Author Archives: Claudia Suzan Carley

The Chapel at Tyntesfield

The chapel at Tyntesfield is a spectacularly beautiful reimagining of a French medieval church, Sainte-Chapelle in Paris. Tyntesfield is a Victorian neo-Gothic mansion built by the devout Gibbs family, commoners who rose to great wealth through banking, shipping, and bat and bird manure (more on that later).

The chapel was the last big building project on the property, just outside Bristol, but it was in many ways the one most important to William Gibbs. It is also the first part of the house that the visitor sees on the walk from the parking lot and National Trust visitor center. It’s a stunning first impression. Arthur Blomfield was the architect and builder.

When the Gibbs family lived in their Victorian Gothic Revival mansion, the family, guests and servants alike attended prayers twice daily–first in the grand hall, and later in the chapel when it was finished. Beginning around 1842, William Gibbs made his fortune from a simple idea that grew and grew: he imported guano, the droppings of sea birds and bats, from Peru to North America. Guano was highly prized as a fertilizer. William Gibbs became the richest non-aristocratic man in England. Tyntesfield had 106 total rooms, with 26 main bedrooms plus more rooms for the many servants. The square footage is about 40,000. And this was only their country home. Most of the time they lived elsewhere, in equally grand digs.

Naturally, people were envious of Gibbs’s success. An indelicate ditty in London ran, “Mr. Gibbs made his dibs, Selling the turds of foreign birds.” Actually, the selling of fertilizer led inexorably to profiting from the slave trade, a fact which the Gibbs family preferred not to dwell on. Their shipping business, over time, became a part of the Triangular Trade that caused so much human misery. Ships constantly transported material goods and slaves between Europe, the Americas, and Africa.

Triangular Trade, Creative Commons GNU Free Documentation License

The Gibbs family donated large amounts of their fortune to various charitable causes, and generously supported churches all over England. Naturally, they wanted their own church. The chapel was built between 1872 and 1879, to a design by Arthur Bloomfield.

Sainte-Chapelle, interior, image from The Guardian article cited below

The inspiration was Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, pictured above. Sainte-Chapelle was built by the devout Louis IV in the 1240s. (He later became St. Louis, giving his name to the American city later still).

The stained glass at Tyntesfield is beautiful, if not as spectacular as the newly-restored glass at Sainte-Chapelle in Paris.

The stonework is lovely and evocative.

Portrait of William Gibbs by Eugene Deveria, circa 1850, Public Domain

WIlliam Gibbs intended to follow the example of aristocratic families and create a family burial vault underneath the chapel for future generations. The vault exists, but it is empty. The Bishop of Bath and Wells, under pressure from local churches, refused to consecrate the chapel. The stated reason was that allowing a consecrated chapel on the grounds of Tyntesfield would detract from local churches. I can’t help thinking that “the powers that be” were also reluctant to upset the social applecart by allowing a family of common birth to put on airs. (Eventually, George Abraham Gibbs was “created” 1st Baron Wraxall in 1928, but family fortunes were already declining by that time).

The chapel at Tyntesfield is the last stop for visitors touring the beautiful mansion. It’s a lovely, light-filled, quiet place to contemplate history. William Gibbs was buried elsewhere, but a cross and inscription from the book of Proverbs memorialize his life: “The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it is found in the way of righteousness.” William Gibbs did his best to be both a businessman and a righteous man. Early in his career, he and his brother Henry worked hard to completely repay the debts that earlier family members had run up. The family business had gone bankrupt, and there was no obligation to pay. But they did anyway, every penny. It also appears that William Gibbs did his best to remove his shipping business from the slave trade once the terrible abuses were known.

I previously wrote about Tyntesfield and the Gibbs family at https://castlesandcoffeehouses.com/2014/10/22/high-victorian…at-tyntesfield/ ‎

https://castlesandcoffeehouses.com/2013/06/19/tyntesfield-vi…lendor-rescued/ ‎

Tyntesfield: Mr. Gibbs Made His Dibs

An article about the restoration of St. Chapelle in Paris is at http://www.theguardian.com/world/2015/may/20/sainte-chapelle-paris-stained-glass-window-restoration-completed

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe and the British Isles!

Norwich: Refugees in the Cathedral

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In the middle of the biggest and most heartbreaking refugee crisis in Europe since World War II, I came face to face with larger-than-life refugees in the middle of beautiful Norwich Cathedral in England. Ana Maria Pacheco, a sculptor from Brazil, had her ten-figure group on exhibit in the North Transept. The installation is called Shadows of the Wanderer. It was created in 2008. But it is especially powerful today, when people are dying every day in a desperate flight away from violence and grinding poverty in their home countries. The nations of Europe are struggling to come to terms with the vast number of refugees arriving on their shores and at their train stations. All over Europe and Britain, while governments dither, ordinary people get on with the business of helping their fellow human beings. They collect diapers, food, water bottles, blankets and tents, and they simply appear where they are needed.

The lead figure in the sculpture group is a young man carrying his elderly father on his back. Father and son are carved from the same huge block of wood. The son literally cannot leave his father behind; his father is part of him, and he is part of his father. The origin of this stunning work of art was the story of Aeneas, who carried his aged father Anchises from the ruins of battle at Troy. The son is about to step off the exhibit plinth and join us, the viewers.

How will we react to these desperate people? All the figures are larger than we are, about 7 or 8 feet tall. The situation they depict is bigger than we are, too.

The remaining figures show possible reactions: Shock, dismay, disapproval, indifference.

Will we look around, wondering who is going to get this problem out of our sight?

Will we look the other way, complacent as we go about our regular business?

The draped figures following the desperate father and son have their arms and hands hidden. If the father and son fell backward, would anyone catch them? Will no one reach out a helping hand? These are the questions that ordinary people are asking their leaders right now. Each one of us could become a refugee for reasons beyond our control. The current crisis is a test of our humanity.

Norwich has one of the most welcoming cathedrals I’ve ever seen. Many great cathedrals charge admission, often as much as $15 or $20. At Norwich, visitors are greeted by volunteers asking what they are most interested in seeing. I’m sure donations are gratefully accepted, but I arrived late in the day and didn’t realize until after I’d left that I never saw a place to donate. The business of Norwich Cathedral is to welcome and to minister to its visitors.

When I arrived, a lovely young volunteer asked about my interests, then described this special exhibit. She offered to lead me directly to the North Transept so I wouldn’t miss this powerful work of art in my limited time. I am grateful to her.

Join me next time for more explorations into the ever-fascinating and ever-challenging history and art of Europe and the British Isles.

Las Meninas: A Velazquez Masterpiece

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Diego Velazquez, “Las Meninas,” 1656-7, Public Domain, Prado Museum

In around 1656-57, the great Spanish court painter Diego Velazquez was at the height of his powers, both as an artist and as a courtier. King Philip IV appointed him not only to paint portraits of the royal family, but also to acquire and curate the royal art collection. Velazquez was more than a mere painter; he lived almost as a member of the royal family. Many people think Las Meninas is the greatest painting in all of Western art.

Pablo Picasso, “Las Meninas,” image from Guggenheim website cited below

In 1957, Pablo Picasso painted over 40 of his own versions of the painting. One of the greatest artists of modern times was carefully studying and paying tribute to a great artist of the past.

In the original painting, Velazquez did not have the red cross of the Order of Santiago emblazoned on his chest; he only received it three years later. Philip IV ordered the cross to be added to the painting after the death of Velazquez. Legend has it that the King personally painted it.

The central figure is Princess Margarita Teresa, at the time the only living child of her parents, King Philip IV and his second wife Mariana of Austria. They’re in the background of the painting, possibly reflected in a strategically placed mirror. Also present are two ladies-in-waiting, two dwarves, a lady chaperone, a chamberlain, a bodyguard, and a friendly-looking mastiff. And the artist himself is present, with brush and palette. The names of all the people are known, except the bodyguard.

Detail from “Las Meninas,” Public Domain

I’ll leave it to art historians to explicate what all Velazquez wanted to say in his magnum opus. I’m drawn to the enchanting figure of little Margarita Teresa, age 5. This was a golden moment in her short but seemingly happy life. The painting was almost destroyed by a fire in 1734. Fortunately, it was rescued. The left cheek of the princess was burned, but it was painstakingly restored.

The spectacular Velazquez exhibit at the Vienna Kunsthistorisches Museum last year had to make do with a reproduction of Las Meninas. The masterpiece is too precious for the Prado to lend out.

One of the pleasures of a major museum exhibit is a stop at the gift shop. What souvenirs did the marketing people come up with? I thought they outdid themselves for the Velazquez exhibit.

Anyone for a t-shirt with the most fetching images from the great paintings? On the black cotton background, they show up almost as elegantly as the figures in Las Meninas.

Or how about a set of salt and pepper shakers? The salt is the adorable Margarita Teresa. The pepper is Diego Velazquez himself, complete with brush, palette and the cross of the Order of Santiago. I’m still kicking myself for not buying them.

An article about Picasso’s Las Meninas is at http://web.guggenheim.org/exhibitions/picasso/artworks/maids_of_honor

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

St. Jerome and His Lion

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Niccolo Antonio Colantonio, “Jerome in his Study,” c. 1440-1470, Public Domain, National Museum of Capodimonte

One of my favorite saints is Jerome, AKA Saint Hieronymous. Why? Because he befriended a lion in the wilderness–or at least so the legend goes. In the painting above, the lion has ventured into the saint’s dusty study with a thorn in his paw. Jerome sets his book aside and carefully removes the thorn. In other depictions, the saint comes across the lion, writhing in pain, out in the wilds. Either way, the legend is that from the moment Jerome extracted the thorn, the lion never left his side.

Jerome was born around the year 347 A.D. He lived mostly in what is now Croatia. A scholarly fellow, he became one of the earliest Doctors of the Church, before titles like “Cardinal” existed. One of his main accomplishments was translating the Bible into Latin, from its original Aramaic and Greek.

Jacopo Tintoretto, “St. Jerome,” c. 1570, Public Domain, Vienna Kunsthistorisches Museum

In paintings, the lion often lurks under a table or in a dark corner.

I took the two photos just above in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. I love the legend, and whenever I’m in an art museum I’m on the lookout for images of Jerome and his lion. They have been painted countless times.

Whenever I spot Jerome and his lion, I move in for a closeup.

Workshop of David Gerard, Saint Jerome in a Landscape, about 1501, my photo taken in National Gallery, London

To me, Jerome’s friendship with his lion is part of his concern for the whole creation.

Antonello da Messina, “Saint Jerome in His Study,” about 1475, my photo taken in National Gallery, London

Sometimes the lion is not underfoot, but he’s always close by.

The faithful lion is always present. In the painting of Jerome in the large study above, he’s patrolling the perimeter. No matter what, the lion always had Jerome’s back.

Giovanni Bellini, Saint Jerome Reading in a Landscape, circa 1480-5, my photo taken in National Gallery, London

If the lion’s face is shown, he always has a friendly, grateful, loyal face–much like a shy family dog. He tends to look a little wary–who is about to disturb his friend Jerome?

Are these paintings just sentimental portrayals of a serious saint who should be remembered for much more than a story that may not have happened at all? The subject is the medieval and Renaissance equivalent of sharing cute animal videos online.

On a busy day, a couple of minutes spent watching photogenic animals feels to me like a guilty pleasure. What am I accomplishing by watching a gorilla rock a kitten to sleep or a sheepdog rescue a teacup pig from drowning? Well, I’m not getting a thing done, but I’m pausing in a busy day to learn compassion from animals. Like those videos, the images of St. Jerome and his lion give us an appreciation of our bond with the animals who share our world. The animals mostly treat each other and our world better than we humans do. If I were St. Jerome, I wouldn’t mind being remembered as an animal lover as well as a high-powered scholar.

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

Margarita Teresa: A Cheerful Infanta

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Diego Velazquez, “Portrait of the Infanta Maria Teresa of Spain,” 1652, Public Domain

It’s just as well we can’t see into the future. The series of Velazquez portraits of Spain’s Infanta Margarita Teresa are some of the most charming images of childhood ever recorded. Her life was happy, but far too short. Margarita Teresa was born in 1651, daughter of King Philip IV of Spain and his second wife Mariana of Austria.

On the birth of a royal child, the Habsburgs immediately began looking for ways to cement the dynasty. This usually involved intermarriage. Most of us would not consider our uncle AND our first cousin as what we used to call “dating material,” but Margarita had no choice in the matter. As a baby, she was betrothed to Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor. He was both her maternal uncle and her paternal cousin. (In my family, holidays like Thanksgiving are tense enough, what with all the unaccustomed family togetherness. I can only imagine trying to get through a festive meal of turkey and cranberries with the Habsburgs. At the very least, I think there would be snarky comments. There could be a food fight).

“Portrait of Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor,” unknown artist, late 17th century, Public Domain

Leopold, 11 years older, was more than happy with his prospective bride. To sweeten the pot, her father had made sure that she remained in the Spanish line of succession and would pass on her rights to any descendants.

Leopold naturally wanted to follow the progress of his bride as she grew up, and the Spanish court had the great painter Diego Velazquez at the ready. He supplied enchanting portraits of the child as she grew. The portraits were sent straight to Leopold in Vienna. The Kunsthistorisches Museum still has them. The portrait at the beginning of this article, showing the child at age 2, was the first. The child still had her fair baby hair, fluffy and unstyled.

Diego Velazquez, “La Infanta Margarita Teresa,” 1653-56, Public Domain

Velazquez painted Margarita Teresa again a couple of years later. She was lovely and serene. She looks a little shy, but she was clearly accustomed to wearing a grand gown and being admired.

Diego Velazquez, “Infanta Margarita Teresa in a Blue Dress,” 1659, Public Domain

One of the most famous depictions, above, showed Margarita Teresa at age 8, wearing a blue dress. She looks older than her age, and more than a little apprehensive. She must have begun to understand her daunting obligations and her rapidly-approaching future by this time.

Jan Thomas, “Infanta Margarita Teresa,” 1667, Public Domain, Vienna Kunsthistorisches Museum

At age 15, just after the death of her father, Margarita Teresa went off to her destiny in Vienna. A German painter, Jan Thomas, painted her portrait in 1667, when she was 16. To me, she looks stiff and unhappy. Her towering headdress overpowers her slight frame, on which so much depended for her family’s royal succession. She looks thin and pale, too. And why is there a statue in the background, looking over her shoulder and raising a hand as if to ask what she’s up to? The Viennese court was famous for its rigid protocols. I imagine Margarita Teresa rarely had a moment to herself. Yet, in spite of the age difference, she and Leopold reportedly had a happy marriage.

Of course the teenager immediately began her child-bearing duties. Margarita Teresa had four living children, plus a number of miscarriages in her young life. Only one child survived, Maria Antonia of Austria. But the years of constant pregnancy had taken a toll. Sadly, Margarita Teresa died at age 21. Never having seen her native Spain again, she was buried in the Imperial Crypt in Vienna.

I wrote about Margarita Teresa’s ill-fated brothers, Balthasar Charles and Felipe Prospero, in two previous posts:

https://castlesandcoffeehouses.com/2015/07/27/velazquez-in-vienna/ ‎

https://castlesandcoffeehouses.com/2015/07/28/prince-felipe-…-a-sad-infante/ ‎

An article about the family church in Vienna, where Margarita Teresa was married at age 15, is at https://castlesandcoffeehouses.com/2014/12/01/habsburgs-hatc…and-dispatched/ (“Habsburgs Hatched, Matched and Dispatched”)

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

Cousin Beatie at Melford Hall

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Beatrix Potter, born on this day in 1866, was a frequent guest at Melford Hall in Suffolk. One of her most beloved characters, Jemima Puddleduck, began life as a toy dressed by Beatrix and given to Richard Hyde Parker, a grandson of her cousin.

The house is now a National Trust property and a delight to visit. Beatrix was a cousin of Ethel Leech, who lived at the Hall with her husband, Reverend Sir William Hyde Parker. (Like many younger sons of the nobility, he had gone into the Church. But the heir died unexpectedly and Sir WIlliam found himself a Baronet and the owner of a grand country home with a rich history).

Beatrix usually stayed in the West Bedroom, which had views over the garden and countryside. It’s an elegant high-ceilinged room. When she was a visitor, the room was a magnet for the children of the family. Beatrix often brought along a collection of small animals, which she kept in the adjoining turret room.

The house has lots of mementos of “Cousin Beatie’s” time there.

Beatrix returned the family’s hospitality. When Melford Hall was commandeered by the army during the Second World War, she invited the family to live at Hill Top Farm. They lived there for a year, a great privilege. No one had lived there since Hill Top contained many of Beatrix’s most prized possessions. No one had lived at Hill Top after she herself moved to Castle Cottage when she married.

One of the joys of wandering in British country houses is in finding connections with history, and especially with British authors. Beatrix Potter is one of my favorites, and I was very happy to spend an afternoon walking in her footsteps.

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe and the British Isles!

Prince Felipe Prospero: A Sad Infante

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Diego Velazquez, “Prince Philip Prospero,” circa 1660, Public Domain, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

This painting is one of my very favorite works of the great Spanish court painter Diego Rodriguez de Silva y Velazquez. It’s a loving depiction of Infante Felipe (Philip) Prospero around 1660. (Infante and Infanta were the titles of boy and girl royal children, respectively). Felipe Prospero was born in 1657. He was a long-awaited heir to the Spanish throne. His father was Philip IV of Spain; his mother was Philip’s second wife, Mariana of Austria. A son was essential; otherwise the husbands of Philip’s daughters would fight over the throne when he was gone.

Diego Velazquez, “Equestrian Portrait of Prince Balthasar Charles,” 1634-35, Public Domain, Prado Museum

The previous male heir, Prince Balthasar Charles, had died as a teenager, eleven years earlier. His death dashed the hopes of Philip IV for a stirring military career for his son. As a devout Catholic, Philip believed that his sins had somehow caused the death of Balthasar. (Actually, the cause was most likely the collective sins of his family, who for many generations intermarried with their Habsburg cousins in order to keep their hold on power).

Felipe Prospero was greeted with ecstatic celebrations and baptized at the earliest possible moment, to the great joy of his parents and their subjects. Water was brought from the River Jordan for the baptism. The Spanish people celebrated with masquerades, bullfights, processions and also getting drunk and breaking up furniture. But the child was sickly, a fact that Velazquez did not try to hide.

Felipe Prospero is pale. His eyes have a hollow look. Years of inbreeding between the Spanish and Austrian royal families had left him with a damaged immune system.

The amulets tied around his waist and across his chest were meant to ward off disease.

Nothing could help his worst medical problem, though. Inbreeding had left Felipe severely epileptic. The child lived for only a short time after Velazquez painted this portrait. He died of a violent epileptic seizure in 1661, at age 3.

The painting captures the little boy’s wistful beauty, his fragility, and the sadness that surrounded him. His little dog seems already to be mourning the child’s early death.

Velazquez was honored with a special exhibition last winter in Vienna. The museum already has the largest collection of Velazquez paintings outside of Spain, and more were brought in for the spectacular exhibition. Because the Habsburgs enthusiastically intermarried with their Spanish cousins, Velazquez was kept busy painting portraits of prospective brides and grooms at various ages. The portraits are enchanting–and haunting.

Diego Velazquez, “Self Portrait,” 1640, Public Domain

Velazquez painted this self
portrait the year before his own death in 1660. I imagine the artist had a special feeling for this delicate child, so near to death at such an early age. To me, this painting is a profound reflection of the frailty and brevity of human life.My previous post told the story of Felipe’s older brother, Prince Balthasar Charles. It’s at https://castlesandcoffeehouses.com/2015/07/27/velazquez-in-vienna/

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

Velazquez in Vienna: Prince Balthasar Charles

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Last winter the Vienna Kunsthistorisches Museum had a wonderful exhibit of paintings by the Spanish master, Diego Velazquez. Many of them were from the museum’s stellar collection by the artist, but some, like the portrait used for the banners, were borrowed.

The December week I spent in Vienna it rained all day, every day. Sometimes, it is true, the rain was only a gentle mist. But I never saw a single moment without some kind of wetness falling from the gray sky.

Snow in Vienna is beautiful and romantic. Rain? Not so much. Still, there is more than enough to do indoors in culture-rich Vienna. I always say that I don’t travel to Europe for the weather.

Diego Velazquez, “Self Portrait,” 1640, Public Domain

Diego Velazquez, considered by many to be the greatest of all European painters, was an honored guest at the Kunsthistorisches Museum. I had a yearly museum pass, so I ducked into the Kunst almost every day. I was often dripping wet, but each time I stashed my raincoat and revisited the Velazquez exhibit, I forgot all about being chilled and damp. I felt as though I had been to sunny Spain for awhile. The museum owns a number of the works of Velazquez, because of the close family ties (inbreeding, actually) between the Habsburgs and Spanish royalty.

The young boy in the portrait below was (literally) the poster child for the exhibit. Who was this boy?

Diego Velazquez, “Equestrian Portrait of Prince Balthasar Charles,” 1634-35, Public Domain, Prado Museum

The child posed confidently on a galloping horse was Prince Balthasar Charles, Prince of Asturias. He was the long-awaited male heir to the Spanish throne, the only son of King Philip IV and his first wife, Elisabeth of Spain. The Prince was born to great fanfare in 1629.

The boy appears to be at most eight or ten years old in his portrait, but that didn’t stop his parents from having him painted brandishing the baton of a Field Marshal. He was born to lead, educated to lead, and expected to lead. King Philip IV faced challenges to the continuing rule of his family. He needed this heir desperately. The hopes of his family and his country rested on this little boy’s shoulders. Sadly, Prince Balthasar Charles died at the age of 17 from smallpox.

Eugène Charpentier,
” Jean-Baptiste, comte Jourdan, maréchal de France,” mid-19th century, Public Domain

Monarchies all over Europe awarded batons to important military officers, royal or merely aristocratic. I imagine a Marshal wielding his baton the way Moses wielded the rod he used to lead the people of Israel. Possibly the Biblical story is even one of the origins of the marshal’s baton. In most European armies, Field Marshal was the highest military rank, above even a General. Usually it was awarded only to a person who was already a General, and only after extraordinary achievement, like winning an important battle. But the marshal’s baton in this portrait was purely wishful thinking.

Prince Balthasar Charles never had his chance at glory on the battlefield. His family waited eleven long years for another male heir. My next post will tell the story of that Spanish royal child, subject of one of my very favorite Velazquez masterpieces.

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

Gustave Caillebotte

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Self Portrait, Gustave Caillebotte, circa 1892, Public Domain

Maybe it is really best for an artist to be poor, at least at the beginning of a promising career. It seems to me that inherited riches stopped the artistic career of a potentially great French painter, Gustave Caillebotte.

Caillebotte, 1848-1894, was born to an upper-class Parisian family; most of their large fortune came from textiles used for military uniforms. I can almost hear the family arguments that resulted in Caillebotte going to law school. He was licensed as a lawyer in 1870 and was also trained as an engineer. (“Painting will never get you anywhere, son. Besides, why don’t you just run the family business? We need you.” This is all speculation on my part, of course). Anyway, Caillebotte was drafted to fight in the Franco-Prussian War for almost a year, 1870-1871.

He returned home safely, but rather than working in the family business or practicing law, he began serious study of art at L’Ecole des Beaux-Arts. I’d speculate that after seeing the horrors of war, he was determined to spend the rest of his life doing exactly what he wanted to do. And being the heir to a very wealthy family gave him the means.

Last year while in Paris I made a trek by train about 12 miles south of the city to the country mansion of the Caillebotte family in the posh suburb of Yerres. There was a special exhibit of the artist’s work. The champions of his work billed Yerres as “Caillebotte’s Giverny”–the tourist magnet that is the beautiful home and garden of Claude Monet. That was wishful thinking, at least for now. I doubt that Yerres will ever have the hordes of tourists that descent daily on Giverny. But that is not a bad thing. No photos were allowed inside the exhibit; that was just as well, because it was easy to give each wonderful painting the close attention it deserved.

Caillebotte painted in a much more realistic style than many of his Impressionist friends, and often from unusual perspectives.

The Yerres, Effect of Rain, Gustave Caillebotte, 1875, GNU Free Documentation License

The property was much larger when the family occupied it. But the house and grounds are still beautiful, and beautifully placed on the banks of the River Yerre. I especially loved the virtuoso painting above, depicting a moment of time as rain falls on the still surface of the river. I loved the play of light and shadow. It was on loan from the Indiana University Art Museum in Bloomington.

Les Perissoires, Gustave Caillebotte, 1878, Public Domain

The exhibit had many other water scenes, like this one with its unusual vantage point just behind a pair of men paddling canoes on the river. It was on loan from the Museum of Fine Arts in Rennes.

Gustave Caillebotte, “A Boating Party,” 1877-78, private collection

I stood for a long time in front of this painting of a gentleman rowing in a top hat and bow tie, and bought a large postcard of it. If I could carve out the time, I would travel to Washington, D.C. just to see this one painting again. The image above is from the website article from the National Gallery exhibit, cited below. What if the moments of our lives could be captured in a few thoughtful paintings, rather than a never-ending stream of selfies and forgotten party snapshots?

Young Man at a Window, Gustave Caillebotte,1875, Public Domain

From his family’s Paris city home, Caillebotte also found unusual perspectives. The painting above shows Caillebotte’s younger brother looking out over the street from the Paris family home. The painting is from a private collection.

The Floor Scrapers, Gustave Caillebotte, 1875, Public Domain, Musee d’Orsay

Caillebotte’s most famous painting, The Floor Scrapers, was controversial in his day. This masterpiece was actually rejected by the Salon of 1875. But the Impressionists loved it, and it appeared in their second Impressionist exhibit, where people stood in front of it and argued. Why? There was already a time-honored tradition of painting peasants at work in the countryside, but almost no one had honored urban laborers by painting them. The scene is believed to show a moment of refurbishment of the artist’s own studio in Paris. I love the play of soft light from the open window, the delicate curls of the planed wood, and the sweating shirtless laborers. Did Caillebotte gain an appreciation of the work of ordinary people during his wartime service?

Sadly, Caillebotte mostly stopped painting at age 34; he was more interested in photography. The exhibit I saw had a number of his photos, but in my mind they paled beside his paintings. I wish he had stayed with his brushes and canvases.

For many years, Caillebotte was neglected as an artist and more well known as a patron of other artists, notably his Impressionist friends Auguste Renoir, Claude Monet and Camille Pisarro. He bought their canvases, funded and curated their exhibits, and sometimes paid their rent.

Did Caillebotte believe he had reached the limit of his abilities and it was better to be a patron of more talented artists? Or was painting just too much hard work? He had the means to do anything he wanted to do. What he wanted was to hobnob with artists, grow orchids, build yachts, collect stamps, and generally enjoy himself. Who can blame him? And yet I wish he’d had a bit more of a work ethic.

Caillebotte died while gardening in 1894, aged only 45. He owned a collection of over 70 mostly Impressionist paintings, which he bequeathed to the French state on his death. They formed the core of the state’s Impressionist collection. Modestly, he only included two of his own paintings in the bequest. The rest remained mostly with his family, since he had no need for money and rarely sold a painting.

Gustave Caillebotte, “Paris Street, Rainy Day,” 1877, Public Domain, Art Institute of Chicago

Some of these paintings are part of an exhibit, Gustave Caillebotte: The Painter’s Eye, running through October at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C. The website is at http://www.nga.gov/content/ngaweb/exhibitions/2015/gustave-caillebotte.html

A Royal Christening at Sandringham

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In April I visited Sandringham, the private country home of the royal family, and was especially keen to have a look at the local parish church, where Princess Charlotte was christened yesterday. News media reported that royal well-wishers were invited to stand in the “paddock” where folks stand every Christmas to watch the royals go in and out of church. What’s a paddock? It’s just a field where horses normally stand around and eat grass. Yes, the old stone parish church is in an unassuming location with fields all around, just a short walk from the grand house. From the outside, the Church of St. Mary Magdalene looks exactly like countless other English country churches. Inside, it is the most beautiful country church I’ve ever seen–not surprising, what with the royal connection.

An angel holding a baby stands, appropriately, just above the entrance.

More angels minister to people inside, like this carved wooden one offering communion to a parishioner.

The church seems an especially joyful place of worship. Sunlight streams in through stained glass.

The painted ceiling is especially beautiful and colorful. I think the church in its present form dates mostly from Victorian times.

No one seems to be buried in the church, but the walls contain exquisite memorials to various royals. My favorite is the one of a pair of angels tenderly supporting a silhouette of Queen Victoria. I’m sure she was present in spirit to watch over the newest generation of her descendants. Did they behave themselves? That’s always the big question, as Victoria knew well from the trials of raising her own very large family.

News media have breathlessly reported on supposed sibling rivalry at the christening: Pippa Middelton is accused of trying to upstage her sister Duchess Kate by wearing essentially the same outfit, and possibly wearing it better. I reserve judgment. If there are any soap-opera goings-on among the current young royals, I prefer not to know about them. Anyway, good luck upstaging Kate. This is the woman who left the hospital and waved to crowds the very day she gave birth in April, wearing a pretty dress, perfect hair and HIGH HEELS. I would not care to try competing with Duchess Kate. The images of the sisters are from the Daily Mail article cited below.

Not having been one of the 25 or so people invited to the christening, I’m not sure there was a sermon or homily. But if there was, it was delivered from this beautiful silver Victorian pulpit. Best wishes to the new Princess!

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3150898/Did-Pippa-Middleton-try-upstage-Kate-Middleton-Etiquette-expert-William-Hanson-Aunt-Middleton-s-matching-christening-outfit-avoided.html

Previous posts about Sandringham are at https://castlesandcoffeehouses.com/2015/05/07/sandringham/

and https://castlesandcoffeehouses.com/2015/04/30/the-queens-chu…at-