Mihály Munkácsy (Hungarian, 1844–1900), The Rivals (Little Kittens), 1885. Oil on wood panel, 34 3/4 x 45 11/16 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Frederick Layton L139. Photo credit P. Richard Eells.

In honor of mother’s day this month, I thought that I would write about a painting that not only features one mother, but two!  You’ll find The Rivals (Little Kittens) by Mihály Munkácsy (Hungarian, 1844-1900) in the Museum’s Gallery #10 with 19th-century European paintings.

The painting shows a woman (mother #1) and her child on a sofa watching two kittens wrestling.  Meanwhile, a cat (mother #2) sits on the floor, watching the tussle from below.

Dated 1885, The Rivals shows us a comfortable French drawing room of what Americans recognized as the Victorian period. This family is clearly well-off financially, with up-to-date furnishings, opulent red decorations, and a fantastic potted plant.  Visible in the lower left, even the cat has her own fur-lined bed.  In fact, having housecats at all meant the family was of means.  In the late 19th century, it had become a popular trend for the upper middle class to own cats.

As can be deduced by the family-oriented subject, the painting was aimed at a bourgeois market interested in displaying ideals such as domesticity, prosperity, and refinement. These were known as salon pictures, which is the French word for living room.

Most would consider it a sentimental subject—especially because it includes baby animals.  That was, of course, one of the selling points.  Victorian-era paintings would often use animals to reflect human traits, such as the curiosity of the young, the content and loving mother, or in this case, the conflicts between siblings!

But behind this sweet and beautiful painting is an artist with an interesting story.  And along the way, it brings to light some great primary resources that reflect artistic taste in late 19th-century Milwaukee.

Although he is practically unknown today, Mihály Munkácsy was one of the most famous artists in late 19th century.  The artist was born into a poor family as Micahel Lieb in the small village of Munkács, Hungary. As a student, wealthy patrons paid his way to the best art establishments in Vienna, Munich, and Düsseldorf. As an adult, he took on the name of his home Munkács as the pseudonym Mihály Munkácsy (MEE-high Moon-KATCH-y), which you can see below in the detail of the artist’s signature on The Rivals.

Mihály Munkácsy, The Rivals , 1885. Detail. Layton Art Collection, Gift of Frederick Layton L139. Photo credit P. Richard Eells.

In Düsseldorf, he spent three years in the circle of Ludwig Knaus (German, 1829-1910).  Knaus was one of the leading genre painters of the time, and the Milwaukee Art Museum owns a number of his paintings, including Dance under the Linden Tree.

As a result, Munkácsy’s early works were very much standard German genre paintings.  He was, however, drawn to a more Realist style and subject.  A large part of this was probably due to his 1867 visit to Paris which allowed him to see paintings by French Realists Gustave Courbet (1819-1877) and Jean-François Millet (1814-1875).

Mihály Munkácsy, The Rivals , 1885. Detail. Layton Art Collection, Gift of Frederick Layton L139. Photo credit P. Richard Eells.

In 1870, Munkácsy won a gold medal at the Paris Salon for the monumental painting The Condemned Cell.  The Condemned Cell depicts a tense, psychological scene of many figures reacting to a highwayman’s sentence of death.  Munkácsy had quickly proved that he was a master is using the juxtaposition of dark and light tones and a vigorous brushstroke to evoke emotion.

So, at age 26, Munkácsy was the most celebrated painter in Paris, where he moved in 1871.  His early success, however, weighed on him and made him exceptionally sensitive to criticism, to the point that his production diminished.  He was taken in by a French aristocrat, Baron De Marches, and slowly began to paint more.  The Baron died in 1873, and a year later Munkácsy married his widow, with whom he had become good friends.

By 1875, Munkácsy was again disappointed with his trouble selling paintings, and in an effort to support himself and his elegant wife in expensive Paris, his style began to change.  His colors became lighter—possibly influenced by the Impressionists, although he did not care for their style.   He also began painting interior scenes of fashionable homes and their inmates.  The market for these paintings was huge, both in Europe and North America, and in 1878 he signed a 10-year contract with the dealer Charles Sedelmeyer.

Mihály Munkácsy (Hungarian, 1844–1900), The Rivals (Little Kittens), 1885. Oil on wood panel, 34 3/4 x 45 11/16 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Gift of Frederick Layton L139. Photo credit P. Richard Eells.

It is during the period that Munkácsy worked with Sedelmeyer that the Museum’s Little Rivals painting was made and purchased by Frederick Layton, the Milwaukee meat packer and philanthropist who founded the Layton Art Gallery. On the back of the painting there is even a label with Sedelmeyer’s name on it.  Layton was just one of the wealthy Americans that snapped up works by Munkácsy; others included William H. Vanderbilt, William Astor, Potter Palmer, and Charles Frye.  The Rivals was given to the Layton Art Gallery soon after the founding in 1888.

The art dealer Sedelmeyer was a fantastic promoter of Munkácsy.  He planned a multi-year tour through Europe and North America of his masterful painting Christ before Pilate.  The painting made a stop in Milwaukee at the Academy of Music in 1888.  An item in the June 17, 1888 Milwaukee Sentinel noted the exhibition, and the author admitted the he “did not approve of the artist’s conception” of Christ as a “bold and defiant agitator” rather than a “meek and patient Redeemer.”  (Munkácsy’s painting was inspired by the book Life of Jesus by French author Ernest Renan (1823-1892).  Renan studied Jesus as an ordinary man in a historical context—apparently the writer for the Sentinel did not agree with this interpretation.)

Munkácsy himself went on tour to the United States in late 1886, and was treated like royalty.  The city of New York honored him with a banquet at the famous restaurant Delmonico’s, which included attendees such as the mayor, newspaper publisher Joseph Pulitzer (1847-1911) (who was also Hungarian), and preacher Henry Ward Beecher.  Later, in Washington, D.C., President Grover Cleveland held a banquet at the White House in Munkácsy’s honor.

Frederick Layton purchased a second painting by Munkácsy for the Layton Collection in 1893.  This work, In the Studio (a smaller version of the same painting is shown below), shows the artist and his family in his studio.

This Layton acquisition merited almost a column’s worth in the January 31, 1893 Milwaukee Sentinel.  The author waxes poetically about its picturesque qualities and the painter’s abilities as both colorist and draftsman.  He says the artist Munkácsy “has no tricks” because “[t]here is nothing in his works, whose counterpart cannot be found somewhere in nature.”  It is a perfect balance between realism and art.

Mihály Munkácsy, In the Studio, 1876. Oil on panel, 37.8 x 51.6 in. Hungarian National Gallery.

As the writer continues, it becomes clear how he feels about the state of art at the time:

The half tone is the key of the whole work and through it everything else is to be worked out in harmony, whether cold or warm, light or dark and so on.  This is really the principle of the impressionists who teach us a very good elementary lesson in art, but the trouble with the impressionists is that they make such confounded daubs…. An impressionist will tell you that anybody can draw but few can produce beautiful tones, but don’t believe him—he lies, for it is just the reverse.

Clearly Munkácsy is the winner in Milwaukee’s art scene when compared to the Impressionists!

In the Studio was deacessioned by the Layton Art Collection in 1960. The whereabouts of that painting is unknown, but the same composition in a smaller size is now in the collection of the Hungarian National Museum.  Luckily, Milwaukee still has The Rivals (Little Kittens) to represent this famous artist of the late 19th century.

In Munkácsy’s late career, after his contract with Sedelmeyer expired, he had some state commissions, although in general his art style was becoming old-fashioned.  As a personality, however, was still a huge super-star, and his international fame had made him a national hero in Hungary.  Upon his death in 1900, Hungary held a huge state funeral, the largest ever for a Hungarian artist.

It is interesting to note that Little Kittens is the title that Munkácsy gave the painting in his 1885 ledger, and in scholarly literature this is usually the title used.  The Rivals was the title used in the Layton Art Gallery catalogs. But, why the difference, we aren’t sure.  In 1958, three other versions of our painting were known to exist, illustrating that Munkácsy would paint multiples of the same work if it sold well.

So, now you know who the real international art celebrity of the late 19th century was—not Monet, not Renoir, not Degas, but Mihály Munkácsy.

And, Happy Mother’s Day to my mom, who loves both cats and art!

Face Jug, 1860-1880. Chipstone Foundation. Photo by Jim Wildeman.

Last month I wrote about the Chipstone Foundation’s new acquisition, an early Edgefield face jug with writing on the back. Since then, our curatorial team has uncovered the meaning behind the elusive inscription. Before revealing this discovery, I’ll catch you up on new research for Face Jugs: Art and Ritual in 19th-Century South Carolina, on view until August 5 at the Milwaukee Art Museum.

“Face jugs” is a term created by art historians, historians and archeologists to refer to turned stoneware vessels with applied faces. The eyes and the teeth are made of kaolin, a white river clay that is one of the primary components of porcelain. You will notice when you visit the exhibition that there are also face cups and face pitchers.

Many different cultures have created pottery with faces or human elements, but the Edgefield face jugs are unique.

For starters, we know very little about them.

We know that Edgefield face jugs were created by slaves, and later free African Americans in the that district of South Carolina. We know that they were made from about 1860 to about 1880 or so, when they suddenly stopped being produced. We know that the form was appropriated by white potters in the 1880s.

Unfortunately, though, their origin, function, and meaning was lost with time.

How do you begin to research a subject like this? Scholars have been interested in face jugs since the 19th century, and have all speculated as to their significance, but none have delved into the subject in depth. Because it was illegal in 19th-century South Carolina for slaves to write, there are no known first-hand documents explaining the face jugs. In fact, there is only one known quote from this time referencing face jugs, and it is not from one of the makers.

Thomas Davies, a plantation and pottery owner in South Carolina, told Edwin Atlee Barber in 1893 that he remembered his slaves making face jugs during their free time in 1862. This information was definitely a start, as was reading everything that had already been written about the topic of face jugs. In order to better understand our subject our curatorial team needed to step away from the usual art historical methodology and take an anthropological multipronged approach. Our research expanded to include archeologists, genealogists, African art experts, scholars on slave culture, scholars on African religion and scholars on African American religion. In order to begin to understand the objects, it was important for us to try to understand the people that made the face jugs and the environment in which they were forced to live. The story that unfolded is truly amazing.

Scholars have hinted at a connection between the face jugs and Africa since Edwin Atlee Barber first referenced them in his 1893 book, The Pottery and Porcelain of the United States. At first, this seemed like a slight stretch as the importation of enslaved Africans into the United States was declared illegal in 1808. Most slaves in South Carolina at this time were thus second, third or fourth generation African Americans.

Face jug with nkisi image shown together in "Face Jugs: Art in Ritual in 19th Century South Carolina". Face Jug, 1860-1880, Collection of Carl and Marian Mullis. Photo by Jon Prown.

In 1858 an event occurred that is now believed to have been the catalyst for the face jugs’ creation. That year the Wanderer, a luxury yacht turned slave ship, landed illegally on the coast of Jekyll Island, Georgia. It carried 407 enslaved Africans, most of which were from the Kongo culture. Over 100 of these Africans were transported to Edgefield, and some were sent to work in the  potteries. There is evidence of at least one Wanderer slave, Romeo, working in Thomas Davies’s pottery, the Palmetto Fire Brick Works.

The Kongo (“Kongo” refers to a group of people and to their culture, whereas Congo usually refers to the Democratic Republic of Congo) have a strong belief in the powers of ancestors and spirits. A nkisi is a container for these spirits, shown in the picture above right. A village’s nganga, the Kongo word for diviner, fills a nkisi up with magical materials, including white river clay, thus activating the object. The spirits come into the nkisi and become trapped inside. The nkisi can then be asked for help.

The WPA South Carolina slave narratives constantly speak of the acceptance and fear of conjures. Our curatorial team conceives that face jugs were a response to learning about nkisi combined with an already present trust in conjure. It represents a combination of two cultures’ beliefs. Face jugs were meant for ritualistic, rather than functional use.

Inscription detail. Face jug, ca. 1862. alkaline glazed stoneware with kaolin insert. Chipstone Foundation. Photo courtesy of Rob Hunter.

This argument was strengthened by the Squire jug that I spoke about in an earlier blog post. It turns out that after spending days looking at the writing [pictured above], it doesn’t spell Squire Peter or Squire Posey, as we initially thought. It spells “Squire Pofu”.

Face jug, ca. 1862. alkaline glazed stoneware with kaolin insert. Chipstone Foundation. Photo courtesy of Rob Hunter.

Although we originally discarded the idea because it wasn’t a known word in the English language,  a quick search turned up that Pofu is a town in the Congo.

Not only that, but pofu means blind in Swahili. If you look closely at the face jug’s eyes at the left, you’ll see that they are colored black. This is the only face jug I’ve seen with black eyes.

Following Swahili grammar structure, “Squire Pofu” translates to “the blind Squire”.

Could this have been a conjure jug to cause blindness?

Our research is still just beginning.

The exhibition Face Jugs: Art and Ritual in 19th-Century South Carolina provides us with the incredible opportunity to view 23 of these early face jugs together. Sitting in front of the wall of jugs, connections start to appear.

I hope you get the opportunity to come to the Museum’s Lower Level to the Decorative Arts Gallery to view and think about these wondrous faces that have stood silent for too long.

Claudia Mooney works for Chipstone, the Milwaukee-based foundation dedicated to promoting American decorative arts scholarship. She researches objects and creates relevant programming for Chipstone’s exhibitions at the Milwaukee Art Museum and in the community.

Duane Hanson (American, 1925-1996), Janitor, 1973. Polyester, fiberglass, and mixed media; 65 1/2 x 28 x 22 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Friends of Art M1973.91. Photo credit John Nienhuis. © Estate of Duane Hanson/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY.

Duane Hanson’s lifelike Janitor (1973) is one of the Museum’s most beloved works of art. It generates curiosity on many levels: How did the artist make the sculpture so realistic? What does this photo-realistic artwork mean? What does he wear under his uniform? How does the Museum take care of this unusual work of art?

To that final question, “carefully and creatively” is the answer that the Museum’s Docents recently learned from senior conservator Jim DeYoung. The Milwaukee Art Museum agreed to loan Janitor to the Walker Art Center for the Lifelike exhibition, Feb 25 – May 27, 2012. In preparation for the artwork’s exhibition in Minneapolis, Jim’s conservation team turned their restoration attention and considerable skills to making Janitor appear in pristine condition and ready for travel.

The details of this restoration are fascinating.

Curious about how a conservator cleans 40-year-old human hair affixed to plastic? Hint: They don’t use Head and Shoulders shampoo. Read on to find out more!

First Jim explained to us how the overall condition of an artwork is taken in to consideration before it is approved for loan, or to travel. The condition affects how it will be displayed, how it will be packed for travel, and how it will be prepared for presentation.

Janitor leaning secured to a paintings cart in the Museum conservation lab. Duane Hanson (American, 1925-1996), Janitor, 1973. Photo by Terri White.

The janitor does not stand by himself; he has to always be leaning on something or braced. He’s an extremely fragile figure. Many contemporary materials are deceptively fragile, which seems non-intuitive because you usually think of plastic and so forth as unbreakable. The Janitor is made out of fiberglass resin, which gets very brittle with age. The body has a very delicate surface paint on it, and the janitor also has a lot of other additional aging materials (his clothing, the hair, his watch). We’ve known for quite a while that it was a priority for Terri White, the Museum’s objects conservator, to treat the janitor. However, with such nontraditional materials, our team needed to consult with other conservators who have gone down that path and worked on objects like this. That’s exactly what we did.

Working with the expertise of objects conservator Mimi Leveque (Massachusetts), the Museum’s conservation team studied object files that contained letters with the artist, previous photographs of the object, and treatment and experience of other Duane Hanson sculptures in other Museum collections. Jim described how he and Terri approached cleaning the janitor’s clothing.

While on view, Terri lightly vacuums Janitor frequently, but there still is a certain amount of dirt and grime settled in. The very first thing we had to do was address how or if to clean the janitor’s clothing. We thought that it might be possible to take his clothes off and throw them in the conservator’s version of a washing machine, but that’s not the case. We discovered that Duane Hanson constructed the Janitor so that his clothes cannot be removed.

Objects conservator Terri White carefully vacuuming a sock and pant leg. Duane Hanson (American, 1925-1996), Janitor, 1973. Photo by Jim DeYoung.

If you look at the way his hand is resting in his hip, you’ll see that the arm was probably attached to the shoulder after the clothes were put on. We would have to detach the arm if we wanted to take the clothes off. We even discussed the possibility of carefully cutting all of the clothing seams and then re-sewing them back on after cleaning, but that was determined to be way too invasive. In the end, we gave the entire sculpture a very gentle vacuuming with special conversation vacuums.

Janitor's hairline. Duane Hanson (American, 1925-1996), Janitor, 1973. Photo by Terri White.

Terri started with the top, where the delicate hair was some of the most problematic of the materials. She was able to comb through it carefully and get a lot of dust and grime out that had settle in. Over the years some of the hair has fallen away exposing the glue line, which we have fairly carefully covered now. [As you can see at left.]

Jim shared that over the years, parts of Janitor’s outfit have sadly gone missing to the wandering hands of Museum visitors. Jim discussed the ethics of honoring the originality of the artwork as it currently exists, or honoring the intentions of the artist. For guidance, Jim and Terri turned to the words of the Duane Hanson himself.

We found a letter written in 1974 from Duane Hanson and it demonstrates that he was very involved with the owners of his artwork in their care and maintenance of these artworks. We read that Hanson was not only involved himself, but that he was eager to get other people involved, too. In this case, he had no problem packing human hair into the letter and instructing how to attach the hair with the gluing method and so forth. So this gave us a bit of a road map in what we thought was ethical to do to, how much latitude we had in caring for the artwork, and how much artistic license we had to move ahead with plans to bring the janitor to its original condition. Since the artist Duane Hanson is so longer with us to guide us specifically, we honored his will as expressed in the letters to let us make good decisions concerning the janitor.

Detail of janitor pockets. Duane Hanson (American, 1925-1996), Janitor, 1973. Photo by Terri White.

For instance, concerning the missing articles in the janitor’s pockets, Jim and Terri felt secure in following their own skills and instinct to find comparable materials to replace the thefted items.

While Terri was doing some of the stabilization and treatment, my job was to go shopping. I pride myself as being a hunter/gatherer, so I hit most of the antique shops around Milwaukee looking for late 1960s style pipes, glass cases, and pens.

Appropriate pens, believe it or not, are hard to find, as they all come with pen caps now. I found there are very few clicker retractable pens with metal clips like we saw on photos of the original Janitor, but I did find some in a junk drawer at home. I located a couple of pipes at Milwaukee’s Second Street Antique Mall.  We decided to take some artistic license with the pocket because attaching the metal pens onto the frayed edge of the janitor’s pocket was hard on the fabric. Though the pocket edge was stabilized, we also wanted to secure the objects so we invented a leather pocket protector for the Janitor that protects the cloth and creates some structure for the pocket. Though we hope for the best, if a visitor does tear out a pen, they would be less likely to tear the cloth of the janitor’s uniform. Conversations like this is where the design and restoration meets some of the aesthetics of the artwork. [You can see this new brown leather pocket protector at the photo just above.]

Wrist watch before, during, and after restoration. Photos by Jim DeYoung.

The restoration of the janitor’s watch was very interesting. The Museum Docents learned from Jim that this was one of the first bits of vandalism to the popular artwork. The original watch put on by Duane Hanson was removed sometime in the mid 1970s, before Jim joined the Museum staff 36 years ago. Over the years, various watches have been used by Museum conservation staff, but it was time to come up with a proper replacement to the best of the Museum’s restoration abilities.

A black and white photo showed that the original was a white faced watch, so I went out to look for a watch and I found one similar at the Second Street Antique Mall to replace the pre-restoration black face watch. A watch expert looked at the serial number on the white watch from the Antique Mall and learned that the watch dated to 1969, so it would be an appropriate four-year-old watch for our 1973 Janitor.  The new watch is actually an automatic, meaning it doesn’t run on batteries, but it does require movement which the Janitor can’t actually do. So, the watch is operable, but in the Museum most of the time it will be stopped unless somebody wants to wind it constantly. I don’t have any volunteers for that!

The new watch was glued down to the existing leather, which is something we ideally would have replaced, but it is glued onto his arm and is disintegrating. Terri worked to reconstruct part of that band, but by far the hardest part was finding a replacement snap. There I was looking at Goodwill second hand shops searching through bins filled with 1960s, 70s, and 80s purses. I was drawing a lot of strange looks as I furtively looked for a specific type of snap. Finally there was a handbag with a matching purse inside with the exact same snap as the janitor’s watch. The purse was Pepto-Bismol pink! I swallowed my pride and walked up to the front with my pink purse, trying to figure out whether or not I should try to explain myself to the cashier.

Museum senior conservator Jim DeYoung with the janitor, while fabricating its shipping crate. Duane Hanson (American, 1925-1996), Janitor, 1973. Photo by Terri White.

Jim further explained to the Docents how the conservation team works with the crate assembly technicians to devise the safest orientation for moving the Janitor. For instance, laying the Janitor down on a soft bed was decided to affect too many stress points, so they traveled the sculpture “standing” [as you can see at right] and carefully decided where to anchor soft braces to keep the body upright in the crate.

Museum staff traveled with Janitor and oversaw the installation in the galleries at the Walker Art Center.

Jim ended by explaining in a great way how all these efforts are very detailed to a great end. Sometimes we do our jobs best at the Museum when you can’t tell we’ve been there at all. We make the paintings seem to magically and beautifully appear on the gallery wall, and we keep the Janitor looking as if it was 1973.

These are all minor details, but it is amazing how when it’s all assembled and in part of your mind you say “it looks the same.” But, in a way, I feel that  the artwork is more intact. To me as a conservator, it is important to have an object not look neglected  or look aged or worn. I think in this restoration of Janitor we have that sense of what Duane Hansen intended and I think he actually looks a little happier.

Janitor will be on view in Minneapolis at the Walker Art Center until May 27, 2012. He will then ship carefully back to Milwaukee, and the art installation team will be putting him back in the Museum galleries as soon as possible. Expect our favorite loafing custodian to be back leaning against his wall by July 2012!

[All italicized quotations are from Jim DeYoung, the Milwaukee Art Museum's Senior Conservator.]

Mel Buchanan is the Assistant Curator of 20th-century Design. Mel’s curatorial responsibility includes interpreting, displaying, and building the Museum’s collection of craft, design, and decorative objects.

The Museum Store featured her work in the Art of the Table “satellite store” that weekend, and even in the company of great international design houses, her RRT Designs pewter jewelry line (crafted by her own hand right here in Southeastern Wisconsin) stood out.

Doing my research for her biographical card on display in the Store (we call it an “Artist Provenance”), I came across Renotta’s blog, 365 Days of Design. It remains one of my favorite blogs for many reasons: the simple concept (one design a day, alternating media, but usually featuring fiber), the showcase of the breadth of her talent, her focus on lovely photography, and letting the designs speak for themselves in natural settings.  In her jewelry designs, like this cuff, you can see the techniques she has perfected in textile design are being uniquely translated in the medium of pewter.

RRT Cuff. Photo courtesy mam.org/store

I caught up with Renotta recently to get her take on what it means to be a designer in the Milwaukee area and what advice she would give to young local artists.

RRT Studio. Photo from rrtdesigns.blogspot.com

I asked Renotta about how she got involved in the arts. For her, it started with being involved in her community. “I moved to Milwaukee in 1969 after graduation from UW Madison,” she says. “I was an occupational therapist and took my first job at the Adolescent Treatment Center on the Milwaukee County Grounds that is now Froedtert. Occupational therapy was a great introduction to all the crafts as well as the importance of activity and creativity in one’s life.”  As the owner of the Brookfield women’s clothing boutique, Next Door, community and creativity continue to mingle in Renotta’s daily life.

The city of Milwaukee and the Museum are vital to Renotta’s lifestyle and creativity.  “I am so proud to be part of the [Milwaukee Art Museum] Store. It is a great honor… I love the old and the new at [the Museum]. Everything there is an inspiration to me.

RRT Studio. Photo from rrtdesigns.blogspot.com

“We love coming to town, visiting the museum, and lunching at Cafe Calatrava.  We also love sitting at the Harbor House and looking at the beautiful view. And of course we love attending the Lakefront Festival of the Artson the grounds.”

Even though she has since moved to western suburbs, Renotta considers herself from Milwaukee, connected in part by her history of opening “one of the first stores at the Grand Avenue in its grand days.”  If she were a young designer today, she would still be living in the Third Ward.  As she advises the young designers of Milwaukee: “Connect, collect, create, collaborate!”

RRT Studio. Photo from rrtdesigns.blogspot.com

Donele Pettit organizes events, promotions and communications specific to the Milwaukee Art Museum Store and loves to introduce art and design objects for visitors to take home and enjoy in their daily lives.

French, Head of a Noblewoman, 14th century. Marble; H: 11 3/4 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of The William Randolph Hearst Foundation through the Milwaukee Sentinel M1958.67. Photo by John Nienhuis.

Just as you walk into the Museum’s Gallery #3 (Northern Renaissance artworks), on your right is a display case that holds a marble sculpture.

It’s an unobtrusive work labeled Head of a Noblewoman, French, 14th century.   I’m sure many Museum visitors have walked right by it and not even thought twice.  The most interesting thing for those that look closer may be the way the artwork is positioned in the case–it is shown lying down, not upright.

This sculpture is more than just a portrait of a French noblewoman.  It’s a portrait of the noble French woman from her tomb!

Originally, the Museum’s head sculpture would have been part of a full body sculpture of the woman lying down, and it would have rested above her tomb. You can be certain of this orientation because the back of her head is unfinished.

Although funerary portraits were used as far back as the ancient Egyptians, medieval Europe saw an explosion of them.  Examples are known from the 11th century, and by the 13th century they were filling churches and abbeys.  Of course, only those who could afford to have an elaborate tomb could have such an elaborate sculpture, so most examples are of kings, queens, and other nobility, including knights, such as Jean d’Alluye, whose tomb effigy is now at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

In English, the sculptures are usually called tomb effigies.  Many art historians refer to them as gisant, which is the French word for “reclining.”

Here is a photograph of tomb effigies in their original location at the Abbey Church of Saint Denis, in France. In the foreground are Jeanne of Bourbon (1338-1378), Queen of France and just behind her is her husband, King Charles V of France (1338-1380).

Many tomb effigies have their hands clasped in prayer, such as the tomb of King Henry VII (1457-1509) and his wife, Elizabeth of York (1466-1503) at Westminster Abbey in England.  Other figures hold things—for instance, Eleanor of Acquitaine (ca. 1122-1204) at Fontevraud Abbey in France holds a prayer book, which illustrates her piety.

But what was the original context or use of gisant?

Many interpret that gisant were a way for the deceased person to proclaim his or her faithfulness—and social status—while waiting for the resurrection to come.

Head Shown Upright. French, Head of a Noblewoman, 14th century. Marble; H: 11 3/4 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of The William Randolph Hearst Foundation through the Milwaukee Sentinel M1958.67. Photo by P. Richard Eells.

As time went on, tomb effigies developed into new types.  In the 15th century, cadaver tombs, or transi, became popular.  These tombs depicted the usual gisant on a platform above another figure that was clearly dead –or just a skeleton.  An example is this effigy of John FitzAlan, the 14th Earl of Arundel (1408-1435) that can be found at Arundel Castle in Sussex, England.  This is clearly a reminder that although the pious dead will rise again, no one can escape a mortal death.

A Renaissance development was a tomb effigy that showed the deceased in a more life-like state, meditating on the next life.  In their tomb from 1566 in Bisham, Windsor, Sir Philip Hoby (1505-1558) and his half-brother Sir Thomas Hoby (1530-1566) have their heads up on one arm, almost as if they are ready to converse with visitors.

Then, in the Baroque period, the tombs become even more dramatic.  Take the tomb of French Cardinal Richeieu (1585-1642) at the Church of the Sorbonne in Paris.  The Cardinal sits up, his hand to his breast as if about to orate, while two mourners, one with her head down at his feet, fawn over him.

These types of sculptures were perfect for the Neoclassical period of the 18th century, when cool, white marble was the preferred medium.   Here is the 1775 monument to Joseph and Caroline Damer in Milton Abbey, designed by Robert Adam and carved by Agostino Carlini.  Joseph looks down sorrowfully at his wife who lies next to him, looking asleep although she has passed away.

And the tomb effigy phenomenon is not reserved for Europe!  For instance, the Lee Chapel at Washington and Lee University in Lexington, Virginia, has a sculpture of Robert E. Lee “asleep on the battlefield.”  Although Lee is actually interred in the crypt below the sculpture, this sculpture by Edward Valentine (American, 1838-1930) is obviously inspired by the gisant of Europe.

But let’s return to the 14th century and Milwaukee’s Head of a Noblewoman.  Because we do not have the name of the lady, we must date it based upon the appearance.  In that, her headdress gives us many clues.

What women wore on their heads in the middle ages can be fascinating study.  In the 12th and 13th centuries, the most common adornment was a barbette and fillet.  The lady on the left in this page from the Codex Manesse (1330-1340) is wearing both pieces.  A barbette is a chin strap that wraps around to the top of the head.  It literally translates as “little beard.”  The fillet is the strap of fabric that encircles the head, almost looking like a hat from the side.

Many times, the fillet would hold a veil in place to cover the hair—which was important for the modest medieval lady (you can see the veil and barbette on Eleanor of Acquitaine—her crown covers up the fillet).

Another headdress was the wimple—familiar to us as the traditional headdress of Catholic nuns.  A wimple completely covers the hair and neck with fabric, as shown in this Illumination from Maciewjowski Bible, ca. 1250.  As the middle ages progressed, this style was used less for daily wear unless you were a nun or widow.

French, Head of a Noblewoman, 14th century. Detail. Marble; H: 11 3/4 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of The William Randolph Hearst Foundation through the Milwaukee Sentinel M1958.67.

In the 14th century, the fillet and barbette gave way to a metal circlet, sometimes holding a veil on the head. Ladies also wore a piece of fabric pulled over the chin called a gorget.  The gorget was usually held in place by braids that looped up in front of the ears (which were usually fakes attached to the circlet!).  As you can see in the above detail of Head of a Noblewoman, this is how we can date Milwaukee’s sculpture to the 14th century.  Compare her ornament with the two ladies from the Luttrell Psalter, ca. 1325-1333 or the Tomb Effigy Bust of Marie de France (1327-41), daughter of Charles IV of France and Jeanne d’Evreux, ca. 1381 at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

So how, you may ask, does only the head of a French tomb sculpture get separated from the tomb and in a Milwaukee museum?  During the French Revolution (1787-1799), many monuments of French royalty were destroyed—including tombs.  The noblewoman probably had her head removed at this time.  (In fact, the word vandalism was first used to refer to the destruction of artwork during the Revolution.)

Milwaukee’s sculpture was eventually purchased by the American newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst (1863-1951).  Inspired by trips to Europe as a child, he dreamed of creating his own European manor house.  The result was what is now known as Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California.  He purchased so much artwork for the house, that upon his death some reports said that 25% of the world’s art market during the 1920s and 30s was due to his collecting. Although this is probably exaggerated, it shows how important his collection was at the time.

Hearst was a great patron of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, gifting it many pieces of artwork during his lifetime.  After his death, much of the remaining collection remained on view in the Castle, but the Hearst Foundation (which he had founded in 1945 for charitable giving) also gifted artwork to museums across the country.  In 1953, the Milwaukee Art Center received the Belgium tapestry Refusing the Gifts of the Samnites (on view in Gallery #2) from the Hearst Foundation.  Then in 1958, the Milwaukee Sentinel (which was a Hearst-owned newspaper) facilitated the gift of Head of a Noblewoman, which had been purchased by Hearst in France.

So, the next time you walk through Gallery #3, make sure you take a longer look at Head of a Noblewoman.  She’ll not only give you a glimpse into the middle ages, she’ll remind you of the interesting things that she has “seen” since then.

Joán Miró (Spanish, 1893–1983), The King's Jester (Le Fou Du Roi), 1926. Oil, pencil and charcoal on canvas; 45 x 57 1/2 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Maurice W. Berger M1966.142.
Photo credit John Nienhuis, Dedra Walls © Successió Miró / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / ADAGP, Paris.

Since Easter is Sunday, I thought it would be fitting to write an Easter-themed blog post for the occasion. But other than choosing a piece of art depicting the crucifixion of Christ, I wasn’t exactly sure how I could approach the topic.

Therefore in the spirit of Easter egg hunts I have decided to make a two-fold hunt of my own to find out more about pieces in the Museum’s collection as well as creating a post that is related to the holiday.

Let’s use a little game by the name of “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon” (or more simply “Six Degrees of Separation”) to relate a non-Easter-themed work of art to the holiday!

For those who are unfamiliar, “Six Degrees of Separation” is an association game. The objective is to link any one person with any other person in the world – or to Kevin Bacon in the Bacon version in as few moves as possible.

For this round, I’m starting with a painting I noticed in the Museum gallery and was drawn to – The King’s Jester (Le Fou Du Roi) by Joán Miró (pictured above). Miró, 1893-1983 was born in Barcelona, Spain. This mixed media piece in the Museum’s Bradley Collection on view on the Upper Level is oil, pencil and charcoal on canvas.

Joán Miró (Spanish, 1893–1983), Project for a Monument, 1967. Bronze, 51 3/16 x 10 x 9 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. Harry Lynde Bradley M1977.125. Photo credit P. Richard Eells. ©2010 Successió Miró / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York

One of the most striking things about this artwork is that the canvas is a natural color and much of it is exposed – left without paint. This fairly large work sits in a thick, dark, wooden frame, overlooking the lake. The figure’s oblong, asymmetrical head teeters on a thin neck and narrow, sloping shoulders. Its eyes are set far from one another – one smaller, painted black; the other larger, scribbled in pencil. A thin line represents the mouth and paired with the mismatched eyes and lack of nose makes the figure seem vacant, if not a little bit sad – an emotion contrary to what we might expect of a jester. Upon its head is red crown that suggests flames of perhaps a rooster’s comb.

If we don’t take it for granted that the Jester’s crown mimics a rooster’s comb – and simply view it as a crown, we could extend associations by identifying the shape as being similar to another one of Miró’s sculptures in the gallery – Project for a Monument (Moon, Sun and One Star).

This bronze sculpture (at right) is a series of shapes built on top of one another, not unlike a totem pole, with a four pointed crown shape atop a thin rod similar to a weather vane.

Directly across from that sculpture is another work by Miró – The Rooster [Le Coq].  The Rooster is almost anthropomorphic, with legs and arms and what appears to be a garment covering its body. A feathered tail and strange disconnected, almost floating disc reveals what could be the features of a roosters head. When viewed in this proximity it is difficult not to acknowledge the likeness of the crown shape to a rooster’s comb.

Joán Miró (Spanish, 1893–1983), The Rooster, 1970. Bronze, 22 x 23 1/2 x 17 3/4 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mrs. Harry Lynde Bradley M1977.126. Photo credit John R. Glembin. ©2010 Successió Miró / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York

Stick with me here….

For Christians both a crown and a rooster are prominent symbols leading up to the Easter story. First, Jesus tells his disciple Peter, “before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.” Second, Jesus was mocked by Roman soldiers being called “King of the Jews.”

If we do a secular association, roosters were once chicks and chicks are right up there with bunnies as far as secular Easter symbolism goes. Not to mention that roosters come from eggs, another largely popular Easter symbol having to do with rebirth and spring.

Therefore, in degrees of separation From Miró’s Jester to Easter it takes between two and four steps to get there:

TWO STEPS

Jester to crown, crown to Jesus – “King of the Jews” (crucifixion, death, resurrection) as Easter.

THREE STEPS

Jester to crown, crown to rooster, rooster to cock crowing (betrayal by friends, crucifixion, death, resurrection), to Easter

FOUR STEPS

Jester to crown, crown to rooster, rooster to chick, chick to Easter – four steps from Miró’s Jester to secular symbols of Easter.

Despite appearances, my interest in Miró and his work has absolutely nothing to do with Kevin Bacon or Easter really, but rather, how art can activate our imagination – appear and reappear to bring two otherwise unrelated things together.

It just reminds us that there is no wrong way to experience art, or connect art. And you always get bonus points if you can bring the artwork back to Kevin Bacon.

-Lydelle Abbott, Museum curatorial intern

Albert hard at work on a found art piece. Photo by the author

How often do you really consider the implications of naming something?

That is exactly what sixteen teens in the spring ArtWorks program here at the Museum did last Thursday. After looking closely at the artists and works of art in Accidental Genius: Art From the Anthony Petullo Collection, we worked together as a group to think deeply about the meanings of a name, how and why art is categorized, and whether or not such categories can ever really be correct.

The ArtWorks program is an eight-week paid internship program for Milwaukee-area teens. Sixteen participants work together to create a public work of art that positively addresses an issue in the Milwaukee community, this year inspired by the works of art in Accidental Genius. They also mentor young elementary school students, touring them through the exhibition and creating art with them.

On the first day of the program, we spent a lot of time getting to know the exhibition. Each teen artist explored the show, then found and shared a “kindred artist”–one work or artist in the exhibition with whom they identified.

At the end of that session, we brainstormed themes and stylistic characteristics we saw in the exhibition as a whole:

Considering themes and threads in the Accidental Genius exhibition. Photo by the author

As you can see from my scribing of the conversation above, we noticed consistent interest in line, detail, found materials, and words (in blue), but also bigger themes in the exhibition, including narratives, mood, and–a big one– “art for themselves, not for other people.”

We built on this exploration in last week’s session when we did an activity called “What’s in a Name?” (By the way: If you’re an educator who’d like to try this activity with your students, check out the activity on our Teacher Resource site.)

ArtWorks students creating found art pieces at RedLine Milwaukee. Photo by the author

You should know that self-taught art has been categorized in many different ways and with many different names, and art historians have difficulty deciding on one definitive term to call this sort of art. These artists come from many different backgrounds and the work itself can vary stylistically, which makes it difficult to go with any one term.

Students divided into groups, and each group got one term that has been used by scholars or collectors or museums to describe this kind of non-traditional art. (Like “outsider” art, or “art brut“.)

Together, the students discussed what comes to mind when considering each of the terms. What kind of art would they expect to see when they hear that word? What might they assume about its artists? What is implied about the works grouped under this name? And, further, having seen the exhibition, would this term be an accurate or appropriate overall term for the work in the show?

We shared all of our discussions and ideas with the entire group, and I want to share their insightful thoughts with you.

“Outsider Art”

Brainstorming possible meanings of art historical categorization. Photo by the author

Outsider art was a tricky one. It implied unfamiliar subject matter, an uncommon technique, and, moreover, that the art was not actually art. It seemed to immediately ostracize its artists. We decided this title wasn’t a great choice overall because it was vague and broad, in addition to being a bit degrading.

“Folk Art”

Brainstorming possible meanings of art historical categorization. Photo by the author

Folk art brought up some important points: it implies the expression of a specific culture, rather than art for art’s sake. It might not be meant for display–instead, it could have a use within the traditions of a group of people. We decided some art in the exhibition might perhaps fall under this category, but not all.

“Art by the Mentally Ill”

Brainstorming possible meanings of art historical categorization. Photo by the author

“Art by the mentally ill” is a tricky term. This group clarified from the get-go that their brainstorming definitely included stereotypes and unfair assumptions, and wasn’t what they themselves believed about the art, especially after having seen the exhibition. They worried that this term was extremely specific, and could be interpreted the wrong way if used in the wrong instance.

More than anything else, as we continued looking at these terms, the word “different” kept popping up in our discussions–that these categories seemed to imply that such art was somehow separate from other art normally seen or studied in a museum or in school.

“Art Brut”

Brainstorming possible meanings of art historical categorization. Photo by the author

Art Brut was one that we found pretty appropriate, although we did talk about the specificity of that term (did you know it was coined by French artist Jean Dubuffet?). Of all of the categories, it seemed to imply the most favorable ideas–unique, passionate, and expressive–although we weren’t keen on the translation “rough,” since it wasn’t particularly positive.

“Amateur Art”

Brainstorming possible meanings of art historical categorization. Photo by the author

Amateur was also a tricky one–it implied a beginning artist, one who wasn’t sure how to get their point across, and had a “just do it” mentality when making marks on canvas/paper. We felt this could be appropriate depending on the artist, but wouldn’t be a good overall term.

“Self-taught Art”

Brainstorming possible meanings of art historical categorization. Photo by the author

Finally, self-taught art seemed to imply that the artists had no teacher or formal training, that it might look “rough”, and that it could possibly be more expressive than mainstream art. We felt like the word “freedom” was linked to this term–that these artists might be free from conditions and traditions. As a whole we were OK with this term–maybe partly because it’s the one we tend to use here in the Museum when referring to the exhibition–but need to do some more exploring to know for sure.

Not surprisingly, we weren’t able to come to any final conclusions, although I’m sure our talk this week with the exhibition curator, Margaret Andera, will help us continue to organize our thoughts.

From an educator’s standpoint, I also wanted to use this activity as a brainstorming method for thinking about what issue in the city of Milwaukee we will address in our final, public artwork–to plant a seed for thought about what kinds of assumptions are made in or about Milwaukee that we might want to think more about.

I’ll share more of the work of this thoughtful, intelligent group of teens on the blog throughout the course of this program. Until then, please feel free to share your thoughts on our brainstorms above. Do you agree with our assumptions? Would you challenge any of our ideas? Is there a term out there that you feel works? I’d love to bring your comments to the teens so we can keep pushing our thinking further!

Chelsea Kelly, the School and Teacher Programs Manager, oversees school tours, special K-12 programming, and events for teachers at the Museum, and also creates resources for educators about the artworks in the Museum’s Collection.

George Wesley Bellows (American, 1882–1925), The Sawdust Trail, 1916. Oil on canvas, 63 x 45 1/8 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Purchase L1964.7. Photo credit John R. Glembin.

In honor of Spring Break, and spring travelers everywhere, let’s send a shout-out to some of our painted friends who have also hit the road lately.  The last time I checked, our artworks were not boozing it up on the beach…but then again, I’m a firm believer that works of art have distinct personalities, so perhaps they do get a little crazy when they’re away from home.

As you may know, museums frequently lend works of art to each other for special exhibitions.  This is why—if you’re an art dork like me—when I visit a temporary exhibition, I always look at the labels next to each work to see where each one has come from.  Sometimes you automatically know, because you recognize something very famous.  And sometimes it’s a great surprise, as in:  “Who knew that there was a Museum of Bellybutton Lint AND that they just happened to have a major painting by Joe Schmo?”

Those of you who attended the Museum’s fall 2011 exhibition Impressionism: Masterworks on Paper exhibition saw fantastic and rare works of art borrowed from our friends and partners at the Albertina in Vienna (where the exhibition is now on view); as well as the Harvard Art Museums and the Art Institute of Chicago, among many others.

In case you’re traveling yourselves over the next few months, you might run into some of your Milwaukee hometown artistic pals in the following shows.

Henry Ossawa Tanner, Sunlight, Tangiers, 1924.

Henry Ossawa Tanner (American, 1859–1937), Sunlight, Tangiers, ca. 1910. Oil on cardboard panel; 10 3/4 x 13 3/4 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Mr. Walter I. Frank, M1924.1. Photo by John R. Glembin.

This marvelous small image of a Moroccan street scene is currently part of the Henry Ossawa Tanner: Modern Spirit retrospective organized by the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts.  One of the most prominent African American artists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Tanner was an internationally acclaimed painter and one of the great masters of religious painting.  You can see Milwaukee’s painting—along with other amazing examples, at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts until April 15th.  After that, you can catch it at the Cincinnati Art Museum from May 26-September 9th and then the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, from October 21st, 2012 until next January 13th, 2013

Duane Hanson, Janitor, 1973.

Duane Hanson (American, 1925-1996), Janitor, 1973. Polyester, fiberglass, and mixed media; 65 1/2 x 28 x 22 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Friends of Art M1973.91. Photo credit John Nienhuis. © Estate of Duane Hanson/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY.

You know and love—and probably have been fooled by—the Museum’s super-realistic sculpture of a janitor by Duane Hanson.  If you’re wondering why he isn’t leaning in his corner at the Milwaukee Art Museum lately, it’s because he’s now jolting visitors to the Lifelike exhibition at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis.  Lifelike is a thematic show that questions what’s real and what isn’t.  If you’re in Minneapolis before May 27th, you can wave at Janitor there and tell him Milwaukee misses him.

Robert Henri, Blond Bridget Lavelle, 1928.

Robert Henri (American, 1865–1929), Blond Bridget Lavelle, 1928. Oil on canvas, 27 1/4 x 19 1/4 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Centennial Gift of Mrs. Donald B. Abert, M1987.28. Photo by John R. Glembin.

For someone who doesn’t look old enough to travel without a chaperone, Bridget Lavelle has been getting around!  She’s been part of From New York to Corrymore: Robert Henri and Ireland, a show that explores American artist Robert Henri’s frequent trips to Ireland, and the inspiration he found there.  Little Bridget was at the Mint Museum in Charlotte, North Carolina all last summer, followed the show to Santa Fe, New Mexico, at the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum last fall, and now she has been hanging out in Syracuse, New York, at the Everson Museum of Art, where the exhibition continues until May 12.

Richard Diebenkorn, Ocean Park #16, 1968.

Richard Diebenkorn (American, 1922-1993), Ocean Park No. 16, 1968. Oil on canvas, 93 x 76 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of Jane Bradley Pettit M1974.218. © Estate of Richard Diebenkorn

This fantastically important abstract painting has really racked up the stickers on its crate.  As part of Richard Diebenkorn: The Ocean Park Series, an exhibition that has brought together this distinctive series within the artist’s career for the first time, Milwaukee’s painting has strutted its stuff  at the Museum of Modern Art, Fort Worth, Texas, and is now enjoying the sunshine at the Orange County Museum of Art in Newport Beach, California, until May 27th (See? College students aren’t the only one who need a little sun and sand during winter!)  You can also catch the exhibition this summer at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, DC from July 3-September 23, 2012.

George Bellows, Sawdust Trail, 1916.

And speaking of Washington, DC, if you happen to be visiting there between June 10 and October 8th, and drop into the National Gallery of Art (which is free!), you will run into another Milwaukee artwork, the great Sawdust Trail by George Bellows.  Milwaukee’s spectacular image of evangelist Billy Sunday and his revival meeting is part of the NGA’s major retrospective on George Bellows that will be debuting there this summer and then travel to the Metropolitan Museum in New York this fall.

George Wesley Bellows (American, 1882–1925), The Sawdust Trail, 1916. Oil on canvas, 63 x 45 1/8 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Layton Art Collection, Purchase L1964.7. Photo credit John R. Glembin.

I’ll miss these paintings while they’re gone—as I know you do, too—but the Museum is thrilled to be able to share our works with visitors in other places.  And we’re always happy to see them when they come home.

Which reminds me:  someday I want a T-shirt that says:  “My painting went to [FILL IN THE BLANK] and all I got was this lousy t-Shirt!”

William Keyse Rudolph is the Museum’s curator of American art and Decorative arts, focusing on the Museum’s collections of American painting, sculpture, ceramics, glass, furniture, silver, and textiles from the 17th to the 20th centuries.

Josef Ulrich Danhauser (Austrian, 1780–1829), Settee , ca. 1815. Mahogany veneer, gilding, reconstructed upholstery, 44 1/2 x 84 1/4 x 26 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of René von Schleinitz Memorial Fund, by exchange. Photo by John R. Glembin.

In 2006, when the Milwaukee Art Museum organized the exhibition Biedermeier: The Invention of Simplicity, it established itself as a center of study for the Beidermeier style that was popular in Central and Northern Europe from about 1815 to 1835.

Building upon the Museum’s strength in German and Austrian art—partly due to the ethnic background of Milwaukee—the exhibition brought to the spotlight to Biedermeier art.  This period of art and design history was not only little-known in the United States, but the exhibition also proposed a whole new interpretation of the style that changed scholarship in Europe as well.  You can read more about Biedermeier here in this review from the New York Times.

Or better yet, read the exhibition catalogue, available for purchase on the Museum Store site.

The exhibition was so important that the Louvre in Paris hosted a version of it, and purchased their first pieces of Biedermeier furniture from it.  You can see one of the chairs here on their collection website.

In the years before the exhibition opened, the Milwaukee Art Museum made a number of major acquisitions of Biedermeier furniture because the Collection previously had none.  It was a “gap” in our 19th-century Central European collection.  One of the objects the Museum purchased for the Collection is a settee, which is currently on view in Gallery #9 with other works of 19th-century German art.  This artwork is a great starting point for a look at the Biedermeier style, and an interesting case study in how international exhibitions can lead to more discoveries.

Possibly Berlin, Germany, Long Case Clock, ca. 1820. Poplar burr veneer, ebonized pear, 82 x 23 1/2 x 8 1/2 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of René von Schleinitz Memorial Fund, by exchange. Photo credit John R. Glembin.

The settee, from around 1815, is early Biedermeier.   You can tell that it’s an early piece of Biedermeier because it is transitional, meaning it displays elements from what came before and elements of what came after.

What came before was the Neoclassical style, which looked back to ancient art for inspiration.  The animal feet and applied gold decoration on this settee are evidence of pure neoclassicism.  Compare this object to 18th-century examples of neoclassicism, such as a French commode and a James Stuart settee, both at the Victoria and Albert Museum.  (You can also see a neoclassical chair pictured in the Museum’s portrait by Carl Christian Vogel von Vogelstein, which is just next to the settee in the gallery.)

During the early 19th century, when the Museum’s settee was made, a late neoclassical style was used for official government rooms across Europe.  This was the highly ornate style often called “French Empire,”  exemplified in this chair made for the Reception Room of the Prinz Karl Palais in Berlin in the collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  The drapery and fringe on our settee is clearly influenced by this type of French Empire style.

The exhibition explores how the Biedermeier style was popular during the same time as the Empire style, but in contrast it was favored for private, domestic use rather than public, formal use.

So, then, if so many of the details on our ca. 1815 settee are Empire, what is Biedermeier about it?

The shape says it all.

Josef Ulrich Danhauser (Vienna, Austria, 1780–1829), manufactured by Danhauser’sche Möbelfabrik (Vienna, Austria, 1804–1839), Settee , ca. 1815. Mahogany veneer, gilding, reconstructed upholstery, 44 1/2 x 84 1/4 x 26 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of René von Schleinitz Memorial Fund, by exchange. Photo by John R. Glembin.

Its outline is a curved rectangle, creating a simple, organic shape.  Eventually, Biedermeier style furniture designers will pare away unnecessary decoration—all that gold decoration and fringed drapery—to expose the clean lines of the object underneath.  Examples in the Museum’s collection that show this “high” Biedermeier style include a table, long case clock (shown above at right), and another settee.

The Museum’s table and clock, in particular, show how important the grain of the wood becomes in Biedermeier furniture.  The geometric planes of the furniture allow the beauty of the wood to be the focal point.  This reflects an interest and celebration of nature in Biedermeier artwork.  The clean lines look extremely modern to our eyes!

And the orange settee certainly surprises.  The arresting shape of the object—repeated, stacked volumes that mimic the cushion—looks straight out of the 20th century.  The eye-popping color looks like a transplant from 1960.  The color, however, is historically accurate.  Color was all-important in the early 19th-century Biedermeier interior, due in large part to the publication of Theory of Colors by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (German, 1749-1832) in 1810, which attached specific emotional responses to individual colors.

Back to the transitional settee.  It was designed by Josef Ulrich Danhauser (Vienna, Austria, 1780–1829) and sold by his company, Danhauser’sche Möbelfabrik (Vienna, Austria, 1804–1839).  We know this because the MAK (the Museum for Applied Art) in Vienna has a collection of 2,200 drawings from the Danhauser’sche Möbelfabrik, and design number 47 (shown below) is the basis for Milwaukee’s settee.

Josef Ulrich Danhauser (Vienna, Austria, 1780–1829), Danhauser’sche Möbelfabrik (Vienna, Austria, 1804–1839), Drawing for a Settee, no. 47. MAK-Austrian Museum of Applied Arts/Contemporary Art, Vienna. © MAK

The Danhauser’sche Möbelfabrik was a type of factory that would produce standard furniture designs which could be personalized by the purchaser.  Wealthy aristocrats, and eventually middle-class citizens, bought furniture for their homes from these types of designers, leading to a stylistic unity among interiors.  Danhauser’s most prestigious and comprehensive commission was the refurbishment of Archduke Charles’s palace (today’s Albertina) around 1822.  You can get a sense of one of his interiors from the Audience Hall.

The “one-stop-shop” like Danhauser’sche Möbelfabrik for sets of furniture was a new concept in the early 19th century in Central Europe.  Until this time individual craftsmen were part of individual guilds that controlled specific crafts; cabinet makers, wood carvers, metalworkers, and upholsterers would work on one piece of furniture, but not as part of the same business.

In comparing the settee in the Museum’s collection with the drawing, we can see two key differences.  One is the addition of the drapery.  We know that this was part of the original upholstery, because during restoration the holes for the hardware were found.  The recreation of the upholstery was based upon other Danhauser drawings that show drapery on furniture.

Pre-restoration state. Josef Ulrich Danhauser (Vienna, Austria, 1780–1829), manufactured by Danhauser’sche Möbelfabrik (Vienna, Austria, 1804–1839), Settee , ca. 1815. Mahogany veneer, gilding, reconstructed upholstery, 44 1/2 x 84 1/4 x 26 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of René von Schleinitz Memorial Fund, by exchange. Photo by John R. Glembin.

When the Milwaukee Art Museum purchased the settee in 2001, it was upholstered in a not-appropriate-at-all French-looking fabric, shown in the pre-restoration photo at right.

The other difference is the figural decoration on the back.  It shows a shepherd playing a flute, a herding dog, young boys, a girl, some sheep, baskets, and gardening implements.  The same composition can be found on a similar settee in the National Museum in Cracow (Inv. IV-Sp-329) and a bed in the MAK in Vienna (Inv. H 3039).  The MAK also has a Danhauser drawing of the bed with the figures shown on the headboard.

It is thought that this pastoral subject matter (dealing with shepherds and the countryside) was a nod to the long tradition of depicting the pastoral in neoclassical art.  During the Biedermeier period, this may also refer to the interest in nature and gardening.

But this figural decoration holds another surprise.  Dr. Renata Kassal-Mikula, a curator at the Wien Museum in Vienna, saw the settee at the Albertina when it was on display as part of the Biedermeier exhibition.  She realized that the frieze has the same composition as a pediment decoration for the Cartoryski Palace, a summer home outside of Vienna owned by a string of nobility.

Josef Ulrich Danhauser (Vienna, Austria, 1780–1829), manufactured by Danhauser’sche Möbelfabrik (Vienna, Austria, 1804–1839), Settee , ca. 1815. Detail of crest freize. Mahogany veneer, gilding, reconstructed upholstery, 44 1/2 x 84 1/4 x 26 in. Milwaukee Art Museum, Gift of René von Schleinitz Memorial Fund, by exchange. Photo by John R. Glembin.

About 1810, the then-owner, a wealthy banker and grain merchant named Friedrich Jakob van der Nüll, reconstructed the house with four wings around an inner courtyard with classical portals.  The pastoral scene was used on the portico for the garden façade.  You can see an image of it here.  The building has since been destroyed, but the Wien Museum has a fragment of one of the sheep in their collection.

Dr. Kassel-Mikula knew that Van der Nüll owned an entire set of engravings by Francesco Bartolozzi (Italian, 1727-1815).  This is documented in the entry from April 9, 1815 in Carl Bertuch’s Diary of the Congress of Vienna.  Bartolozzi was a prolific engraver who left behind more than 2,000 images, including many copies of British paintings and illustrations for “The Shepherd” by James Thomson—a famous poem of the 18^th century that featured pastoral scenes.

Although we haven’t been able to pinpoint which Bartolozzi print was the inspiration for this shepherd, here is an example of the type from the British Museum.

But the most exciting realization, as Dr. Kassel-Mikula concludes, is that Danhauser and his designers must have had access to a set of Bartolozzi’s prints.  Either Danhauser owned it, or the person who commissioned the settee owned it and gave it to them to copy.

In any case, this important discovery may have never been revealed if Milwaukee’s settee hadn’t traveled to Vienna for the exhibition for Dr. Kassel-Mikula to see!

In preparation for the Museum exhibition, I have been researching face jugs and visiting institutions and collectors around the United States for the past year; viewing their collections and learning more about the different forms. Chipstone owned one face jug, which is what first piqued my interest in the subject, but the rest of the objects for the exhibition needed to be borrowed from other institutions and private collections. There is a limited number of the early African American made face jugs, and they don’t come up for sale often.

So then, imagine my surprise and excitement when a few weeks ago Chipstone was offered the opportunity to purchase one of these rare 19th-century vessels!

Face jugs are stoneware vessels with faces on them. The eyes and the teeth are made of kaolin, which is the material that porcelain is made out of. They were created by slaves in the Edgefield District of South Carolina in the second half of the 19th century, and were produced for a period of only about 30 years.

The face jug offered to Chipstone is amazing. It has a face that is different from any other face vessel that I have seen, and the jug’s form suggests that it is early, probably from around 1862. The unique features weren’t the only thing that captured my attention though–this particular face jug has writing on the back!

Inscription detail. Face jug, ca. 1862. alkaline glazed stoneware with kaolin insert. Chipstone Foundation. Photo courtesy of Rob Hunter.

Writing on a face jug is very unusual. There is only one other face jug, owned by the Smithsonian National Museum of American History, that I have seen with an inscription. One of the peculiarities of face jugs is that the individual makers are not known. Would this new face jug give us a clue as to who made it? Would it provide us with the name of a slave potter?

Needless to say, the Chipstone Foundation purchased the rare, inscribed face jug.

When it arrived, it was clear that the script did not match the Smithsonian’s face jug’s lettering, eliminating the possibility that they were made by the same maker. The writing also did not match the famous Edgefield potter known for writing on his vessels, Dave Drake. That eliminated the possibility that the face jug was made by Dave.

One of the words on the back (as you can possibly make out on the detail above) spelled “Squire”, but the other was much more ambiguous. The Chipstone curators and other Southern ceramic scholars came up with two possibilities for the second word. It could be either “Peter” or “Posey”. Initial research turned up that a slave working at the Thomas Davies pottery, a pottery known for producing face jugs, had one child named Squire and one child named Peter. Could he have been the maker of the face jug? Did he make any of the other face jugs that will be exhibited this spring?

What if the second word actually spells Posey? I then did initial research on the name Squire Posey and came up with a planter who was born in South Carolina and moved to Alabama. Was he the owner of the slave who made the face jug?

Was this jug a present for Posey, or was the inclusion of the name a way for the slave to ward off the master’s fury?

Face jug, ca. 1862. alkaline glazed stoneware with kaolin insert. Chipstone Foundation. Photo courtesy of Rob Hunter.

At the moment, there is no conclusive answer, but come by to see Face Jugs: Art and Ritual in 19th-century South Carolina between April 26 and August 5 in the Museum’s Decorative Arts Gallery and see this wondrous face jug for yourself.

What do you think it says?

Claudia Mooney works for Chipstone, the Milwaukee-based foundation dedicated to promoting American decorative arts scholarship. She researches objects and creates relevant programming for Chipstone’s exhibitions at the Milwaukee Art Museum and in the community.