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Om realismen i holländsk bildtradition

1980; Taylor & Francis; Volume: 49; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1080/00233608008603941

1651-2294

Patrik Reuterswärd,

Architecture and Art History Studies

Summary Towards the middle of the 15th century the cathedral of Utrecht was embellished with cloisters of exquisite workmanship. Above the arches were carved episodes from the life of St. Martin, patron saint of the cathedral, and in the traceries the fleur‐de‐lis was a recurring symbol. However, only little now remains that is original. After almost total decay, the cloisters were reconstructed during 1876–1896 by P. J. H. Cuypers, who for the traceries and the lilies had recourse to a drawing by Saenredam (Fig. 2). When Cuypers started this work, at least one bay was still in rather good condition, and he is to be commended for not having tampered with the traceries, which here play the part of a happening. They have, as it were, fallen apart and ropes of stone have been added to hold the parts together (Fig. 1). By their objective precision, the ropes reveal a will to illusionism, which in its Dutch context is surely more than a coincidence. It is just that sort of visual deception in which the painters were to excel during the 17th century. Just as sham curtains competed with the imaginary world of their paintings, so this Utrecht rope device serves as a reminder of the realm outside the artifact itself, which in Utrecht, of course, is the tracery. There is something hare‐lipped about the tracery that remains unsatisfactory, however well it justifies a rope. But Saenredam's drawing reveals that the loops of the tracery were once joined below, where, again, a lily arose—exactly as higher up in the adjacent bay. What is more, the void, the very negative form above the knot, has the outline of a lily. Thus, the rope device serves not only its illusionistic end but helps us to discover another, otherwise invisible lily. Comparable are the illusionistic sham statues on the exteriors of Netherlandish altar‐pieces. In Jan van Eyck's Annunciation diptych in Lugano (Fig. 3) the fictive and the real become indistinguishable, and here, of course, lies much of the point. To which must be added, however, the very surprising effect of altar sculptures without polychromy. Using illusionistic means, van Eyck here conjured up what none in those days could capture in reality. The Dutch flower‐piece of the 17th century worked in much the same way. In Adriaen van der Spelt's illusionistic example (Fig. 5) the picture curtain ensures the intended confusion with the real, just as did the stone frame around van Eyck's Annunciation figures. As does their monochromy, so also does van der Spelt's festoon offer something extraordinary, since it combines flowers which bloom at different seasons. This applies to the Dutch flower‐pieces in general—cf. one by Balthasar van der Ast (Fig. 6), where the splendours of spring and those of autumn are fairly evenly balanced. From a realistic point of view, this ensemble is as Utopian as its Italianate background architecture. As for Emanuel de Witte's church interiors, his contemporaries could easily have identified most of these. But in one case (Fig. 7) he has given, with no less realistic means, his vision of the ideal Catholic church interior, and this at a time when none of the existing larger churches was open to the practising of Catholicism. We behold a Reformed interior with elements of both the Nieuwe and the Oude Kerk in Amsterdam, to which the painter has added, beyond the banned crucifix, a choir with tall Gothic windows through which falls a marvellous light. Topographic truth was not altogether decisive for the painters. What they sought was to make real, regardless the degree of authenticity of the subject. We may therefore reconsider the concept of realism, where means and ends are often confused. Full realism should imply that the subject matter, too, closely corresponds to reality, giving of this a characteristic, not to say normal aspect. But what about Vermeer? His paintings possess a rare monumentality which distinguishes them from otherwise related works by de Hooch and Metsu. Whereas these tend to be filled with everyday sounds, silence rules in Vermeer, where we never become aware of the noise of the great market place outside, nor of the presence of the painter's eleven children. Vermeer's interiors with ladies reading a letter or holding a balance (Fig. 8) are reminiscent of the representations on the Attic grave stelae of the classical period (Fig. 9). As we know through K. Friis Johansen, these were not just everyday scenes but more like commemorative tablets of an idealized, longedfor existence, expressing a state of mind rather than action itself. Memories of the past were here intended to fuse with the very being together again at the graveside. Somehow, this applies also to Vermeer. Huizinga has ingeniously likened his images to the childhood memories of the adult where, too, are retained mostly the happy moments. Illuminating, also, is Vermeer's view of the harbour of Delft (Mauritshuis). Whereas other painters would have exaggerated the importance of the harbour and perhaps added a few ships and a number of working ants along the quay, Vermeer has quietened the view. Sunday peace reigns, and it is early morning. The clock shows ten past seven. Even though everything has been rendered with the utmost objective means, including optical instruments, the moment chosen is apparently not the most typical. With realistic means the painter has again made a Sunday existence come true. Related to Vermeer's art, yet very different, is de Witte's view of a suite of rooms in Rotterdam (Fig. 10), where everything seems prepared for a quiet contemplation of the patches of sunlight and their interplay with the black and white floor slabs. But there is something disquietening about the diagonal placing of the chair to the left, with an officer's uniform, and suddenly the beholder discovers a smiling man behind the hangings of the bed. He has been watching us all the time, and we may feel caught out, in a way. This completely changes the situation, and we are now literally drawn into the reality of this wealthy home. To attract the attention of the beholder by means of glance and gesture was something of a speciality of the Dutch painters, as has been demonstrated already long ago by Alois Riegl (1902). There were many ways to reach outside the picture, a simple one being the device of the added picture curtain, in which so many painters delighted. Even Rembrandt made use of it, twice at least. Interesting is how he in his Supper at Emmaus in Copenhagen (Fig. 11) has darkened and toned down both frame and curtain, and thus also that very room from where the beholder is looking into the picture. This enables the light and the atmosphere of the Emmaus interior to transcend the picture surface and spread into the room of the beholder. Like his fellow countrymen, Rembrandt was well aware of the picture surface as a psychological dilemma. Whereas other painters, much to the detriment of their pictures, emphasized the border separating pictorial space from the reality of the beholder, Rembrandt sought to unite the two realms. Common to all painters, nevertheless, was their wish to make real by both objective and subjective means. This wish even penetrates Dutch architecture. In Amsterdam's impressive City Hall (Royal Palace), we are constantly brought back to reality by details which work somewhat like the rope knots in Utrecht. At a distance, the classicistic ornamentation of the walls appears perfectly Italianate, but the moment we come closer the whole dissolves into Dutch naturalistic nearsight. The festoons are all different, and the visitor could well rely on these alone in search of the right door in this vast office building. Above the entrance to the office for bankruptcy matters, the festoon shows an overturned cash‐box and rats taking over the business and, below the festoon, a reminder of the fate of Icarus (Fig. 12). Whereas the latter may be seen as a concession to a foreign form of expression, the festoons remain vernacular by their very literalism. It is remarkable how often the Dutch preferred the literal to the allegorical. The weighing‐house of Gouda is adorned with a relief, which could have shown an allegory of the trade, or of Justice, or something about the incorruptibility of the balance. Instead, we are served with a representation of the very weighing that went on all day in the porch below (Fig. 13). Similarly, the entrance to Amsterdam's penitentiary for men had a representation of the prisoners at hard labour, whereas the entrance to the house of correction for females showed spinners at work—to say nothing of the lunatic asylum, where there was not just the entrance relief with a madhouse interior but also, in the garden, Hendrik de Keyser's gruesome statue of the Lunatic. At the court at the Hague and in aristocratic circles, one nevertheless took pains over allegory. In about 1650, Huis ten Bosch was adorned with allegories under the direction of Jacob van Campen, who was also responsible for the Town Hall of Amsterdam. Whereas he there used the Fleming Artus Quellinus and his team, he entrusted to Dutch painters the allegories at Huis den Bosch. How unfortunately it turned out is shown by van Campen's own contribution, the Brazilian Riches, where very Dutch pale‐faces appear dressed as Indians (Fig. 14). The naturalistic precision only enhances the effect of a fancy‐dress ball. But for the most important section, the apotheosis of the late governor Frederik Hendrik, van Campen employed a Fleming, Jacob Jordaens. The outcome was one of the most glorious allegories ever made. What the Dutch did not manage to handle, the Flemish did—and vice versa. Through Rubens, Jordaens had acquired that verve, which so well suits staging that great lie the allegory after all is, from a naturalistic aspect. The virtues of the Dutch, on the other hand, lay in a respect for the law of gravitation and a truthful rendering of objects, in prose and not in rhetoric. To an alienation of Dutch realism contributed, eventually, the style of Rococo with its demand for lightness and dematerialized forms, and the painters had to curb their eagerness to make objects come true as objects. That this will still made itself felt is evidenced by the remarkable outlet it found in grisaille painting. The leading master was Jacob de Wit, who on lintels and wall panels conjured up stucco‐reliefs with such illusionistic mastery that even the light in which they were placed was calculated for. On the walls opposite the windows, for instance, these sham reliefs were rendered as if they reflected the light on the floor below (Fig. 15). At the same time as these grisailles perfectly conform to the playful style of the Rococo, they make allowance for the enjoyment of illusionistic observance. Exactly as did Jan van Eyck long before, so Jacob de Wit created at these moments marvels hitherto unseen, evoked by means of light and shade. Incidentally, when in the 18th century, the traceries of the Utrecht cloisters were pulled down for reasons of safety, understandably the bay with the ropes was spared.