Yves Klein

IKB 67



1961, RE 6



1961, ANT 95, Anthropometry



1960, Monotone Symphony




Yves Klein was a French painter who lived from 1928 to 1962. His best known work comes from the mid-1940's to his death. These are his monochrome paintings, which began in 1946. He is particularly known for his “blue period”, during which he patented a pigment he called International Klein Blue, and worked almost exclusively in this color. He painted panels purely in this color, using different techniques for applying the paint, first using rollers to create perfectly flat surfaces. But he experimented with this, and other ways of applying the paint, like using natural sponges, and using these to build reliefs onto his panels. This experimentation led naturally to his anthropometries, which began in 1958. In these, he used the bodies of women to apply paint to his canvases—he would instruct them to cover their skin with the paint, and then make a stamped imprint of themselves on the large, upright canvases. In other works he coated plaster replicas of famous Greek sculptures with the International Klein Blue pigment, and produced a musical equivalent of his monochrome paintings, first in 1947, then in variant forms thereafter for different performances in different galleries.
He died at the age of 34 after having a series of three heart attacks in less than a month in 1962.

So, to give a sense of the ideas behind the monochrome works, we have an excerpt from Klein's own words, from his lecture at the Sorbonne in 1959.
(from book)

That was an extract from Yves Klein's lecture at the Sorbonne, from 1959. This provides an idea about his monochrome works, two of which are shown online at newexpressionist.blogspot.com. There are visible there IKB 67, a flat, deep blue panel with some ridges of texture, and RE 6, a relief with sponges. In IKB 67 there are uneven horizontal ridges, which bend and meet with each other into points in places, and fade in and out in others, rising and descending again, and remain temporarily parallel at other points. Upon close examination the ridges look like some sort of geological formation, something that could happen in nature, perhaps by the movement of wind through sand—though in the end there is not an idea that definite about it, only a good sense of the naturalness of the textural elements. There is a similar sense about RE 6, too—when looking at a reproduction of this work, one could imagine looking at a satellite image of a foreign planet. Little fragments and particles dust the surface in an irregular fashion like rocks and pebbles dusting a planet's surface. It is unclear from simply looking how this was formed; it may be that it is the result of forming the surface by applying the paint with sponges, though there are pieces scattered about that seem too large for that, more like sticky pieces of the pigment, dropped around like dust. Of course, the most prominent element of the relief is the scattering of sea sponges. They are round, rough, and completely soaked with paint, so their texture blends quite well with that of the panel, like boulders on a planet's surface, and of course the color is completely uniform. The only variations are the shadows from the textural elements. And the color, being this very deep, very saturated blue that one would have a difficulty finding in nature, is indeed the main point of this work, as Klein articulated in his 1959 lectures.


His exploration of the aesthetics of a pure space was not confines to this use of color, though. He also explored the use of pure empty space in works such as the Void, and the Zones of Immaterial Pictoral Sensibility. The Void came first, in 1958. Its full title was “The Specialization of Sensibility in the Raw Material State into Stabilized Pictorial Sensibility, The Void,” and in this, an empty space was put on exhibition at the Iris Clert gallery. The space was kept flat white, except for a blue curtain over a the entrance to the gallery, a window which was painted blue, and a cabinet—the only object not removed from the gallery. From 1959 onward, the Zones of Immaterial Pictoral Sensibility occurred-- this has been termed a kind of performance piece, though that description does not seem to suit it entirely properly. In this piece, Klein would exchange areas of empty space in Paris for gold. In both works, the buyer would get a certificate of ownership of the space. In the Zones of Immaterial Pictoral Sensibility though, if the buyer agreed to set fire to the certificate, half the gold would be thrown into the river, and this would restore the natural order that had been upset by the selling of the empty space. This relates to the monochrome works in the idea of experiencing objects entirely in their absence, or in the fleeting imprints made upon them. It's more like the white canvases of Robert Rauschenberg, in which the viewer's shadows and reflections made up the art work—but there is also the aspect to it that is more like Klein's own monochrome works: as those were about appreciating the aesthetic of the pure color, the Void and the Zones of Immaterial Pictoral Sensibility are about the aesthetic appreciation of an empty space.

A more obvious parallel to Klein's monochrome paintings is his Monotone Symphony. The piece was first composed in 1949, three years after the beginning of his monochrome paintings. It is written to consist of 20 minutes of a single sustained tone, followed by 20 minutes of silence. Since 1949 it was realized in various different versions. The first was with an exhibit of International Klein Blue paintings at the Iris Clert Gallery in 1957, produced by tape.

In another, on March 9, 1960, at the International Gallery of Contemporary Art in Paris, Klein conducted a performance of the piece by a ten piece orchestra. Before going any further in talking about this performance event, here is a one minute excerpt from this performance.

This went on for 20 minutes, followed by 20 minutes of a strict silence. At the gallery, as this was happening, the visitors had all arrived in formal wear, and simultaneous with the performance of the Monotone Symphony, an Anthropometry painting was produced. The two elements of this performance can be seen together in some of the photographs. The orchestra is arranged seated along one of the walls with an International Klein Blue painting behind them. In front of them, there is paper laid out across the floor, on which the International Klein Blue paint is spread. The panel on which the Anthropometry work is being produced is set upright along a wall at the left. There is a series of steps along the edge of this wall, which allows the models to reach different heights along the panel. In the photograph that I've shown online, one imprint is already visible, and two models are shown. One is still covering herself with paint, and another is standing on one of the steps, about ready to create the imprint of herself. Yves Klein is between these two events—the making of the anthropometry and the line of instrumentalists, so that he can conduct both of them. For the anthropometry paintings, he needs only to instruct the models on where to position themselves; he does not need to touch even a drop of the paint.

The name for the Anthropometry paintings comes from an old scientific practice of the early 20th century, used primarily in tracking criminals. A variety of bodily measurements were taken, like stature, length and width of head, and lengths of left middle and little fingers. There were 12 total measurements, selected by Alphonse Bertillon, after he took a variety of anthropometric measurements over time, and found these most consistent over the duration of a person's life. The practice of using anthropometric measurements was more efficient and effective than the use of photographs, as even one piece of information would very much reduce the number of pictures one would have to sift through. But, it ultimately fell out of favor, becoming obsolete with the rise of fingerprinting. Klein's Anthropometries are more like larger fingerprints, being imprints of the entire body. These, the selling of empty spaces, and the monochrome works were all continued until the artist's death in 1962.

Artemisia Gentileschi and Elisabetta Sirani--two women of the Italian Baroque

1612-3 Judith Slaying Holofernes -- Artemisia Gentileschi



1620 Judith Slaying Holofernes -- Artemisia Gentileschi



1664 Portia Wounding he Thigh -- Elisabetta Sirani




Artemisia Gentileschi was born in from 1593, and died at an uncertain date, from 1652 to 1656. She was the daughter of another painter, Orazio Gentileschi, who was very much influenced by Caravaggio. She was born in Rome, introduced to art through her father's work. In the studio she showed talent much greater than that of her brothers, yet in 1612 the all male Roman art academies refused to admit her into their program. Orazio then tried to hire one of his colleagues, Agostino Tassi, as a private tutor for Artemisia. But, this did not exactly work as planned—Tassi raped Artemisia, and charges were only brought against Tassi when it was found out that Tassi did not intend to marry Artemisia. The trial then lasted seven months, bringing notoriety to the artist. The minutes from this trial still exist today, and reveal a good deal about the social conditions of women in the early baroque era. Artemisia moved out to Florence in 1614, and worked there until 1620, when she returned to Rome, and traveled to Venice. In Florence she was quite successful as a painter, and while there, she did become the first woman admitted into the Academy of Drawing. She was able to gain friendship with the Grandduke and Grandduchess, contemporary artists of the area, and other important figures of the area, like Galileo Galilei, with whom she maintained some correspondence even after leaving Florence.

In Florence she focused on a few religious stories in which women play a significant role. She painted multiple works of the repentant Mary Magdalene, the prostitute and general sinner who meets Christ, repents, and converts to a life of servitude to god. These representations tend to emphasise her desperation and agony. There are paintings of Judith beheading Holofernes, and of Susanna with the elders. Both these stories are included in Catholic versions of the bible, but excluded from the Protestant versions. The story of Judith has its own book in the Catholic bible, included as part of the Old Testament. Judith is upset at the Isrealites for failing to trust God to deliver them from their oppressors, so she takes matters to her own hands. She goes to the enemy's general, Holofernes, and slowly gains his trust. Once she gains access to his tent, she takes the opportunity to murder him, with the assistance of her maid. She brings the head of Holofernes back to the Israelites, and the Assyrians, who have been oppressing them, disperse about, departing in a disorganised manner, having then lost their general. Judith becomes celebrated as a heroic figure, and she is courted, though remains unmarried for the rest of her life.

In the modern Catholic bible the Susanna story is included as an appendage to the book of Daniel. The conflict over whether to include Susanna in the canon, which occurred in the baroque era, adds a political dimension to artistic representations of the scene. In the story of Susanna, Susanna is falsely accused of infidelity. Two elders come upon her while she is bathing in the garden, and threaten to send out false accusations against her, unless she allows them sexual gratification. Susanna refuses this blackmail, and the elders make public accusations against her of promiscuity. When Susanna is about to be put to death, Daniel arrives and convinces the judges to question the two elders separately. When they are apart, the elders' stories disagree, and it becomes obvious that they are lying, so Susanna is released. It has been speculated that Gentileschi's use of this story is related to her own rape, that she used the story partly as a way to insert an autobiographical element to her work. Her use of Judith Beheading Holofernes, as well, which she first painted around 1612 to 1613, has also been speculated to be related to these events in her own life, though rather than a direct depiction of her life, rather as a means of expressing a desire for revenge. But, these psychological hypotheses about Artemisia's work remain very much speculative; there really isn't enough of an historical record to offer any input on the matter.

In 1630 she went to Naples, and in 1638 she and her father went to England to work on a commissioned ceiling painting. Orazio died the next year, though Artemisia stayed in the country to work on her own commissions. It is not known how long she stayed there, but she left by 1642, when a civil war broke out in the country. Little is known about her whereabouts after this period, though she did return to Naples. Records are sparse from this time, though in her latest known letter, of 1650, Artemisia states that she is still actively involved in making art. Due to the sparse historical record, it is not known whether she died around 1653, as has been usually believed, or if she died later in a plague that swept the city in 1656, as per another speculation.

In general, Gentileschi's style is usually quite influenced by that of Caravaggio, though it is indirect. Her exposure to his style came from her father's use of the techniques. This included primarily the use of tenebrism and chiaroscuro. Tenebrism refers to the use of very intense shadows. It comes from the Latin term tenebre, which refers to shadows. In particular, tenebrism refers to the kind of very intense shadows in which the background is nearly a flat black, and the forms being depicted have very uncertain edges. Much of the forms themselves can be covered in the same shadows that dominate the background, and only particular lit surfaces are visible. This was a rather new technique when Caravaggio began using it in the late sixteenth century, and it would still have been considered a fairly new development in painting in Artemisia's time, though it was a few generations after Caravaggio's work. Chiaroscuro is a somewhat related concept, but it is more general than tenebrism—it simply refers to the strong contrast between light and dark spaces. Later, it came also to refer to the technique in drawing of working on a coloured paper, and drawing in both dark outlines as usual, along with a layer of white for highlighting. Artemisia Gentileschi came to master the use of both tenebrism and chiaroscuro in her paintings. This is especially evident in her earlier works, like in her two versions of Judith slaying Holofernes—one was painted in 1612 to 1613, and another version was made in 1620 using a very similar composition. Compared to Caravaggio's work, however, Gentileschi's forms are rendered more realistically rather than idealistically. Her figures tend to have heavier bodies, which in combination with the more realistic treatment and the often violent subject matter, communicate an intense kind of strength. The figures often resemble Gentileschi's self portraits, especially in their facial features and their heavier forms.

These aspects are quite evident in her two versions of Judith Beheading Holofernes. The earlier version, made around the time or soon after her rape trial, is currently located at Naples. Both the Naples version and the later painting, made around 1620, are shown online at newexpressionist.blogspot.com. Both show Judith at the right, driving a sword through Holofernes' neck. Holofernes is lying in a bed, positioned so that his head is nearest to the viewer, and the rest of his body extends back and to the left. Both Judith and her maid are also on this bed. The maid is in the centre of this cluster of figures, holding Holofernes down. Judith is at the right, extending her arms to the left, one to hold Holofernes' head in place, and one to pull the sword in. The cut begins from the outside; Judith hods the sword down, and pulls in toward her.

The painting is compositionally intense; the six arms of the three figures converge on the central point around Holofernes' neck, though in a fairly disorganised manner. It is full of diagonal lines and triangular forms, which are visually quite active. In the 1620 version of the scene this effect is increased by the addition of space to the left, which allows for the inclusion of additional diagonals for Holofernes' legs. There is pressure being exterted in all directions from this central point. Judith is clenching her fists tightly, at the handle of her sword and below that, the side of Holofernes' head. His hair is visible between her fingers, being pulled violently, and the skin on his face wrinkles from the pressure. Holofernes reaches up to the maid, tightly grabbing the collar of her dress, and the maid presses down at Holofernes. In the 1620 version a stream of blood shoots up toward Judith, adding another dynamic line, and to the overall level of violence in the scene.

Compared to one another, the main difference evident is the wider view in the 1620 version. Additional space is included above, below, and to the left in this version. The 1612 version is somewhat of a compressed image; the maid's head seems pressed in at the top of the canvas. Also, Judith's sword is smaller in the 1612 version, the lower part of it almost seeming, because of the way the light is painted falling on it, to be something printed onto the bedsheets rather than an extension of the same sword that Judith grasps. This effect is eliminated in the 1620 version, in which it is wider and lit somewhat strongly along its edges, and extends farther down. In fact, in the 1620 version the sword itself can be said to add to the dramatic pressure of the image.


From here we move on to another artist, Elisabetta Sirani. She lived from 1638 to 1665 in the north Italian city of Bologna, the capital city of the province Emilia-Romagna. Her father, Giovanni Andrea Sirani, was also a painter. Bologna was a strong centre for painting in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, rivaling Rome and Florence. For an amount of time, Elisabetta Sirani was one of the most important and well known painters in the Bolognese school. She achieved fame for her virtuosity of technique—her ability to complete paintings at an impressively quick rate, and for her pure character and demure personality. Patrons, art aficionados, and others curious about her painting would come to her studio and watch her work. At the peak of her fame, when she was just 27 years old, she died under suspicious circumstances—at least one close friend believed that the artist had been poisoned, but this was never confirmed.

Her 1664 painting, Portia Wounding Her Thigh, from just one year before her suspicious death, shows a scene from Plutarch's Life of Marcus Brutus. Brutus was one of the conspirators in the murder of Julius Caesar, and Portia was his wife. In the end of the story, she commits suicide to demonstrate her loyalty to her husband, in the original version, by suffocating herself with burning coals. The scene in the painting is an earlier one, as Portia is just beginning to sense that her husband is involved in a dangerous plot of some sort. Here is the passage from Plutarch:

This Porcia, being addicted to philosophy, a great lover of her husband, and full of an understanding courage, resolved not to inquire into Brutus's secrets before she had made this trial of herself. She turned all her attendants out of her chamber, and, taking a little knife, such as they use to cut nails with, she gave herself a deep gash in the thigh; upon which followed a great flow of blood, and, soon after, violent pains and a shivering fever, occasioned by the wound. Now when Brutus was extremely anxious and afflicted for her, she, in the height of all her pain, spoke thus to him: "I, Brutus, being the daughter of Cato, was given to you in marriage, not like a concubine, to partake only in the common intercourse of bed and board, but to bear a part in all your good and all your evil fortunes; and for your part, as regards your care for me, I find no reason to complain; but from me, what evidence of my love, what satisfaction can you receive, if I may not share with you in bearing your hidden griefs, nor be admitted to any of your counsels that require secrecy and trust? I know very well that women seem to be of too weak a nature to be trusted with secrets; but certainly, Brutus, a virtuous birth and education, and the company of the good and honorable, are of some force to the forming our manners; and I can boast that I am the daughter of Cato and the wife of Brutus, in which two titles though before I put less confidence, yet now I have tried myself, and find that I can bid defiance to pain." Which words having spoken, she showed him her wound, and related to him the trial that she had made of her constancy; at which he being astonished, lifted up his hands to heaven, and begged the assistance of the gods in his enterprise, that he might show himself a husband worthy of such a wife as Porcia. So then he comforted his wife.

This, again, is the source text for the scene in Sirani's painting Portia wounding her Thigh, from Plutarch's Life of Brutus. Sirani chooses a rather obscure scene for this painting, probably in part because there was a demand in the baroque for images of strong women, which would have also been satisfied as well by the last paintings we saw, Gentileschi's depictions of Judith slaying Holofernes. Portia demonstrates her strength by demanding that she be treated as an equal, rather than as a pet-like creature too delicate to be allowed awareness of the brutal world of politics. From the modern standpoint, it seems odd that a demonstration of loyalty to her husband would be taken as an image of a strong female character. Certainly the two characteristics are not exclusive of one another, but increased loyalty to one's husband is still not seen as the usual route for beginning to assert one's strength as a woman—it is usually instead some sort of act of independence that is expected. The scene with Portia shows a strong female character from the existing cultural context of the baroque period, in a manner that does not subvert existing gender roles, but expresses a greater strength within them.

In terms of the technical aspects of the image, Portia is shown at the right side of the frame, sitting on a bench in front of a flat wall with a dark curtain draped over the right edge. This wall takes up approximately three quarters of the image, and at the left there is a doorway through which Brutus and his colleagues are visible conspiring and discussing the important matters in which Portia wants to be involved. They are shown in a mistier lighting situation, without heavy shadows, being that they are in the background. In the foreground Portia is wearing a bright red dress which falls loosely off of her left shoulder. She extends her leg out, so that her shin extends a bit beyond the door frame. Her skirts are pulled up to reveal her thigh being stabbed. Her foot of the leg that is revealed is cut off at the lower part of the frame, and the other is concealed under a massive pile of crumpled fabric. She is holding her right arm up, grasping her small dagger, preparing to stab. Two small wounds are already visible on her thigh, though she does not appear to be bleeding profusely yet. Her eyes look intently and unemotionally at the point she wishes to stab.

The upper right corner of the painting is filled by a dark corner, in front of which Portia's head and shoulder are positioned. This creates a kind of tenebrist or chiaroscuro effect with Portia's very light skin. Bolognese painting at the time was noted mostly for its emphasis on classicism, but this aspect of Portia Wounding her Thigh shows that Sirani was aware of modern trends in painting, and could use them to her own advantage. There can even be inferred a symbolic significance in using the more modern technique around the woman in her expression of strength. The use of violent subject matter such as this was also more characteristic of the Baroque than earlier periods. This painting shows the artist's ability to mix classical compositional elements, like the triangular arrangement of figures in the background, with a more modern sensibility. It is certainly less radically violent, and less extreme in its use of chiaroscuro, than the earlier work of Gentileschi, but both were aware of these techniques, and with them and additional influences, were able to develop their own artistic styles.

Johannes Vermeer

The Astronomer, 1668



The Geographer, 1668-9



Lady Writing a Letter with her Maid, 1670



Woman in Blue Reading a Letter, 1663-4



A Girl Reading a Letter by an Open Window, 1657


The Geographer was painted from 1668 to 1669, around the same time as a very similar painting, The Astronomer, of 1668. The paintings show the same model, wearing the same blue robes, in similar settings of scientific work.

The Astronomer is situated to the right side of the canvas, in a profile view, although facing away from the viewer. He is leaning forward actively, toward his window at the left, stretching his hand out to a globe on the desk. His other hand is set on the edge of the desk nearest the viewer, supporting him as he stretches forward, as though in a quick bout of inspiration, caught completely in his work. It is already late in the day, as one can tell from the golden light that pours in through the window.

The Geographer, in contrast, shows the scientist interrupted from his work. He is facing in a forward position, leaning forward once again, over a large sheet of paper spread roughly about over the desk, holding a compass. The same globe that the Astronomer leans toward is visible in this painting, set atop a high wardrobe. In both paintings, the scientist presses his left hand to the same corner of the desk, supporting himself while leaning forward. The geographer would have been supporting himself in the astronomer's manner a moment ago, but his attention has just been diverted. He looks up, out the window to the left, just quickly and momentarily distracted from his work. The hour is closer to the morning or afternoon; the light that pours into the room is of a more pale silver character.

In both paintings, there is a similar blue and gold ornamental carpet appears tossed over the front side of the desk. In the Astronomer's, the pattern is a European looking floral pattern. On the whole, the Astronomer has a more organised and geometric composition than the Geographer. The astronomer's body forms two equilateral triangles with a common vertex, one between the edge of his back at the right of the painting, and his left arm, and the other between his left and right arms. These form the main diagonals of the piece. The rest of the elements of the painting consist primarily of rectangular forms. The desk is set at straight horizontals and verticals. The background is full of strong verticals, from the chair on which the astronomer sits, the windows at the left, the wardrobe, a chart displayed on the front of the wardrobe's doors, and the space between this wardrobe and a dark, obscure painting on the wall to the right of it. It is very carefully organised, and the astronomer's pose tends not to seem completely spontaneous. The geometry of the composition, the astronomer's gesture of complete focus on his work, and the gold light and deep shadows of the evening hour, all work together to make a calm, yet intense mood, intimate, and almost mystical in nature, well suited for a depiction of the study of the outer cosmos—a mysterious and unfamiliar realm at any period in our history yet, but even more so in the Baroque era when this was painted, at the dawn of the scientific revolution.

The composition in The Geographer is a more disheveled one. Papers are more scattered about; the books set atop the wardrobe are set on their side with their inconsistent pages shown, rather than neatly upright, arranged by their height, as in the Astronomer. The globe is set there as well, set aside and out of use, but not neatly out of the way. In his frontally oriented position, the geographer's robe even looks more disorganised than the astronomer's, even though it is the same robe, simply because from the front, a white and a red-orange layer of fabric are visible under the blue one. This disheveled appearance is well suited for the subject, the geographer figure just interrupted from his work. This effect is accomplished most directly by subtly changing the angle from which the viewer sees the scene. In the Astronomer, the viewer sees a direct frontal view. In The Geographer, the viewer has taken a few steps to the right, and stepped back to get a wider view. The facade of the wardrobe and window sill are revealed. The chair is removed; the figure is standing at the center of the painting instead, hunched over his map in a mostly frontal view. This change in his position upsets the balance of the painting, as well. Where in the Astronomer the figure and the window created a symmetry of visual weight, in the Geographer the figure is situated more centrally, leaving the right side of the painting unoccupied but for small objects, light in terms of visual weight. The movement of the figure and the chair reveal scattered papers on the floor and diffuse areas of light and shadow about the rear wall, which has more of a cool gray tone under the daylight, than the warm brown that it takes on in The Astronomer. The space is more open in the Geographer, because a wider angle is depicted, and because the scientist is not covering the right side of the wall. The carpet on the desk, although very much arranged in nearly the same way as the Astronomer's, also suggests the worldliness of the geographer. Rather than the comparatively sparse European floral design, we see a denser pattern, with decorative borders blocking off different spaces, suggesting the carpets of the Middle East. Its patterns are unclear in places, and may well still be of a mostly European design. Though it is visually busier, while comparatively, the Astronomer's carpet seems to suggest a certain sort of calmness in mood.

The Geographer's painting suggests to me an ambiguous dual sense of worldliness. On one hand, it is the mundane practicalities of everyday life, as opposed to the intellectual pursuits of the Astronomer, which verge on the mystical, somehow simultaneously more cerebral or requiring more introspection, and centering around the wider reaches of space, the distant cosmos, the heavens, the planets, and stars. On the other hand, the Geographer's worldliness is a broadness and openness of knowledge and experience, far beyond the basic practical needs within a particular small city. Although, this is remaining withing the context of life on Earth and within human societies. An uneasy balance between these states is shown in the Geographer, seemingly expressed even through the daylight which silently pours through the window, onto fragments of the wall, to the carpet, and over the geographer's face and robes.

The Geographer's worldliness is related to a familiarity with the human affairs of a multiplicity of other lands. The Astronomer's focus rests at more distant spheres, far away from Earth, which leads him to become detached from the mundane human or Earthly matters, and so seemingly more isolated and introverted, because from the point of view of another part of the human world, there isn't much connection—the connections pursued are instead made toward parts of the universe even more distant than the distant human cultures, upon which the Geographer places his focus.

Vermeer's two scientist paintings, then, show distinctly different concepts of intellectual pursuit, in what are otherwise very similar paintings. They are compositionally very similar; they show the same model in the same space, even wearing the same robes, and his hair tied back in the same manner. These similarities make it easier for the viewer to discern the differences between the two. But it also has the effect of communicating that, for their differences, neither of the manners of scientific pursuit are better than the other; they are simply different areas of study. They are both vital and worthwhile, providing useful and fascinating knowledge. Equally, they are expressive of the human capacity to gain knowledge, of a particular human energy in an intellectual pursuit and work.


The next paintings centre around a more common topic in Vermeer's paintings. The Astronomer and the Geographer are his only paintings of scientists, although the communication by letters is a more recurring element in his paintings, appearing throughout his career. Women are shown in the various stages of the process of communication by letter, the writing of the letters, the reading of them, and receiving these letters from their maids. Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid is a later painting, from 1670, five years before the artist's death. It shows a seemingly urgent scene of a seated woman, writing a letter at a table, keeping an intent focus upon her work, and a maid looking out the window, waiting for the writer to finish. The scene is set apparently at the same window as that which is used in the scientist paintings, a particular corner that occurs often in Vermeer's paintings, presumably being the artist's studio with different props and furniture items arranged to make a different setting. The space shows the corner of a room with gray walls, with a wall at the left and windows visible, and the rear wall shown fairy close by. It has been hypothesised that this setup, having windows to the left of an image, was a common aspect of Dutch baroque paintings of interior scenes for practical reasons, which stem from the fact that most of the time, the artist is working directly from observation, especially on preliminary drawings that will later make up the completed paintings. The artist is standing, facing forward, with an easel in front of him, and an arrangement of objects or a model a greater distance away. But, the only light available, most of the time, is sunlight. And the sunlight, coming in through only one wall, will cause a shadow to be cast. If the artist is right handed, as is the majority condition, setting oneself up such that the window is at the left helps to avoid an interference from the shadow. One's right hand is up, and one needs to see the area to the left, in front of where the hand is. The light is coming from the left, and the shadow is then behind the hand.

Whatever the reason, this kind of an interior space occurs quite frequently in Vermeer's paintings, including in this one, Lady Writing a Letter to her Maid. The space is changed to denote different kinds of rooms by the use of furniture and other props. Here, there is the table where the letter writer works, with a red carpet draped over it, some dark curtains at the foreground which frame the left half of the image, a lighter, shorter, and thinner set of curtains set at the right side of the windows, near the room's rear corner. The back wall is taken up almost entirely by a large painting, an outdoor scene, apparently a more prestigious kind of religious or mythological painting, with four or five figures visible, including a seated woman holding a baby, in conversation with a man nearby. There is a chair in front of the table, and there are a few scraps of paper of the floor in the foreground.

One can very easily build a narrative from a look at the figures in the painting. It seems a rather urgent situation; both figures look impatient in their tasks. The writer is certainly focused and busy, and the maid is looking out the window, intently but quickly, as though looking for something or someone outside. Her mouth seems a bit open, as though she is saying something to herself, or preparing to say something to the writer. It seems unusual that the maid would be standing there for the writing of the letter, so this suggests that instead, the maid had brought the lady a particularly important letter, and it was necessary to write and send out a response immediately.

Woman in Blue Reading a Letter is another painting, a considerably earlier one, of 1663-4, showing a different kind of scene, within a the same topic of communication by letter. The woman is simply standing alone with the letter, wearing a large pale blue house coat. She is standing in a profile view at approximately the center of the image, in front of a sunlit wall with a large map over it. The lower half of the painting has other pieces of furniture visible, dark blue tables and chairs.

The narrative that one gets from this painting is a significantly simpler one—simply reading a letter. There isn't very much of a sense of when it was received, or any specific details of a narrative like that. Instead, it is a more general depiction of a domestic event. The reading of a letter had certainly been taken on by Vermeer at least once before, in a surviving painting from 1657. Both of these show a similar kind of composition, fairly geometric, with a woman at the center, in profile, facing the left window to read her letter. But, compositionally, the later painting is more successful. The earlier painting, A Girl Reading a Letter by an Open Window, is still quite superb in terms of its brush work and its treatment of light, though the actual arrangement of objects in the picture plane comes across as haphazard or even clumsy. There is an open window with a curtain draped over it, and in front of the woman is a bed, or a low table, with a red carpet draped over it, and a sprawling bowl of fruit. There is an excess of space on the wall for almost the entire upper third of the painting, and most oddly, the right side of the painting is dominated by a completely arbitrary pale green curtain, of a thick looking fabric. Its upper bar extends across the canvas near the top, and the curtain's lower edge nearly meets the lower edge of the painting. It doesn't seem to actually logically fit in with the space that is being depicted—it looks very much like something that was added later in order to take up some extra space. It is overall very cluttered at the lower two thirds, with a haphazard arrangement of furniture that distracts from the reader, the main subject of the painting, while the top third of the painting seems to consist primarily of unnecessary space. Woman in Blue Reading a Letter shows a more refined execution of the same subject. The point of view is closer, which cuts back on unnecessary space, and places more emphasis on the reader, who then appears larger than in the earlier painting. There is not an excess of furniture, and the dark shadowy forms that are there for the chairs and tables are set to the sides of the canvas, not in the way of the figure, only what is needed to give a sense of a real space. The window is also not shown. It is implied instead by the strong sunlight on the wall. Geometrically, the painting is arranged simply into quadrants, in which the upper right and lower left are occupied by dark objects—the draped table, and a map on the wall; and the upper left and lower right are mostly the blank wall, though the upper left is certainly the lightest space. The woman in the center is also strongly lit. The arrangement of light and open space creates a strong diagonal, based around the source of light and the action of reading the letter.

In the later Woman Writing a Letter with her Maid, there is less of an obvious geometricity to the composition, though there is still an emphasis on the diagonal light from the upper left window. There are two rows of windows, and it is the upper row that casts the strongest light on to the curtains. Light moves from there, to the writer, who is wearing a dress and bonnet of pale cream tones, which keeps the emphasis on her intense focus. The pieces of furniture and walls are still viewed from somewhat of a frontal position, which suggests something of a grid, but there is not a very immediately apparent arrangement on a grid format. But, the composition remains quite balanced.

These are not the only paintings related to letter communication that Vermeer painted by any means, and they hint at a strange social aspect to this method of communication. Being a form of communication, by its very nature, it involves an association between two people, at minimum. There are numerous others involved in delivery and transport of the letters, but as for the actual reading and writing of the contents of the letter, there are in particular the sender and the recipient. It is by nature a social activity, a form of communication, yet the act of writing, and the act of reading, tend to be intensely private activities. This is the emphasis in the earlier letter reader paintings, in which only one figure is shown, with a letter, reading. It is a domestic, private, intimate activity, though other people must be involved to allow that moment to occur. There are depictions by Vermeer of letters being delivered, and these tend to show a jarring disagreement between the social aspect of the delivery, and the private activity of reading the letter. In Woman Writing a Letter With her Maid this tension is overcome for the most part by the urgency of the situation, although the maid still looks away, crosses her arms, and seems in some uncertain state of beginning, somehow, to speak. There is a nuanced relationship between social and private activity in the process of letter writing, changing at the various stages of the process, studied extensively in Vermeer's paintings throughout his career.

Woodcut Methods

1734, Torii Kiyonobu II: Two Actors, Ichikawa Danjuro II in the role of Fuwa no Banzaemon and Segawa Kikujiro I in the role of Burei no Ikkaku, hand coloured woodcut



1893-4, Paul Gauguin: Te Alua (God)



Asger Jorn: Sommerreise




This installment of Various Works of Art is a bit different from our earlier shows, which all dealt in particular with the work of a single artist. Today, the focus is instead on the medium of wood block printing and the techniques that can be involved with the process. This spans over a very large amount of time, though the particular works I will be bringing up are only from the eighteenth to twentieth centuries.

Woodcut prints have been made in East Asia since as early as the ninth century of the common era, even well before the famous invention by Gutenberg of the movable type printing press in Germany, in which each letter is a separate stamp, so each page can be taken apart and reassembled as needed. Metal movable type developed in Korea by the early fifteenth century, independently of European technologies, though wood block printing remained in common use. It was not that one technology was really better or more advanced than the other; both had their advantages and disadvantages. Wood block printing was an altogether more economical process; it did not take a very high economic status to be able to begin work. One simply had to obtain carving tools, wood, and calligraphic texts to work from, and ink and paper, and begin producing and selling books. One did not even need to be able to read the texts that one was printing. This was made easier still by the ease of working with the papers and inks in use in China at the time, which could transfer ink so easily that only a brush was needed, not even a printing press.

Over history in East Asian societies wood block printing has been in use both for functional or practical use, and for more purely artistic images. Texts also would often be illustrated. In Europe wood block printing was used similarly, though movable type printing methods took over for the printing of text. For some time movable type and woodcuts were used along side one another, with wood blocks used to illustrate texts printed on movable type. In modern times, woodcut printing has taken on more of a purely artistic function. The medium was rather popular with the German expressionists of the early twentieth century. To this day, woodcut remains one of the simpler, or more directly intuitive printmaking processes.

The basic procedure starts with a flat, smooth block of wood. An image can be drawn on to the surface of the board. Areas that one does not want to be printed must be removed with carving tools, forming a low relief. So, if you are printing a black image on a white sheet of paper, the spaces that will be black are left alone, and the spaces on the block that will be white are carved away. To make prints with multiple colors, usually more than one block of wood must be used. Once the wood is carved, its surface is coated with ink, and the inked block is set face down on to a sheet of paper. The paper and block are flipped over, so that the paper is set face down, above the block, which is face up. To transfer the ink from the wood to the paper, pressure must be applied. This can be done manually with a tool like a spoon, or with printing presses, which essentially just apply consistent pressure down at whatever is being printed. For the most part, though, in modern working settings, it is best not to apply pressure to the print manually, because wood blocks, which often have curved or otherwise inconsistent shapes, might crack or break under the consistent pressure of the printing presses.



The first woodcut print here has rather a long title, referred to now as Two Actors, Ichikawa Danjuro II in the role of Fuwa no Banzaemon and Segawa Kikujiro I in the role of Burei no Ikkaku. This serves, simply enough, as a description of who and what is shown. The print was made by Torii Kiyonobu II, and it is dated as from 1734. There are two figures acting, as the title suggests. The one to the left is standing, and looking down to a seated, irritated figure at the right. The standing figure seems to have been walking away, turning back only briefly, interrupted by the seated man, turning back nonchalantly, or with a bit of annoyance.

This print uses a technique that had been in use for centuries earlier than the early eighteenth, when this was produced, across cultures. In this print, color is achieved by adding it in by hand. One block of wood is carved, and this becomes the base for the black outline of the image. It is made knowing that color will be added by hand afterwards, and an uncoloured print would be considered incomplete. This same sort of technique was used not only in Japanese prints like this one, but also rather commonly in medieval Europe. Religious images would often be produced in that era, mostly for travelers on pilgrimages, for keeping or display later. The woodcut method allows the pictures to be produced more quickly and in greater quantity than it would be possible if each sheet were hand drawn entirely, and additionally, the printers do not need to carve more than one block, or worry about aligning them properly. In Japan prints such as the one shown here were made from the eighteenth to the early 20th century, mostly for the merchant class, who would desire art, while being unable to afford quite the kinds of paintings that would have been made for the courtly class.

In this print, you can see four colors of ink, excluding the black, which was printed from a wood block. Red, yellow, and a pale orange are used throughout the print, and a blue-gray appears in the standing actor's robes. In order to get another four colors in a purely printed manner, another four blocks of wood would have to be carved, and the blocks would have to align perfectly, when actually printing them, and when making the drawings and the carvings. This technique did not yet exist in 1734 when this print was made; it was invented later in the century by Suzuki Harunobu, who was producing multi-block prints by the 1760's. In this print, instead, there are thin layers of color added in a thin paint, perhaps either a watercolor, or a thin kind of oil paint. Indeed, these colors do appear to have been added quite quickly. In prints of the European middle ages that used this same kind of technique, the kinds of colors used are still similar to the ones here, in that the inks seem transparent, as they would need to be if one were to paint at all over the first black lines. But in the Two Actors print, spaces of colour do not really stay inside the lines; each block seems to escape its boundary or fail to fill its own space in at least one place. The regions of color blend freely, correlating to the wood image only on a basic level. In the background, maple leaves in the woodcut all appear to have a set of five thin lobes. In the ink that goes over the woodcut, there is a single red dot where each leaf goes. This makes rather a charming effect, in which the woodcut and its colors seem almost to be in disagreement with one another. In a way, they really are in disagreement, yet at the same time are not. There are two techniques, both of which are used to keep the rate of production a quick one. The appearance of the two techniques are quite different. The colors consist of big, which strokes that make generalised blocks of colour where they are necessary. They are messy, basic, and rapidly executed. In the woodcut, the image is kept simple as well, but simply as a matter of how the image is produced, this results in clean lines and boundaries between light and dark areas. This was probably produced rather more carefully than the coloring; the quickness of the process results more from the ability to repeat the same image multiple times once it is produced once, than a quicker execution on each image, as is done for the painted section. Though the goal of each part of the process is a similar one, towards greater quickness of process, the results are quite different for one another. It is an especially prominent disagreement in this print in particular. One could even say that on a thematic level, the discord between the two methods in the techniques echoes the annoyed conflict between the characters that are depicted, though it is quite unlikely that this was something that was made consciously when the print series was first produced.

Japanese prints like these became quite popular in Europe by the late nineteenth century. Trade between Europe and Japan became possible around the 1860's; after that Japanese prints could be imported into Europe. By that time the prints made did not often contain hand colouring; they were typically coloured by using multiple blocks. The prints that were imported to Europe tended to be contemporary products; eighteenth century prints such as the one shown were less common, owned more by particular connoisseurs. By the 1890's, Japanese prints had become quite popular among artists. In Paris, a brief trend among post-impressionist artists developed, known as Japonisme. There are prints by the various artists, as well as paintings, that directly borrow from Japanese techniques and visual conventions, as well as more subtle kinds of influence, in which styles and techniques are borrowed and incorporated into the artist's work.

Paul Gauguin's Te Alua, or God is a print of this period, made from 1893 to 1894. However, it does not fit very nicely into the category of Japonist prints. Gauguin was quite an independent and unique artist. He is most remembered today for his depictions of Tahiti and the people of the islands, and his travels there. He was born in France, and was involved with the impressionists in the 1870's. He first traveled briefly to Panama in 1887, then permanently to Tahiti in 1891, painting images of their village life. After 1897 he lived at the Marquesas islands, often taking the side of the islanders in their conflicts with the Catholic church. Over the entirety of his time at these tropical islands he returned to Paris only on one instance. The print, Te Alua, was made well into his time in Tahiti. Gauguin was influential in his use of woodcut, in popularizing the use of the print technique again.

Te Alua shows four figures in Gauguin's characteristic Tahitian style. The figures are depicted in simplified, flat forms, with rounded edges and exaggerated proportions. The image itself draws upon various religious kinds of images. At the top of the image “Te Alua” is written, a word for God. As a whole, the print is divided into a triptych form. Usually, this refers to a painting that consists of three separate panels or canvases. It originates in the west from medieval altar paintings, which would have one main central panel, and at each side, a door, which, when open, would show another, separate image. When the paintings were not being displayed for a mass or other kind of ceremony in the church, it could be closed. In Te Alua the division between the spaces is not quite as discrete as if there were actually separate panels, but there is a clear division. The entire image is continuous, but each one third of space is independent. At the left two figures in profile, one kneeling and the other sitting, are situated very closely together in conversation. They share a large halo. At the right there is a darker standing figure surrounded by shadow, facing directly forward. In the middle is a figure sitting cross-legged, also with a halo around her head. It is most interesting that her representation seems to borrow some of the iconography used in the depictions of Buddha. There is a small protrusion at the top of her head, which resembles Buddha's cranial bump, an extension of his brain that visually represents increased wisdom and enlightenment. There is a trace of a third eye also visible, an icon which also relates to wisdom, visible as a small dot in the center of the forehead. More immediately, the cross-legged sitting position and the large halo remind the viewer of Buddha. However, there are many other particular icons of Buddha that are absent, such as his monastic robes, extended earlobes, and any particular hand gesture. The figure seems more of a feminine character, and is depicted nude, with her arms at rest. The use of Christian and Buddhist iconography seems used to create more of a generalized primitive spirituality, than to depict a specific religious idea.

The print is made from two wood blocks, a lower one in orange, and an upper layer in black. The orange block fills most of the background. There are only a few places carved away in this layer: the halos of the left and central figures, and a low shrub between them. The white space of the paper in this sense is being used actively, as a particular form, rather than as a flat background or negative space. This is a technique that was used in Japanese wood block prints of the time, which Gauguin would probably have seen before having left for Tahiti. The black layer, printed over the orange, creates all of the forms—the figures, the ground, the background, and the foliage. Although it is printed in black, Gauguin uses different ways of creating gray tones. To represent a pale gray over the sky, above the central figure, rather than removing the wood in a consistent and flat manner, which would leave the space empty, he allows curved lines of wood to remain, remnants of the carving process, which would need to be removed with sandpaper to make the space an empty one. In other places, areas that would otherwise have been printed in solid black have been sanded away slightly. This makes parts of the wood grain visible, especially in the right side, and establishes a wide range of gray tones, as the same black is printed more thinly. The torso of the central figure, and the face of the kneeling figure at the left, are quite a pale gray. There is a fairly continuous range of tones between this and the solid black that is found along the lower edge of the print. In some places, the orange and black blocks do not seem to align exactly. This, in combination with the use of transparent black areas that make the gray tones, creates the sense in places that the image is vibrating. The misalignment does not seem consistent over the entire print. In the central figure the orange block seems moved to the left, and in the left panel the orange seems shifted to the right. From this, I would say that it is quite possible that it is added for an additional expressive effect.

Finally, we have a woodcut print by Asger Jorn, Sommerreise. I do not have the exact year that the print was made, though it was at least before 1970, probably from the late sixties. So, this print shows some of the more modern uses of the woodcut method. This particular print shows a heavily abstracted, expressionistic face, though the artist used a similar technique in purely abstract prints as well. In it, there are different blocks of colour, vivid tones which often seem quite unrelated to each other. They almost never overlap, and the white areas, which are the spaces that have been carved away, form an outline of the shapes. This appearance could have been accomplished in one of two ways. Each color could have been made from a separate block of wood, as is usually done for multicolor prints. There are prints by this artist in which it is obvious that this is what was done, because the grain of the wood, on the spaces of different colors, is oriented in different directions. The effect can also be achieved by carving out only one block, and printing different parts of it at different times. Certain spaces could be covered in tape when one color of ink is being used. The tape can then be removed, so that when the block is printed, only a portion of it will print. This can be done multiple times until the whole image is printed, with a different color each time. This technique might have been used in Sommerreise, since the grain of the wood is clearly oriented horizontally in every space. A combination of both techniques might also have been used. If one block was used for multiple spaces, it is even possible that more than one color could have been printed at once, if they are sufficiently far away.

In this print, we can also see an increased use of the particular qualities of the wood. This is an aspect of wood block printing that has become more prominent in the modern period. Earlier in history, wood block printing was used because it was the only, or the easiest, available method. In modern times, there is a wider variety of available printing techniques, which can be selected for their particular aesthetic qualities. This kind of a use of wood block printing can be seen in Gauguin's prints, like Te Alua, and a few decades later in the prints of the German expressionists.

In Jorn's Sommerreise, the wood grain is made a very prominent element of the image. The outlines are not left clean; there are lines everywhere that follow the grain, contradicting the represented form's outline, showing where a particular stroke made when carving extended beyond the original lines that would have been marked off. This creates a very rough look, characteristic of the wood material, which is used freely and expressively, letting the aesthetics particular to the wood show. It is a material that was once alive, and the remnants of this fact are allowed to show, and become extremely prominent.