8th January 2020
Paris, France
Sinead MacAodha
In this picture, which is called Two Hunting Dogs Tied to a Tree Stump, a brown and white dog and a dark brown dog are tied to a tree stump. The first dog is sitting down, staring sideways towards the painting’s gilt frame. The second dog stands, head bowed, staring directly at the painter, who most likely is his owner, or so the gallery notes lead me to believe. The gallery notes are also quick to point out this 1548 oil painting by Jacopo dal Ponte is the first commissioned animal portrait in Western painting and therefore responsible for setting a trend. Countless posed kittens, ponies and puppies in baskets can trace their origins back to these two dogs. Not least the two bland watercolours of my mother’s favourite cats, commissioned posthumously and currently gracing her living room wall. I’d like to thank dal Ponte personally for that. And also offer commiserations for the fact Two Hunting Dogs is displayed in the Louvre’s Salle des Etats, directly behind the Mona Lisa’s left shoulder. Though this small painting is passed by some ten millions visitors each year, it generally goes all but unnoticed by all but the die hard dog lovers. Poor old Jacopo dal Ponte. Poor old tied up hunting dogs.
9th January 2020
Paris, France
Alan and Cheryl Meban
The Galerie d’Apollon of the Louvre houses what’s left of the French crown jewels. They are, I’m disappointed to admit, much like every other set of crown jewels. Which is to say, sparkly, ostentatious and terribly impractical. What’s more intriguing by miles is the display of empty, red leather cases made by Jean-Baptist-Nicolas Gouverneur, each one specifically designed to hold a single crown or diamond necklace or miniature, military sword. I’m particularly drawn to these cases because each is the perfect outline of the object it’s intended to hold. Like the platonic ideal of sword or crown, but approximately two to three centimetres bigger, each bulge and flourish, each fat diamond and decorative cross, has been carefully moulded out of leather to form a plush-lined second skin. This puts me in mind of the old cartoons I used to love. Mickey Mouse. Daffy Duck. All the various Looney Tunes whose birthday presents were never square or any sort of uniform shape but rather perfect replicas of trains and tennis racquets, gift-wrapped and ribboned so there was never any real surprise to be had in the unwrapping. And this makes me wonder about the French Royals. Were they a mischievous bunch? Did they ever, just for a laugh, stick a sceptre in the sword box or swap the King’s crown for a fancy necklace?
10th January 2020
Paris, France
Marius Burokas
In praise of perfect palindromes. For example, the French actor Leon Noel, who died in 1913, just before the War. His body is buried next to the bodies of his mother and father who didn’t even bother to rhyme. They preside over the farthermost corner of the 20th division of Pere-Lachaise. A Gustave Deloye bust of Leon Noel’s perfect head sits atop a perfectly hewn plinth. Note the collar raised equally on each shoulder, the eyes set equidistant from the nose, the hair receding in perfect, carbon copy curls round both of his perfectly balanced ears. Imagine some twelve feet beneath his perfectly pitched chin, a perfectly inverted plinth and bust of Leon Noel’s identical twin brother, Noel Leon who died at midnight on the same day, perfectly mirroring Leon Noel’s noon, and has been buried upside down at a one hundred and eighty degree angle for continuity’s sake.
11th January 2020
Paris, France
Anne Griffin
At first glance it would appear that the Marquise d’Orvilliers is simply having a bad hair day. While her neighbours mounted to left and right are perfectly plaited, ringleted and coiffed according to the current trend, her own mad bap of graying curls is barely contained by a single red ribbon, run Rambo-style across her head. Demurely dressed in funeral blacks, though this is actually an engagement portrait, she sits side saddle on a chair looking podgy and distinctly non-plussed. No jewels. No make-up. No opulent drapes. No lap dog or fawning children. One might assume the eighteen year old Marquise to be an old maid before her time. Until, closer scrutiny of the gallery notes reveals the artist’s specific intention: to paint the woman as a good Protestant. Austere is the aesthetic he was aiming for: cold light, blank wall, a bland minimum of accessories. Pity the sitter for he’s truly nailed it. Only a mother could love that face, or the young officer of the Royal Court who, knowing her father to be filthy rich, has recently asked for her dumpy hand.
12th January 2020
Paris, France
Yan Ge
In Le Cabinet Tessin, Swedish artist Peter Johanssen has constructed an elaborate wooden labyrinth though the permanent collection of the Institute Tessin. Small mug-sized portholes appear at interval allowing visitors access to tiny circles of the paintings and sculptures. Through the thirtieth of these round windows, a fragment of the Swedish painter, Einar Jolin’s wife, Tatiana can be viewed. She appears to be wearing a leopard-skin coat and sits with both hands resting on her lap. Her left hand sports a gold wedding band. Her right, a ruby-studded ring and a charm bracelet of gold and bronze medallions. If the frame were not focused on this tight section you might well have lingered on the model’s pretty face and missed the tiny cross emerging from her jacket sleeve, her fingernails filed to glamorous points, her hands crossed decisively on her lap, like the hands of a more adamant woman. It is hard to believe that these strong hands belong to that pale and passive face. In the case of Tatiana Angelini-Scheremetiew, seeing less means seeing more.
13th January 2020
Paris, France
Radmila Radovanovic
It is almost five hundred years since the lady first met the unicorn. For five hundred years now, they have been gazing into each others’ eyes. Each remembers their introduction clearly. The unicorn smiled first. The lady smiled back. Overcome by the pathos of this moment, the unicorn rose up on his hind legs and raised a flag to mark the occasion and danced a happy unicorn dance. The lady looked at the unicorn and she too knew this moment was particularly charged and required something like revelry. So she demanded six new dresses, four fruit trees and a serving girl, bearing vessels of sumptuous treats, a lavish tent and a court of beasts to attend her whimsy which included lions, monkeys, and a Pekinese. Five hundred years on, the moment’s worn a little thin; frayed, you might say, around the edges. The lady’s still smiling, so’s the unicorn, but if you look closely, you’ll notice their faces are strained and they’re no longer dancing, or even talking, just posed like strangers at a party, locked in the dullest of conversations, each one wishing that someone, anyone, even that monkey, would cut in and end this infernal charade.
14th January 2020
Paris, France
Alexandra Buchler
The young embroiderers of 13th Century France are not to be trusted with more complex pieces. Though an apprenticeship can last up to eight years, a girl in her sixth or seventh year might still be stuck with background work. Forests. Mountains. Sea and walls. So many walls. So much grey thread. For most of these scenes are religious; set in churchy spots. Picture the bold and brassy lass – Marie perhaps or Genevieve- who, seven years into a long, long learning, chances her arm and her needlepoint, to embroider a tiny effigy of saint somebody-or-other, (one of the more minor examples), in the corner of a tapestry. Only to be reprimanded. Only to be put in her place. Only to have her careful stitchwork unpicked by an older woman who knows the saints and apostles, the blessed virgin and himself, (infant, adult and crucified), are all embroidered by ancient experts, and stitched on at a later date. Where’s the fun in that? thinks the girl. Hers is the daring of the young; the desire to leave a permanent mark.
Jan Carson Writes 