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Christ in Majesty, c. 1072–1087.

Fresco. Basilica of Sant’Angelo in Formis, Capua.

Note from the Editor: The following passages originally constituted sections of two books that delved into the origins, progression, and development of the Italian Renaissance. Both written in 1864 – one by Anna Jameson and the other by Giovanni Cavalcaselle and Joseph Crowe – their original text provides a vivid insight into both the lives of the artists and atmosphere of the time, shedding light on certain works that have since been destroyed or lost, as well as exacting a Victorian critique of artistic technique and form that has since been replaced by a less assertive style of analysis. Nevertheless, despite the interceding period of a tumultuous twentieth century, many of the works remain in the same chapels, Duomos, and galleries referred to by the writers, and the fact that they are still an object of artistic interest to some, and reverence to others, corroborates their timeless appeal.

These ‘Memoirs’ of the early Italian Painters were first published in the form of detached essays. The intention was to afford young travellers, young art students, and young people in general, some information relating to celebrated artists who have filled the world with their names and their renown; some means of understanding their characters as well as comparing their works; for without knowing what a painter was, as well as who he was, the circumstances around him, his age, and the country in which he lived, we cannot comprehend the grounds of that relative judgment which renders even imperfect works so precious and admirable. These biographical essays were necessarily brief. Since they were first published, the taste for art has broadened significantly; many works have appeared, some beautifully illustrated. Unnumbered reviews, essays, and guidebooks from the pens of accomplished critics and artists have all facilitated the study of art; but the original purpose of this little book as a companion for the young has not been superceded. The author has therefore prepared this edition with great care. The references to examples have been made, wherever it has been possible, to the National Gallery in London; the number of valuable early pictures which were recently added to our collection has rendered these references and descriptions much more intelligible and interesting to the young student than they were a few years ago. Many remarkable pictures have since changed hands; nearly all the arrangements in the Louvre in Paris, in the Florentine Galleries, and in the Galleria dell’Academia in Venice, have been altered since the original publishing.

It was necessary, therefore, to correct the references with some regard to the existing arrangements and the numbering of the pictures in all these famous galleries. Of course it has not been possible in this little work to enter into disputed points of criticism or chronology; but the author has profited from two visits to Italy, and more particularly by the excellent edition of Vasari, who has added several biographies and rendered these Memoirs altogether not only more interesting, but sufficiently accurate, considering their comprehensive and popular form, ensuring not to mislead the inexperienced student on questions relating to particular pictures and individual artists that remain to be settled.

Simone Martini and Lippo Memmi, Altarpiece of The Annunciation, 1333.

Tempera on wood, 184 × 210 cm.

Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence.

Duccio di Buoninsegna, Gualino Madonna, between 1280–1283.

Tempera and gold on wood, 157 × 86 cm.

Galleria Sabauda, Turin.

In regard to pictures, let it be remembered that although a knowledge of the name, the character and the country of the painter adds greatly to the pleasure with which we can contemplate a work of art, it is not – it ought not to be – the source of our highest gratification; that must depend on our capacity to understand the work in itself, and have delight in it for its own sake. Our first question, when we stand before a picture should not be “Who painted it?” but “What does it mean?”, “What is it about?”, “What was in the painter’s mind to express when he embodied his thoughts in this form and colour?” We should be able to read a picture as we read a book, but a picture has an advantage over a book in that its significance is not expressed in written or printed words, which are mere arbitrary signs of human invention, but in forms and colours, which belong to the realm of nature. Imagery, whether in painting or sculpture, was a means of imparting instruction, as well as delight, long before the art of writing existed, and painting was brought to a certain degree of perfection and used for the grandest and most important purposes long before we had the art of printing. In those times, to use the expression of one of the old fathers of the Church, “Pictures were the books of the people;” in fact, they had no other; even now, when books are plentiful and cheap, the use of pictures to convey information more rapidly and more accurately than by words is commonplace.

But it is another thing when we have to consider pictures as art, and painting as one of the highest of the fine arts properly so called. Now, people may collect books merely as articles of curiosity and rarity, as specimens of printing and binding, like that collector who Pope describes: “In books, not authors, curious was my lord!” He may like them as furniture to fill his shelves with intricate binding and accredited names, even so may an individual collect pictures for their beauty, their rarity, or their antiquity, or hang them on their walls as mere ornamental furniture. No doubt such collections are a great, allowable source of pleasure to the possessor and to the observer; however, considered as productions of mind addressed to mind, this is not the highest advantage to be derived from pictures. As I have said, we should be able to read a picture as we read a book. A gallery of pictures may be compared with a well-furnished library; I have sometimes thought that it would be a good thing if we could arrange a collection of pictures as we arrange a collection of books. In the ordering of a library with a view to convenience and use, we do not mix all subjects together. We have different compartments for theology, history, biography, poetry, travels, science, romances, and so forth; we might consider pictures in a similar order. Theology, in that case, would comprise all ordained subjects, whether taken from the Holy Scriptures, or having any religious significance; they may be the representation of an event, such as the elevation of the serpent in the wilderness, the raising of Lazarus, the worship of the Magi, or they may be the expression of an idea, such as the dead Christ mourned by his mother and the angels, or those most beautiful and inexhaustible subjects, the human mother nursing her son, and the son honouring in heaven the mother who bore him on earth. Such ideal subjects bear the same relation to religious narratives as the Psalms and prophecies bear to the book of Kings.

In the category of the theological, pictures may be classed as those which represent the effigies and sufferings of the Holy Martyrs who perished for their faith in the early ages of Christianity – the noble Roman soldier St. Sebastian, the Great Doctors and Teachers of the Church such as St. Jerome who made the first translation of the Scriptures into the vulgar tongue (thence called the Vulgate), and those personages who became ideal types of Christian virtue. Thus we have the valorous angel Michael, conqueror of the powers of evil; the benign angel Raphael, guardian of the young; the learning and wisdom of St. Catherine, the fortitude of St. Antony, and the chivalrous faith of St. George. Some knowledge of these personages, their characters and actions, historical or legendary, and the manner in which they were represented by various artists for the edification of their respective societies, will add greatly to the interest of a gallery of pictures.

Giotto, Baroncelli Polyptych, 1334.

Paint and gold on wood.

Basilica di Santa Croce, Florence.

All would range as theology, and nothing is more interesting than to observe the very different manner in which the same scene and subject has been conceived and represented by different artists.

Continuing our parallel between a library and a picture gallery, history would comprise all pictures representing such actions and events as have been recorded by objective writers – classical and modern. Such are The Family of Darius at the feet of Alexander (from Grecian history), The Romans carrying off the Sabine Women (from Roman history), The Death of Lord Chatham (from English history), and so on; portraiture stands in the same relation to historical painting that biography bears to history. Is not the picture of Ippolito de’ Medici and Sebastian del Piombo a piece of biography? What about Julius the Second, that resolute old pope or Julia Gonzaga? Consider, too, Zurbaran’s Monk and Rembrandt’s Rabbi. Understanding the representation of history through art will provide an insight into the emotive character of the times, in a way that words cannot.

Christ Pantocrator, 12th century.

Mosaic. Apse of Monreale Cathedral, Monreale.

Poetry would comprise all subjects from poets both ancient and modern. Such are the Bacchus and Ariadne, the Yenus and Adonis, Mercury teaching Cupid to read, the Judgment of Paris (all taken from the classics); Erminia and the Shepherds (from Tasso); the Rescue of Serena (from Spenser). These are poetry, regardless of whether each in itself is a poem. Then, correlative with fiction and drama, domestic or romantic, we have the style of painting, called genre, which deals with the scenes and incidents of familiar life, which may be of a very high moral significance, as in the Marriage a-la-Mode; or of the lowest, as in the Woman Peeling Carrots, or the Drinking Boors; whatever the significance, it may be ennobled by the perfect execution. Some modern novels, in which the most commonplace events of everyday life are treated with the most exquisite grace, delicacy, and knowledge of human nature, may be likened to those Dutch pictures in which two misers counting their gold, a lady reading a letter, or a woman bargaining for a fowl, shall be treated with such consummate elegance of execution, and even power of character, that at once, they delight the eye and fancy.

But genre painting was unknown in the early schools of Italian art; the concerts and conversazioni of Giorgione and the other Venetians are too poetic to fall under this designation, so I shall say no more of it here. Animal painting, as a special class of art as Rubens, Snyders, and Landseer have made it, was also unknown. At the same time, we must acknowledge that when the old Italians introduced animals into their pictures, they showed themselves capable of excelling in imitative as well as ideal art. What can exceed the little birds on the steps of the throne in Benozzo Gozzoli’s Madonna, or the fish in Perugino’s picture Raphael and Tobit, for exquisite truth of nature? To be sure, we cannot say the same of Paolo Uccello’s horses, yet it is interesting to observe the first efforts in this way of a school which afterwards produced Andrea Verrocchio’s equestrian statue of Colleone and Lionardo’s Battle of the Standard.

Landscape painting, which may be likened to books of travels and descriptions of scenery, was unknown as a separate class of art until the middle of the sixteenth century; however, some of the early painters, particularly the Venetians, give us a lovely background in their religious scenes. That intense sympathy with natural scenery which we find in the works of Thomson and Wordsworth as poets and Cuyp and Hobbema as painters, seems to have been the growth of modern times.

Lastly, to continue our parallel, we have a scientific class of art as of books. Painting, when called in to illustrate the discoveries and triumphs of science, as in geology, botany, architectural and technological innovations, and the like, may be called scientific art. A collection of this kind of picture, where beauty of treatment is combined with exact truth, might be made very attractive as well as interesting and profitable. Scientific art is chiefly employed in illustrating books, and is the handmaid rather than the priestess and interpreter of nature. But photography has taught us all the beauty and the poetry that may be found in the most literal transcripts of truth; like landscape and portraiture, scientific art will find a place for itself in our galleries in time.

When we know and thoroughly understand the subject of a picture, we may then inquire the name of the painter, the age, the country, the school of art in which he was reared, to which he belonged; hence we may derive the most various delight from the associations connected with this extended knowledge. These Memoirs of famous painters are intended to suggest such comparative and discriminating reflections. I will conclude with a passage written long ago by an almost-forgotten art critic, old Jonathan Richardson:

“When one sees an admirable piece of art, it is a part of the entertainment to know to whom to attribute it, and then to know his history; whence else is the custom of putting the author’s picture or life at the beginning of a book? When one is considering a picture or a drawing, and at the same time thinks that this was done by him who had many extraordinary endowments of body and mind, but was withal very capricious [Leonardo da Vinci]; who was honoured in life and death, expiring in the arms of one of the greatest princes of that age, Francis I, King of France, who loved him as a friend. Another is of he [Titian] who lived a long and happy life, beloved of Charles V, Emperor, and many others of the first princes of Europe. When one has another in his hand, and thinks this was done by him [Michelangelo] who so excelled in three arts as that any of them in that degree had rendered him worthy of immortality, and one that, moreover, durst contend with his sovereign (one of the haughtiest popes that ever was) upon a slight offered to him, and extricated himself with honour. Another is the work of he [Correggio] who, without any one exterior advantage, by mere strength of genius, had the most sublime imaginations, and executed them accordingly, yet lived and died obscurely. Another we shall consider as the work of he [Annibal Carracci] who restored painting when it was almost sunk; of him whose art made honourable, but, neglecting and despising greatness with a sort of cynical pride, was treated suitably to the figure he gave himself, not his intrinsic merit; which, not having philosophy enough to bear it, broke his heart. Another is done by one [Rubens] who (on the contrary) was a fine gentleman, and lived in great magnificence, and was much honoured by his own and foreign princes; who was a courtier, a statesman, and a painter, and so much all these, that, when he acted in either character, that seemed his business, and the others his diversion. I say, that when one thus reflects, besides the pleasure arising from the beauties and excellencies of the work, the fine ideas it gives us of natural things, the noble way of thinking one finds in it, and the pleasing thoughts it may suggest to us, an additional pleasure results from these reflections.

“But, the pleasure! when a connoisseur and lover of art has before him a picture or a drawing of which he can say, this is the hand, there are the thoughts, of him [Raphael] who was one of the politest, best-natured gentlemen that ever was; and beloved and assisted by the greatest wits and the greatest men then in Rome; of him who lived in great fame, honour, and magnificence, and died extremely lamented, and missed a Cardinal’s hat only by dying a few months too soon, particularly esteemed and favoured by two popes [Julius II and Leo X], the only ones who filled the chair of St. Peter in his time, and as great men as ever sat there since that apostle, – if at least he ever did; one, in short, who could have been a Leonardo, a Michaelangelo, a Titian, a Correggio, an Annibale, a Rubens, or any other he pleased, but none of them could ever have been a Raphael. And when we compare the hand and manner of one master with another, and those of the same man in different times, when we see the various turns of mind and various excellencies, and, above all, when we observe what is well or ill in their works, as it is a worthy, so it is also a very delightful exercise of our rational faculties.”

It is to enlarge this sphere of rational pleasure in the contemplation of works of art that the following Memoirs were written. [May, 1859]

Cimabue, Crucifixion, c. 1280.

Fresco. Left transept of the

Upper Basilica of San Francesco, Assisi.

Pietro Lorenzetti, Christ of Compassion (facing right), between 1340–1345.

Lindenau-Museum, Altenburg.

Duccio di Buoninsegna, Crevole Madonna, c. 1280.

Tempera on wood.

Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, Siena.