[xi]
The discordant personas of the National Gallery’s boy, and the Carras’ girl
would have been reason enough for Angulo’s incredulity.
During its early years in France the painting was probably copied as a
matter of course. The demand for Spanish paintings was great and the size of
the boy was perfect for the cabinet-room. If this is true, there is probably
another girl floating around in the world of Murillo copies without her
suitor also; in fact, that suitor might be the one in the National Gallery
of London.
The question can also be asked,
, ‘’’: Could the boy and girl have been copied in Murillo’s studio by himself as a
replica, or by one of his students?’ It is recorded that Murillo and many
other masters of the era made replicas of there own work. The question of
copies and how they relate to the original is complicated. It has been
discussed at least as early as the 17th century. Giulio Mancini
was the first to discuss the problem of literal copies as it concerns
painting. In his Considerazioni (c1620) Mancini cautioned prospective
buyers that it is most important to determine whether a painting is an
original or a copy. Like Vico, Mancini directed the search for authenticity
to the examination of characteristic details. A collector first had to ask
whether a picture was executed at the level of perfection customary to the
master under whose name the picture was being sold. He could decide this
best by looking for the “boldness” (franchezza) of the master’s
touch:
“Especially in those parts that demand resolution and cannot be well
executed in the process of imitation, as is true in particular for hair,
beards, and eyes. Ringlets of the hair, if imitated, will betray the
laborious effect of the copy and if the copyist does not want to imitate
them, then they will in that case lack the perfection of the master. These
elements of painting are like the strokes and groups of letters in
handwriting, which require a master’s boldness and resolution. The same can
be observed in those spirited passages and scattered highlights that a
master renders with one stroke and with a touch of the brush that is
inimitably resolute; as in the folds and highlights of drapery, which depend
more on the fantasy and resolution of the master than on the verisimilitude
of the thing being represented.”[xii]
To
accomplish special tasks, the master might cut brushes in a certain
way. The quick impression that he makes with his custom-tailored brush may
take a copyist many careful strokes to imitate, thus eliminating the
freshness and virtuoso detailing of the original. The boldness of the
master’s touch and resolution, is perfectly apparent in the Guernsey
Murillo; there is nothing labourious whatsoever in the brushwork. The
brushwork in the National Gallery boy is relatively loose also, and
accounting for the slight liberty of style, if it were a copy by Murillo
himself, the period within the artist’s opus would be at polar extremes’ “an
early work versus a late work. On this basis it would be fair to cautiously
say that the one in the National Gallery might be an honest yet summary copy
of the Guernsey Murillo. It would be stretching it to consider either
of the works to be an outright forgery meant to deceive regardless of
authorship. Another fair description of the difficulties involved with the
copying process was given by Rudolf Arnheim:
detail: Peasant Boy, National Gallery, London
“When a forger endeavors to imitate someone else’s work, his anxious, puny
concerns with detail after detail resembles the mechanical copying of nature
in mindless realism. The result can be quite similar. When both are examined
in detail, the imitation exhibits what may be called an “ugly texture.” In a
genuine Van Gogh the tissue of harmonious strokes shows that the artist’s
eyes and hands were controlled by an unhampered and integrated sense of
form. Every stroke of the brush swings in the flow of the total movement. In
a typical forgery, on the contrary, each stroke is separately controlled by
the comparison of some detail of a particular original work or the artist’s
style in general. In consequence, the pattern as a whole looks incoherent.”[xiii]
Is the “ugly texture” to be seen in either of the paintings we
are concerned with here? Clive Bell is down on the uninspired copyist and
also deprecates an artist’s own copies with a verbal flurry of
distain. Only when the copy is a product of interpretation rather than a
stroke-by-stroke imitation does he accept the emotive potential of such
works:
“The good copy, the copy that moves us, is always the work of one who is
possessed by a mysterious emotion. Good copies are never attempts at exact
imitation; on examination we find always enormous differences between them
and their originals: they are the work of men or women who do not copy but
can translate the art of others into their own language. The power of
creating significant form depends, not on hawk like vision, but on some
curious mental and emotional power.”[xiv]
If one agrees with Charles A. Swinburne, which seems reasonable, “Murillo
was one of the last seriously religious painters, and his pictures, serious
or otherwise, are all stamped with the painter’s individuality. There is no
mistaking them for those of anyone else’ “an infallible test of excellence in
a painter.”
In
keeping with these concepts, might even the National Gallery’s
Peasant Boy be an interpretation by another artist? It does
feel somewhat later in style than that of the Baroque era.
The
confident gaze of the young suitor is
met by the equally open affection of the young Girl Raising the Veil.
It can be assumed that at some point throughout their history that the moral
values of the day would have disapproved of this overt show of affection.
For moral reasons might the two have been banished to separate walls. To
take this one step further: could the two have been part of the same picture
in the beginning? It is easy to be spellbound by this fable when the
Guernsey Murillo image is seen next to one of the girl in the Carras
collection.
It is important to note that typical of Murillo’s famous paintings in the
Prado, and much like the sensitive paintings by Raphael, to whom Murillo
was supposedly homogeneous, the supple full
cheeks of his youthful figures force an angular crease at the corners of the
mouth. This is almost universal among Murillo’s children, but
is absent on the possible poser in the National Gallery. Add to this, the
confident and spontaneous brushwork of the Guernsey Murillo; the
, ‘’’: illuminated shadows’ another hallmark of the artist’s genius; the eyes; the
lips, and most importantly the communion of spirits so undeniably real when
it is paired with Girl Raising the Veil’ “how can one argue against
their union.
Which of the above four pictures is most likely wrong An obvious mistake made on the picture at the National Gallery and one that Murillo was unlikely to make himself is the ineffectual placement of reflected light upon the sill. In the Guernsey Murillo the reflected light from the hand matches that on the sill precisely, whereas in the National Gallery picture this natural effect is replaced with illumination from an unknown source. The Print takes this error in an even more gruesome direction.
detail: Guernsey
Murillo, note the subtle reflection from the hand
upon the sill (there is slight damage to the canvas beside
the third finger)
Looking
at the Guernsey Murillo in purely physical terms one is
drawn to contemplate the state of preservation. At the extreme edge of the
canvas, on three sides, it is evident that the picture has been reduced in
size. To what degree will probably never be known, but if this were done in
the process of separating a larger work into smaller more saleable parts, it
might have been done for financial gain. When a larger picture is separated
into several parts, which are then sold off individually, the aggregate
value is usually enhanced. Could such an unconscionable act be the cause of
the separation of these two portraits’ “severed for the sake of greed? In 1948
Otto Kurz wrote:
“A few words should be said regarding a particularly revolting type of
vandalism which is at present assuming large proportions, namely the carving
up of pictures in order to create, ‘’’: interesting’ and easily saleable
fragments. Outsiders hardly realize how many masterpieces of old painting
are thus being sacrificed and sold piecemeal every year. The reasons for
this barbarism are obvious. It is almost impossible to find buyers for the
mythological canvases of the late Renaissance and the Baroque, which are too
large for the average modern room. But such a canvas may contain figures of
elegant Venetian ladies which, when cut out, fit into the modern rooms and
satisfy the taste of the modern collector. Single portraits find a readier
market than large portrait groups, which however, lend themselves easily for
cutting up’ Usually single heads or figures are cut out and the rest of the
picture, having become unusable, is then destroyed.” [xvi]
There is
serious reason to ponder the hypothesis that there was at one time a
surgical separation of the two Murillos. Although the Guernsey Murillo
is effectively the same size as the one in the National Gallery, the
Guernsey Murillo has been cut down on three sides! When looking at this
painting compositionally, the boy seems somewhat cramped within the picture
space, as is the girl. Could the sinews of his canvas, at one time been
connected with those of the young maiden, in turn, providing them both more
room to breath? What if the damage during separation had been done for no
other reason than to accommodate a new d (c)cor?
Apparently, in England in years gone
by, and even in the Royal collection, there was very little concern over
re-sizing a canvas merely to fit a new location. “Harsh treatment was meted
out to the pictures when, during King Charles II’s rebuilding of the State
Apartments at Windsor, many of them were cut down or enlarged so they could
be set over doors or fireplaces in the new schemes of decoration. The
cutting down and enlarging of pictures has persisted throughout the history
of the collection. Even in modern times a superintendent did not scruple to
slice a large piece off the top of a group by Zoffany or to reduce a large
pair of Winterhalters so that they would fit better into a room at Balmoral.
These are among unhappy sequels to the occasion when the Superintendent at
Windsor, early in Queen Victoria’s reign, cut down Gainsborough’s lovely
full length group of the three eldest princesses.”[xvii]
And as for the age of the replacement strainer supporting the Guernsey
boy’s canvas, it indicates that if there were a separation of the two
pictures, it would have taken place possibly two centuries ago. The
patination of an illegible inventory label on the strainer exhibits honest
atmospheric degradation of great age.
Now,
what if both paintings were painted by the same artist - one being
the replica of the other? Several years ago, Professor Guin Moriz had
corresponded with the Prado over the relationship of the two pictures and
the term replica was used. Replica, “in the fine arts [means], an
exact copy or duplicate of a work, done in the same size and in the same
medium, and done by the artist who created the original (or, sometimes, done
under the artist’s direct supervision). A replica and other replicas of the
same work, in all important respects are considered to be the equal of the
original.”[xviii]
This fair description falls flat when measured against modern museum
policy and the present-day exclusionary cataloguing syndrome that stifles
the art-world. A replica today is deemed relatively worthless. We should
ask, as a challenge to this arbitrary edict: if a work leaves an artist’s
studio with the master’s approval, might it not fairly be considered more an
autograph work than a dud? This must be true; otherwise, the art-world is
destructively faced with the faulty concept that: a work of art has
virtually no value unless it is the archetype. Execrably, in economic terms
this could mean the difference of 10,000 versus 10,000,000 dollars with a
commiserate amount of admiration given to each artwork.
The rich warm tone of the ground layer
tends to envelope Murillo’s sensitive imagery. Authentic early examples are
even more luminous with the inclusion of a subtle nimbus as is seen here
with the infant Christ.
Detail: St. Joseph Holding the Enfant Christ;
The Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts, Moscow
Fatefully,
there is a great disparity in modern attitudes towards the exact copy, even
if the original creator of the image did it. Not considered a work of art,
the copy is virtually abandoned. As mentioned before, could the reason for
this be political? In a marketplace that must promote and insure exclusivity
and rarity in order to drive up prices, equity, might take second billing.
Agreed, a later version might not be worth that of the prototype, but should
a copy be worth thousands of dollars while the accepted primary version
sells for millions?
In the case of Rubens this discrepancy seems particularly unfair
considering that his pupils and assistants, such as; Anthony van Dyck, Frans
Snyders, Jacob Jordaens, and Jan Brueghel were great artists in their own
right. Connoisseurship
necessary to differentiate genuine original paintings, from: later versions
done completely by the artist’s own hand; paintings that are collaborative
efforts between master and pupil; copies done by studio assistants;
contemporary followers; late followers; or even forgers - yes - the
necessary connoisseurship must come with experience and education. It must
also be the product of an artistic eye. The false premise that the prototype
is immeasurably more important has of course led to a greater reliance on
art expertise. Barring slim hope of resolving this dilemma, art scholarship
must necessarily be combined with proper art science, or whatever additional
corroborative evidence is available, to ensure that the art
collector/consumer is protected from error in judgment or outright
dishonesty by both crook and courtier.
In
comparing the Guernsey Murillo, there are a
number of anomalies that might dissuade one from believing that the picture
in the National Gallery is the prime version of the two. The figure in the
Guernsey Murillo has a discrete reddish areola, likely caused by the
ground pigment, and this is also seen in a number of the better-preserved
examples of the artist’s work in Spain.
If the painting in the National Gallery were truly by Murillo, the lack
of chiaroscuro and gentle brushwork would make its production at least
decades later. Professor Moriz felt that around the head of the Guernsey
boy, there is what appears to be pentimento (a change in design during its
creation). This would need confirming with appropriate tests, but if this
were the case, for obvious reasons, it would imply that it was created
before the one in the National Gallery’ “an idea that would also be reinforced
by its reduction from a larger format (the one in the National Gallery would
necessarily have been copied from the already reworked and reduced
Guernsey Murillo). In addition, the dramatic light that beams in from
the left is the same in the two paintings, Girl Raising the Veil, and
The Guernsey Murillo. This theatrical effect helps to tie them
together as a single work of art or at least as a pendant pair. The lighting
of the work in the National Gallery does this less successfully.
Guernsey Murillo
If we look closely at the illuminated shadows on the Guernsey boy we are
reminded of the artist’s special talent of blending the ethereal world of
the sacred with the mundane world of the street urchin. The subtleties of
the artist’s working method are never more apparent than when we look at the
right shoulder and upper-arm of this painting and the same area on its
suspected copy in the National Gallery. It is very evident that the copyist
has misinterpreted the subtly of the lighting and has thus created a body
that is anatomically incorrect. The illuminated shadow of the Guernsey boy’s
upper arm next to his chest becomes just another part of the boy’s chest in
the copy. The arm in the National Gallery painting, is thus, diminutive and
unnatural.
National Gallery Boy
Within the last couple of decades the accuracy of information published
on the girl and the boy has been droll, at best, and might be partly
responsible for the doubts about their pendant status. The gaffes must make
J. C. Carras in particular breath dust. It is the Girl Raising the Veil
which is owned by this London family that has been abused worst of all. In
Ludmila Kagane’s 1995 publication the plate appears wrong-way-round, the
girl faces away from the boy.[3]
And in the 1983 exhibition catalogue associated with the Royal
Academy, the title for, ‘’’: the boy leaning on a sill’ has been arbitrarily
changed to Laughing Boy, apparently because of the grin on their own
lads face. And oddly, it is partnered with another boy, A Laughing Boy
Crowned with Ivy, rather than the Carras’s beautiful maiden.
The natural hetero-pairing of Boy Leaning on a Sill with the
Carras’s Girl Raising the Veil is of course historic, and at minimum,
dates back to the 18th century Randon de Boisset collection. The
Royal Academy’s argument against their own mishappen pairing’ “a mistake in
the first place’ “was given further strength based on the reduction in
dimensions of the Carras girl. The Royal Academy catalogue argues this point
as such: “although both works are of similar scale and subject matter, it is
possible that the latter picture [the Carras picture] was cut down in the
eighteenth century so that the works would form a pair.”[xxii]
This reduction of Girl Raising
the Veil would of course have been expected in order for it to go with
The Guernsey Murillo, which had also been cut down sometime in the
distant past. The fact that the National Gallery boy was purposely
fabricated to be the same size as the Carras girl is understandable. The
painting was produced as a copy to the Guernsey Murillo, and thus, ended up
to be the same size as the girl, merely, as an unintended consequence. The
Girl Raising the Veil has been given to a very improbable suitor for
at least the last century; a match that D. Angulo recognized was not made in
heaven. He has for good reason, instinctively questioned the pairing of the
Girl Raising the Veil with the boy in the National Gallery.
The wistful question still remains, “will the Girl ever be
reunited with her soulful mate,, ‘’’: boy leaning on a sill’ ’ " The Guernsey
Murillo?”
|
“Few are those
who see with their own eyes and feel with their own hearts.”
Albert Einstein
The first half of this chapter, which is not included here, presents an interesting tale of how this painting got the name, Guernsey Murillo.
source: Excerpt Rescuing Turner: A New Age of Art Discovery:
r malcolm setters / graham setters
Lost Kauffmann Art Discovery Lost Boucher Turner un-discovery
HOME [1] Some published but apparently unreliable information indicates that the painting was donated to the British National Gallery by M. Zachary in 1929. [2] , ‘’’: Lost’ is the current status of the painting (grisaille). This original model is still unknown to the art world. [3] This is likely a production error made beyond the control of the author, and is not a rare occurrence.
[i] Denis Dutton, The Forger’s Art ’ “Forgery and the Philosophy of Art, essay by Rudolf Arnheim, On Duplication, (University of California Press, 1983), 233-234. [ii] The Illustrated London News, No. 5159 ’ " Volume 192, March 3 1938, 401. [iii] Andrea Kirsh and Rustin S. Levenson, Seeing Through Paintings, (Yale University Press, New Haven and London, 2001), 193. [iv] Frank Herrmann, Sotheby’s, Portrait of an Auction House, (Chatto and Windus, London, 1980), 367. [v] Royal Academy Of Arts, Murillo 1617-1682, (Royal Academy of Arts, with gratitude to Her Majesty’s Government, 1983), 193. [vi] Juan Antonio Gaya Nu o, L’opera completa di Murillo, (Rizzoli Editore, Milano, 1978), 112. [vii] Frank Herrmann, Sotheby’s, Portrait of an Auction House, (Chatto and Windus, London, 1980), 368. [viii] Ludmila Kagan (c), Batholome Esteban Murillo, The Spanish Master of the 17th Century, (Parkstone / Aurora Publishers, Bournemouth, England, 1995), 23. [ix] James Stothert, French and Spanish Painters, (Bickers and Son, 1877), 59. [x] Ibid. 61-62. [xi]Ludmila Kagan (c), Batholome Esteban Murillo, The Spanish Master of the 17th Century, (Parkstone / Aurora Publishers, Bournemouth, England, 1995), 70. [xii] Jeffrey M. Muller, Retaining The Original, Multiple Originals, Copies, and Reproductions, (National Gallery of Art Washington, 1989), 142-143. [xiii] Denis Dutton, The Forger’s Art ’ " Forgery and the Philosophy of Art, essay by Rudolf Arnheim, On Duplication, (University of California Press, 1983), 236. [xiv] Clive Bell, Art, (Capricorn Books, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, 1958) 8 ed., 49. [xv] James Henry Duveen, Secrets of an Art Dealer, (E.P. Dutton & Co., Inc., New York, 1938), 136. [xvi]Clive Bell, Art, (Capricorn Books, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, 1958) 8 ed, 43. [xvii] Sir Oliver Millar, The Queen’s Pictures: Royal Collections Through The Centuries, (National Gallery Publications Limited, 1991), 20. [xviii] Ralph Mayer, A Dictionary Of Art Terms And Techniques, (Barnes & Noble Books, A Division of Harper & Row, Publishers, 1981), 329-330. [xix] Jeffrey M. Muller, Retaining The Original, Multiple Originals, Copies, and Reproductions, (National Gallery of Art Washington, 1989), 144-145. [xx] Denis Dutton, The Forger’s Art ’ " Forgery and the Philosophy of Art, essay by Hope B. Werness, Han van Meegeren fecit, (University of California Press, 1983), 51. [xxi] Denis Dutton, The Forger’s Art ’ “Forgery and the Philosophy of Art, essay by Hope B. Werness, Han van Meegeren fecit, [Kilbracken, Van Meegeren: Master Forger, p. 127.] (University of California Press, 1983), 51. [xxii] Royal Academy Of Arts, Murillo 1617-1682, (Royal Academy of Arts, with gratitude to Her Majesty’s Government, 1983), 193.
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(c) setters 2003, Rescuing Turner: The Art Project & [/)