A Closer Look: Colour by David Bomford and Ashok Roy (2009)

This is another superbly informative, crisply written and lavishly illustrated little book in The National Gallery’s A Closer Look series. To quote the blurb:

A Closer Look: Colour explores how painters apply colour, describes different types of pigments, and outlines optical theories and artists’ treatises. The authors explain the effect on colour of the artist’s chosen medium, such as oil, water or egg tempera, and the dramatic impact of new pigments.’

It ranges far and wide across the National Gallery’s vast collection of 2,300 art works, selecting 80 paintings which illustrate key aspects of colour, medium and design. The quality of the colour reproductions is really stunning – it’s worth having the book almost for these alone and for the brief but penetrating insights into a colour-related aspect of each one.

They include works by Seurat, Holbein the Younger, Corot, Duccio, David, Chardin, Ghirlandaio, Monet and Van Dyck in the first ten pages alone!

Aspects of colour

Colour quite obviously has been used by painters to depict the coloured world we see around us. But it has other functions, too. Maybe the two most obvious but easily overlooked are: to represent depth and create the optical illusion of three dimensions on a two dimensional surface; and to reinforce this by indicating sources of light.

Depth A common indication of depth is recreating the common observation that objects at a distance fade into a blue-ish haze. This is often seen in Renaissance paintings depicting increasingly hazy backdrops behind the various virgins and main figures. This is known as aerial perspective.

Light Sources of light need to be carefully calculated in a realistic painting. The book shows how the effect of light sources is achieved by showing glimmers of white paint on metallic objects or even on duller surfaces like wood. There is a particularly wondrous example in Lady Elizabeth Thimbelby and her Sister by Anthony Van Dyck. The authors give a close-up to show how the colour of the yellow dress worn by the main subject is reflected on the bare skin of of the little angel, and even in the catchlight in his right eye, an indication of the depth of thought which goes into his compositions.

Shadows turn out to be an entire subject in themselves. For centuries painters improved their depiction of shadows, at first using grey colours for the shadows of buildings, but quickly realising that the most shadowed things around us are fabrics. Dresses, cloaks all the paraphernalia of costume from the Middle Ages to the turn of the 20th century, involved reams of material which folded in infinite ways, all of them a challenge to the painters’ skill. At the very least, painting a fabric requires not one but three colours: the core colour of the fabric itself, the fabric in shadow, the fabric in highlight, reflecting the light source.

The human eye is not a mechanical reproducer of the world around us. It has physiological quirks and limitations. The book evidences the way that, dazzled by orange sunsets, the human eye might well see evening shadows as violet. Quirks and oddities like this were known to various painters of the past but it was the Impressionists who, as a group, set out to try and capture not what the rational mind knew to be the colour, but the colours as actually perceived by the imperfect eye and misleadable mind.

Emotion In the later 19th century artists across Europe made the discovery that intensity of colour can be used to reflect intensity of emotion. Probably the most popular painter to do this was van Gogh whose intense colours were intended to convey his own personal anguish. This approach went on to become the central technique of the German Expressionist painters (although they aren’t represented in the book, along with all 20th century art, because the National Gallery’s cut-off point is 1900).

Symbolism In earlier centuries, more than its realistic function, colour had an important role in a painting’s symbolism i.e. certain colours are understood to have certain meanings or to be associated with certain people or qualities. The most obvious period is the Renaissance, when the Virgin Mary’s cloak was blue, Mary Magdalene’s cloak was red, St Peter’s cloak was yellow and blue, and so on. From early on this allowed or encouraged Renaissance painters to create compositions designed not only to show a (religious) subject, but to create harmonious visual ‘rhythms’ and ‘assonances’ based on these traditionally understood colour associations.

Pigments and Media

This is dealt with quite thoroughly in another book in the series, Techniques of Painting. There we learn that paint has two components, the binding medium and the pigment. Over the centuries different pigments have been used, mixed into different binding mediums, including egg, egg yolks, oil, painting directly into wet plaster (fresco) and so on.

Painting is done onto supports – onto walls, plaster, or onto boards, metal, canvas or other fabrics. All of these need preparing by stretching (canvas) or smoothing (wood), then applying a ground – or background layer of paint – to soak into the support. Painters of the 14th and 15th centuries used a white ground. In the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries, artists experimented with varying the tone of the ground, which significantly alters the colour of the works painted onto them.

Hardening Binding mediums dry out in two ways: watercolours and synthetic resin paints by simple evaporation. Drying oils such as linseed, walnut or poppy oil harden by chemical reaction with the oxygen in the air. Egg tempera, used extensively in the 14th and 15th century, dries by a combination of both.

This may sound fairly academic but it profoundly affects the whole style and look of a painting. Because tempera dries so quickly (especially in hot, dry Italy) shapes and textures are best built up by short hatched strokes.

This is a detail from the Wilton Diptych (1397) where you can see the way the skin of the Virgin and child and angels has been created by multiple short paint strokes of egg tempera.

Whereas, because oils are slow drying, they allow the artist to merge them into smooth, flowing, continuous transitions of colour. Oil paints = more flowing.

In this detail from Belshazzar’s Feast by Rembrandt, you can see how the gold chain has been rendered with a really thick layer of gold paint. Laying on very thick layers of oil paint is called impasto.

In general, oil paint looks darker and richer than paint made using water-based media such as egg tempera, glue or fresco, which appear lighter and brighter.

Age and decay Painting was, then, a highly technical undertaking, requiring the painter to have an excellent knowledge of a wide range of materials and chemical substances. Different media dry and set in different ways. Different pigments hold their colour – or fade – over time. And this fading can reveal the ground painted underneath.

One of the most interesting aspects of the book is the specific examples it gives of how some pigments have faded or disappeared – sometimes quite drastically – in Old Master paintings.

In Duccio’s The Virgin and Child with Saints Dominic and Aurea, the face and hands of the figures show clearly how the lighter pigments painted in tempera have faded or flaked off allowing the green underpaint to come through. The Virgin was not meant to look green!

Bladders to tubes Pigments had to be ground by hand and mixed in with binders in studios for the medieval and Renaissance period. There are numerous prints showing a Renaissance artist’s studio for what it was, the small-scale manufactory of a craftsman employing a number of assistants and making money by taking on a number of students.

In the 18th century ready-mixed pigments could be transported inside pigs’ bladders. The early 19th century developed the use of glass or metal syringes. But it was in 1841 that an American, John Rand, developed the collapsible metal tube. This marked a breakthrough in the portability of oil paints, allowing artists to paint out of doors for the first time. A generation later a new school arose – the Impressionists – who did just this. Jean Renoir quotes his father, the painter Pierre-Auguste, as saying:

Without paints in tubes there would have been no Cézanne, no Monet, no Sisley or Pissarro, nothing of what the journalists were later to call Impressionism.

Biographies of colours

Primo Levi wrote a classic collection of short stories based on The Periodic Table of chemical elements. It crossed my mind, reading this book, that something similar could be attempted with the numerous pigments which artists have used down the ages.

This book gives a potted history of the half a dozen key colours. It explains how they were originally produced, how different sources became available over the centuries, and how the 19th century saw an explosion in the chemical industry which led to the development of modern, industrially-manufactured colours.

Blue

  • Prime source of blue was the ultramarine colour extracted from the mineral lapis lazuli, which was mined in one location in Afghanistan and traded to the Mediterranean.
  • A cheaper alternative was azurite, which was mined in Europe but had to be ground coarsely to keep its colour, and is also prone to fade into green, e.g. the sky in Christ taking Leave of his Mother by Albrecht Altdorfer (1520). Many artists painted a basic wash of azurite and then used the much more expensive ultramarine to create more intense highlights.
  • Indigo is a dye extracted from plants. At high intensity it is an inky black-blue, but at a lesser intensity also risks fading.
  • A cheaper alternative was smalt, manufactured by adding cobalt oxide to molten glass, cooling and grinding it to powder. It holds its colour badly and fades to grey.
  • In the early 1700s German manufacturers stumbled across the intense synthetic pigment which became known as Prussian blue (the book gives examples by Gainsborough and Canaletto).
  • Around 1803 cobalt blue was invented.
  • In 1828 an artificial version of ultramarine was created in France

Thus the painters of the 19th century had a much wider range of ‘blues’ to choose from than all their predecessors.

The book does the same for the other major colours, naming and explaining the origin of their main types or sources:

Green

  • Terre verte was used as an underpaint for flesh tones in early Italian paintings
  • malachite
  • verdigris, a copper-based pigment was prone to fade to brown and explains why so many Italian landscapes have the same orangey-brown appearance
  • emerald green (a pigment developed in the 19th century containing copper and arsenic)
  • viridian (a chromium oxide)

Red

  • Vermilion, obtained by pulverising cinnabar, liable to fade to brown as has happened with the coat of Gainsborough’s Dr Ralph Schomberg (1770), which should be bright red.

Yellow

  • Lead-tin yellow in the Renaissance
  • from the 17th century lead-based yellow containing antimony known as Naples yellow
  • from the 1820s new tints of yellow became available based on compounds of chromium of which chrome yellow is the most famous
  • cadmium yellow

White

  • Lead white was used from the earliest times. It forms as a crust on metallic lead exposed to acetic acid from sour wine – highly poisonous
  • only in the twentieth century was it replaced by non-toxic whites based on zinc and later, titanium. Unlike all the pigments named so far, lead white keeps its colour extremely well, hence the bright white ruffs and dresses in paintings even when a lot of the brighter colour has gone.

Black 

  • A large range of black pigments was always available, most based on carbon as found in charcoal, soot and so on. Carbon is very stable and so blacks have tended to remain black.

Summary of colours

  1. Over the past 500 years there has been a large amount of evolution and change in the source of the pigments artists use.
  2. Colour in art is a surprisingly technical subject, which quite quickly requires a serious knowledge of inorganic chemistry and, from the 19th century, is linked to the development of industrial processes.
  3. Sic transit gloria mundi or, more precisely, Sic transit gloria artis. The net effect of seeing so many beautiful paintings in which the original colour has faded – sometimes completely – can’t help but make you sad. We live among the wrecks or decay of thousands of once-gloriously coloured artworks. Given the super-duper state of digital technology I wonder if anywhere there exists a project to restore all these faded glories to how they should look!

Disegno versus colore

Vasari, author of The Lives of the Great Artists (155) posed the question, ‘Which was more important, design or colour?’ As a devotee of Michelangelo, the godfather of design, he was on the side of disegno and relates a conversation with Michelangelo about some paintings by Titian (1488-1576) they had seen where Michelangelo praises Titian’s use of colour but laments his poor composition.

The art history stereotype has it that Renaissance Florence was the home of design, while Venice (where Titian lived and worked) put the emphasis on gorgeous colours. This was because Venice was a European centre for the production of dyes and pigments for a wide range of manufacturing purposes, not least glass and textiles.

In late-17th-century France the argument was fought out in the French Academy between Rubénistes (for colour) and Poussinistes (for drawing). Personally, I am more moved by drawing than colour, and a little more so after reading this book and realising just how catastrophically colour can fade and disappear – but, still, there’s no reason not to love both.

Optical theories

Isaac Newton published his Optics in 1704, announcing the discovery that when white light is projected through a prism it breaks down into primary colours, which can then be turned back into white light. Among its far-ranging investigations, the book contained the first schematic arrangement of colours and their ‘opposites’. It wasn’t until well into the 19th century, however, that colour charts began to proliferate (partly because they were required by expanding industrial manufacture, and the evermore competitive design and coloration of products).

And these colour charts bore out Newton’s insight that complementary colours – colours opposite each other on the circle – accentuate and bring each other out.

Colour Circle by Michel Eugène Chevreul (1839)

Colour Circle by Michel Eugène Chevreul (1839)

Colour circles like this systematised knowledge which had been scattered among various artists and critics over the ages. It can be shown that Eugène Delacroix (1798-1863) made systematic use of contrast effects, pairing colour opposites like orange-blue, red-green or yellow-violet, to create stronger visual effects.

On a simplistic level it was the availability of a) new, intense colours, in portable tin tubes, along with b) exciting new theories of colour, which explains the Impressionist movement.

The Impressionists were most interested in trying to capture the changing quality of light, but the corollary of this was a fascination with shadow. Apparently, impressionist painters so regularly (and controversially) paired bright yellow sunlight with the peculiar tinge of violet which is opposite it on the colour charts, that they were accused by contemporary critics of violettomani.

Some examples

The book lists the pigments used to create Titian’s Bacchus and Ariadne. The intense blue sky is made from ultramarine lapis lazuli, as is Ariadne’s drapery and the flowers at the lower right. The blue-green sea is painted with the cheaper azurite. Vermilion gives Ariadne’s sash its red colour. The Bacchante’s orange drapery was painted with a rare arsenic-containing mineral known as realgar.

Titian was aware of the power of colour contrasts long before the 19th century colour wheels, something he demonstrates by placing Ariadne’s red and blue drapery above the primrose yellow cloth by the knocked-over urn at her feet (painted using lead-tin yellow). The green of the tree leaves and the grassy background are created from malachite over-painted with green resinous glazes. An intense red ‘lake’ is used to give Bacchus’s red cloak its depth.

These coloured ‘lakes’ were an important element in Renaissance painting but I had to supplement the book’s information with other sources.

From this I take it that ‘lakes’ were translucent i.e. you could see the colour beneath, and so were used as glazes, meaning you would lay down a wash of one colour and then paint over potentially numerous ‘lakes’ to add highlights, depths or whatever. This build-up of ‘lake’ glazes allowed the layering of multiple variations of colour and so the intensely sensual depiction of the folds on fabrics, the light and shade of curtains and clothes which is so characteristic of Old Master painting.

The book then applies this detailed analysis of colour pigments to a sequence of other Old Masterpieces by Rubens, Velázquez, Rembrandt, Tiepollo, Canaletto, Monet and Seurat.

Conclusion

A Closer Look: Colour makes you appreciate the immense amount of knowledge, science, craft and technique which went into painting each and every one of the National Gallery’s 2,300 artworks (and the depth of scholarship which modern art historians require to analyse and unravel the technical background to each and every painting).

It’s a revelation to read, but also pure joy to be prompted to look, and look again, in closer and closer detail, at so many wonderful paintings.


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Delacroix and the Rise of Modern Art @ the National Gallery

‘The seeds of almost every art movement current in 19th century Paris were sown by artists copying and emulating Delacroix’s work.’

Ferdinand Victor Eugène Delacroix (1798-1863) was the leading exponent of Romanticism in French art, active from his first exhibition at the annual Salon de Paris in 1823 through to his last appearance in 1853. He pioneered a colourful, vibrant, spontaneous-feeling approach to depicting historical subjects, scenes from the ‘exotic East’, landscapes, nudes and still lifes.

Self Portrait by Eugène Delacroix (about 1837) Musée du Louvre, Paris (RF 25) © RMN-Grand Palais (musée du Louvre) / Jean-Gilles Berizzi

Self Portrait by Eugène Delacroix (about 1837) Musée du Louvre, Paris (RF 25) © RMN-Grand Palais (musée du Louvre) / Jean-Gilles Berizzi

I thought the title of this exhibition was a bit modish, that the tag ‘…and the rise of modern art’ could be applied to umpteen 19th century painters simply by living before the deluge of Modernism – but in fact the show completely convinces you that Delacroix really was instrumental in the rise of modern art.

It does this by avoiding a straightforwardly chronological survey of his career. Instead the exhibition consists of six rooms, each of which addresses a specific theme or subject – and then hangs Delacroix paintings from the 1830s, 40s and 50s next to works which strikingly resemble them, refer to them or incorporate their techniques, by artists of the next two generations, including Renoir, Monet, Cézanne, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Matisse and Kandinsky, along with the lesser-known Symbolist artists, Gustave Moreau and Odilon Redon.

What the exhibition makes clear is that later artists didn’t just copy or learn from Delacroix in subtle and obscure ways, visible only to scholars and experts. They paid direct homage to him, copying his subjects and compositions and styles and ideas in ways which are immediately visible to even an untrained eye. They wrote letters, commentaries, essays and articles explicitly acknowledging their debt to him, and even made paintings showing him being levitated to heaven or showered with awards by a grateful posterity. As Cézanne, a really devout follower, said: ‘We all paint in Delacroix’s language’.

Apotheosis of Delacroix by Paul Cézanne (1890-4) Paris, Musée d’Orsay, on loan to the Musée Granet / Aix-en-Provence (RF 1982-38) © RMN-Grand Palais (musée d'Orsay) / Hervé Lewandowski

Apotheosis of Delacroix by Paul Cézanne (1890-4) Paris, Musée d’Orsay, on loan to the Musée Granet / Aix-en-Provence (RF 1982-38) © RMN-Grand Palais (musée d’Orsay) / Hervé Lewandowski

After Delacroix’s death the contents of his studio were sold off and revealed a wealth of previously unknown outdoors paintings, which had a strong impact on the young Impressionists who were just starting out on their careers. They found in Delacroix a liberation from the official Salon art of the day, the inspiration to capture the warmth and vibrancy of the everyday, the exotic, the exciting, instead of the glacial cool of the perfectly poised subjects concocted in the artist’s studio.

When a later generation wanted to move beyond Impressionism in the 1890s, Delacroix’s sometimes blurry use of paint pointed the way for Symbolist painters seeking misty, portentous shapes and mythological images – but also provided inspiration for the Post-Impressionists (Gauguin, van Gogh) who were interested in bold experiments with colour for its own sake.

Still Life with a Sketch after Delacroix by Paul Gauguin (1887) Musée d'Art moderne et contemporain de Strasbourg © Photo Musées de Strasbourg, M. Bertola

Still Life with a Sketch after Delacroix by Paul Gauguin (1887) Musée d’Art moderne et contemporain de Strasbourg © Photo Musées de Strasbourg, M. Bertola

And when his collected writings on art, painting technique and broader aesthetics were published in three volumes between 1893 and 1895, the depth and variety of ideas contained in their 1,438 pages crystallised Delacroix’s position as a key thinker, who could be plundered by all the various schools of modern art.

Rough not smooth

As his Wikipedia entry makes clear:

In contrast to the Neoclassical perfectionism of his chief rival Ingres, Delacroix took for his inspiration the art of Rubens and painters of the Venetian Renaissance, with an attendant emphasis on colour and movement rather than clarity of outline and carefully modelled form.

Rather than smooth perfection, Delacroix developed a technique of painting au premier coup, trying to complete a work in one sitting, or over a few days at most. This makes a lot of his paintings quite rough to look at – in fact not that many of the Delacroixs on show here are, in themselves, that appealing.

The Death of Sardanapalus (reduced replica) by Eugène Delacroix (1846) © Philadelphia Museum of Art, Pennsylvania. The Henry P. McIlhenny Collection in memory of Frances P. McIlhenny, 1986 (1986-26-17)

The Death of Sardanapalus (reduced replica) by Eugène Delacroix (1846) © Philadelphia Museum of Art, Pennsylvania. The Henry P. McIlhenny Collection in memory of Frances P. McIlhenny, 1986 (1986-26-17)

The above is a small-scale copy of the large original. The exhibition juxtaposes it with the The Eternal Feminine by Cézanne, pointing out the way that both works feature a still figure on a bed regarding the mayhem of activity around them.

The Eternal Feminine by Paul Cézanne (about 1877) © The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, California (87.PA.79)

The Eternal Feminine by Paul Cézanne (about 1877) © The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, California (87.PA.79)

Close up

Some paintings are best viewed from a distance, like a lot of the Impressionist works at the Inventing Impressionism show hanging in these very rooms a year ago. But if I learned one thing about Delacroix’s paintings it is that they are best looked at very close up. At medium distance often the composition looks a bit shabby, the figures not too convincing and the background sketched in. But really close up – a foot from the canvas – you can see the confidence of the quick, flicking brushstrokes.

Thus the poster for the show is a big close-up of a lion’s head, its glaring eye set among a mesh of bold strokes. But when you see the source work you realise the lion’s head is only about two inches square – tiny – and the overall impression a bit murky, the composition of the bodies very staged, the landscape in the background looking like waves.

Lion Hunt by Eugène Delacroix (1861) © The Art Institute of Chicago, Illinois Potter Palmer Collection, 1922.404

Lion Hunt by Eugène Delacroix (1861) © The Art Institute of Chicago, Illinois
Potter Palmer Collection, 1922.404

Unless you go close. Close up you can see and enjoy the flicks and flecks of the brush which create the overall image.

Detail from Lion Hunt by Eugène Delacroix (1861) © The Art Institute of Chicago, Illinois Potter Palmer Collection, 1922.404

Detail from Lion Hunt by Eugène Delacroix (1861) © The Art Institute of Chicago, Illinois Potter Palmer Collection, 1922.404

Once I’d grasped this was the best way to enjoy Delacroix’s paintings, I spent more and more time with my nose a foot from the surface, marvelling at the dexterity and energy of the quick confident brushstrokes, in a way more entranced by them than by the ostensible subject matter. And looking at them this closely also helps you to understand why later painters found his approach so liberating: you can see the freedom of the way he paints echoed or repeated in Renoir, Cézanne and many others. There’s a particularly direct line from the Delacroix flecks and flicks of paint to van Gogh’s striking use of strong, well-defined, directional brushstrokes in bold unnaturalistic colours, having taken Delacroix’s example and turned it into a whole style.

Pietà (after Delacroix) by Vincent van Gogh (1889) © Van Gogh Museum (Vincent Van Gogh Foundation), Amsterdam (s168V/1962)

Pietà (after Delacroix) by Vincent van Gogh (1889) © Van Gogh Museum (Vincent Van Gogh Foundation), Amsterdam (s168V/1962)

Comparisons

So throughout the exhibition, we are invited to compare and contrast numerous originals by Delacroix with works by later artists which directly or indirectly pay homage or rework his themes, subjects or handling: especially the rough improvised handling of the paint, and the use of bright and unexpected colour.

Compare Delacroix’s treatment of a classical Greek myth – the shaping of the figures, above all the amazing bursts of orange and yellow at the heart of it…

Apollo Slaying Python, Preliminary Sketch by Eugène Delacroix (1850) Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam (purchased with support from the BankGiro Lottery) (s526 S2012) © Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

Apollo Slaying Python, Preliminary Sketch by Eugène Delacroix (1850) Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam (purchased with support from the BankGiro Lottery) (s526 S2012)
© Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam

…with the treatment of a similar subject done 45 years later by the Symbolist painter, Odilon Redon.

Pegasus and the hydra Odilon Redon (after 1900) Collection Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo, The Netherlands (KM 104.067) © Collection Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo. Photo Rik Klein Gotink

Pegasus and the hydra by Odilon Redon (after 1900) Collection Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo, The Netherlands (KM 104.067) © Collection Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo. Photo Rik Klein Gotink

The not very good, characteristically rushed Ovid among the Scythians (1862) is hung next to similar compositions by, among others, Degas: Alexander and Bucephalus (1862), and Young Spartans Exercising (1860).

Delacroix’s Bathers of 1854 is compared with a series of later depictions of the same subject…

Bathers by Eugène Delacroix (1854) © Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford, Connecticut. The Ella Gallup Sumner and Mary Catlin Sumner Collection Fund, 1952.300

Bathers by Eugène Delacroix (1854) © Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford, Connecticut. The Ella Gallup Sumner and Mary Catlin Sumner Collection Fund, 1952.300

… including Cezanne’s Battle of Love.

The Battle of Love by Paul Cézanne (about 1880) National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. Gift of the W. Averell Harriman Foundation in memory of Marie N. Harriman, 1972.9.2. Image courtesy of the Board of Trustees, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.

The Battle of Love by Paul Cézanne (about 1880) National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. Gift of the W. Averell Harriman Foundation in memory of Marie N. Harriman, 1972.9.2. Image courtesy of the Board of Trustees, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.

To reiterate, it’s not the brilliance of the finished compositions which are important – it’s the freedom of those swiftly administered flecking brushstrokes, and the bold use of colour, which later painters dwelt on.

Flowers

One particular Delacroix quote crops up several times in the wall panels – ‘The primary merit of a painting is to be a feast for the eye’ – and this seems particularly appropriate to the room devoted to paintings of flowers, a modest but vibrant genre which Delacroix is credited with bringing back into fashion.

In this room hang just seven paintings and we can play the exhibition game of comparing a Delacroix from the early century with a selection of gorgeous paintings by his inheritors, including Gauguin, van Gogh and Redilon. Here’s a Delacroix flower painting:

A Basket of Fruit in a Flower Garden by Eugène Delacroix (1848-9) © Philadelphia Museum of Art, Pennsylvania. John G. Johnson Collection, 1917 (1917,974)

A Basket of Fruit in a Flower Garden by Eugène Delacroix (1848-9) © Philadelphia Museum of Art, Pennsylvania. John G. Johnson Collection, 1917 (1917,974)

Compare and contrast with:

A Vase of Flowers by Paul Gauguin (1896) © The National Gallery, London (NG 3289)

A Vase of Flowers by Paul Gauguin (1896) © The National Gallery, London (NG 3289)

And my favourite, Ophelia among the flowers by Odilon Redon. This is done with pastel on canvas and, close up, you can see how the crayon effect creates the misty washes of colour across the canvas, which add to the sense of mysteriousness but also to the sense of colour creating shapes fro its own logic.

Ophelia among the Flowers by Odilon Redon (about 1905-8) © The National Gallery, London, Bought with a contribution from The Art Fund, 1977 (NG 6438)

Ophelia among the Flowers by Odilon Redon (about 1905-8) © The National Gallery, London, Bought with a contribution from The Art Fund, 1977 (NG 6438)

Throughout the show, in the rooms devoted to landscapes, or his trip to North Africa, or music and aesthetics, there are many, many more beautiful paintings, including masterpieces by Gauguin and van Gogh and Monet and Cézanne and Signac and Matisse, a wonderful array of colour and composition which, one by one and systematically, not only validate the curator’s argument for the massive influence of Delacroix on later generations of artists, but are also objects of joy and wonder in their own right.

The Mural Projects

Most of the paintings in the exhibition are on the small side, the exception which proves the rule being the two life-size full length portraits by Delacroix and John Singer Sargent which I mentioned at the start.

The main surprise of the show is the revelation that Delacroix also created a range of enormous murals as public commissions, wall and ceiling paintings as big as Michelangelo’s in the Sistine Chapel. They obviously can’t be packed up and shipped along to these exhibition rooms in London and so we learn about them in a dark room off to the side of the exhibition, in which a high quality US-made video is projected onto an enormous screen to show the vast panoramas Delacroix created for:

  • The Salon du Roi
  • The Library of the Deputy of Chambers
  • the Galère d’Apollon
  • The Chapel of Holy Angels, in the church of Saint-Sulpice

Conclusion

This is a lovely exhibition, which both proves its point and is also a sumptuous visual feast. At 63 paintings it is on the small side, which is all the better because it gives you time to really soak up some of the masterpieces on display.

The final painting is a direct tribute to Delacroix by Fantin-Latour, celebrating the unveiling of a monument to Delacroix in the Luxembourg Gardens. Delacroix’s name is just about visible in capitals at the bottom left, the skyline of Paris visible in the bottom right, but the dominant figure is the kindly goddess of Posterity sprinkling flowers –  made doubly significant, as we have seen, because of the achievement of Delacroix’s own flower paintings – to immortalise his name.

Immortality by Ignace-Henri-Théodore Fantin-Latour (1889) © Amgueddfa Cymru - National Museum Wales (NMWA 2462)

Immortality by Ignace-Henri-Théodore Fantin-Latour (1889) © Amgueddfa Cymru – National Museum Wales (NMWA 2462)

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