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Subject: ‘Famous artists’
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Posted in Art, Artist, Famous artists, Historical articles, History, Illustrators, News, Politics, Royalty on Friday, 21 February 2014
This edited article about British art first appeared in Look and Learn issue number 562 published on 21 October 1972.
‘Clever Juvenile (loq.) "Shakespeare? Pooh! For my part, I consider Shakespeare a very much over-rated man"’ – Punch cartoon by John Leech
France was first in the field of social and political magazine journalism, with the magazines, “La Caricature” and “Le Charivari.” Britain was quick to seize upon a good thing.
“Punch, or the London Charivari” was born in 1841, and was directly inspired, as its sub-title suggests, by the French satirical weekly. In fact, however, “Punch” was predated by the “Monthly Sheet of Caricatures,” a lithographed journal put out by publisher Thomas McLean as early as 1830. John Doyle was the best of McLean’s artists, a statement which says much for the decline of the British political and satirical cartoon since the heady days of Gillray and of Cruikshank. John Doyle was a dull portrait painter who turned to producing dull cartoons of the statesmen of his day, in situations that made trite and stuffy comment on some political happening or other. It was a long cry from the acid pens of the great caricaturists of yesteryear.
By the mid-19th century and the coming of “Punch,” wood-engraving had begun to take over from copper-plate etching as a means of large-scale graphic reproduction. Cruikshank’s cartoons were worked directly on to the copper plate by the artist himself. But not every draughtsman had this special skill. Moreover, printing from a block is altogether cheaper than printing from an etching; so it was that a whole generation of new craftsmen appeared; professional wood-engravers, who did nothing but transfer other men’s drawings onto engraved blocks of wood for printing. Some of these engravers were good (one of the best was Edward Whymper, the first man to climb the Matterhorn), and some were not so good. The difference between the good and the not so good accounts for the flat, dull and “wooden” appearance of so much of the graphic work of the period. Thumb through any illustrated book or magazine of the period, and you will see it for yourself.
John Leech was a caricaturist in the great tradition; indeed he collaborated with George Cruikshank at one stage, and his style of drawing and choice of subjects greatly resembled those of the older artist.
It was Leech who first applied the word “cartoon” in its modern meaning, and it happened this way. In 1843, there was a big exhibition of designs submitted for the frescoes to be painted on the walls of the new Houses of Parliament, and these were correctly called “cartoons,” as finished working drawings had been so-called since the days of the Old Italian masters.
Finding most of the Houses of Parliament cartoons to be pretentious and ludicrous, Leech satirised them in a series of “cartoons” of his own. The name stuck, and remains stuck to this day, to this particular type of work.
Though he never attempted the grotesque excesses of Gillray, nor the near-criminal libellings of Cruikshank during his period with “The Scourge,” John Leech was a caricaturist who believed in giving his subjects a rough ride. He attacked the Prime Minister, Lord Russell, for his handling of the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill, in a cartoon that was said to have contributed to Russell’s subsequent fall from power.
He reserved his strongest venom, however, for foreigners, especially the French. He attacked Louis Napoleon on many occasions. Thanks largely to his efforts, “Punch” was twice banned from France.
His dislike of foreigners did not blind Leech to the shortcomings of his own people. When the British government’s treatment of Little Greece exceeded the bounds of the precepts taught on the playing fields of Eton, he drew Mr Punch holding an extremely sneaky-looking lion by the ear and saying: “Why don’t you hit someone your own size?”
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Posted in Art, Artist, Famous artists, News, Politics, Royalty on Friday, 21 February 2014
This edited article about French art first appeared in Look and Learn issue number 561 published on 14 October 1972.
Pears; caricature of King Louis Philippe I of France, 1833 by Charles Philipon
For cartoon and caricature to have “bite” – that is to say the ability to fulfil the pen’s purpose of being mightier than the sword – they must be brought to the notice of a considerable number of people, in other words they must be published.
The British caricaturists whom we have been talking about so far – those of the 18th and early 19th centuries – were all published, or their works were published, by print-sellers. Gillray had his Mistress Humphrey, Rowlandson his Ackermann, and so on.
We have to look to France for the first real move that lifted caricatures and cartoons from the chancy business of the print-seller’s shop to the wide and popular medium of magazine journalism. And it was a move that was sparked off by the discernment of one man.
Charles Philipon was born in 1806, and at the age of seventeen he learned the lithographic process and started to draw caricatures – which, on account of his fine draughtsmanship, keen sense of satire and lively political awareness, he did uncommonly well.
In 1830, Louis Philippe was proclaimed king of the French. The rule of this undistinguished monarch (his gimmick was to walk the streets in a sober suit, carrying a rolled umbrella, and shaking hands with all and sundry) was marked by a political hurly-burly notable, even, for France. And poor old Louis Philippe, who was fat and unattractive, was criticised and lampooned by almost everybody.
It was in 1830 that Charles Philipon founded a journal of political satire which he called “La Caricature.” The career of this publishing squib was meteoric, influential – and cruelly brief. Philipon drew what amounts to a strip cartoon showing Louis Philippe in the process of transformation into a pear, and this pear symbol was used by all “La Caricature’s” artists to represent the king. Summonses for libel arrived at the magazine’s offices by nearly every post, but it was a lithograph of the king in the role of Gargantua (a monstrous character from the author Rabelais) that finally sunk “La Caricature.” It was suppressed.
The artist who made the Gargantua caricature, and the magazine’s most distinguished contributor – as well as one of the finest draughtsmen that France has ever produced – was Honore Daumier.
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Posted in Art, Artist, Famous artists, Historical articles, History, Illustrators, London on Thursday, 20 February 2014
This edited article about British art first appeared in Look and Learn issue number 560 published on 7 October 1972.
Ridicule is a powerful weapon. James Gillray discovered this when he followed William Hogarth as a major British cartoonist. The period which came after them was one of the richest and liveliest in the history of caricature. Like all important epochs, the period was memorable for a very large number – about fifty or sixty – of very competent practitioners, and one or two giants who bestrode all the rest like giants. And the two giants who followed after poor James Gillray were Thomas Rowlandson and George Cruikshank.
Thomas Rowlandson was the son of a London merchant. He had a straightforward art education at the Royal Academy and in Paris. With the kind of talent he had for recording the English landscape, young Tom might well have been remembered alongside Gainsborough and Constable. But, as in so many cases, including the case of Hogarth, he turned to commercial draughtsmanship to keep himself fed and clothed. Also to support his passion for gambling, which was nearly his ruination.
In his political cartoons, he consciously aped the style and bite of Gillray; but, unlike the earlier master, he was not a politically-minded person; he was an observer of the passing scene of life about him, and this he recorded with honesty and affection.
Do not look to Rowlandson for an insight into the obscure and involved political set-ups of the late eighteenth century; but, rather, for a pictorial journalist’s view of the rollicking life of the taverns and the docks, and in dance halls and pleasure gardens. His pen dealt with a wide cast of people, particularly women, whom he loved dearly: all kinds of women, from overblown fishwives, to delicate misses in crinolines. He drew them all, even at their most outrageous, without any venom.
He had a masterly eye for a crowd scene. He would have made a splendid film director. This shows best in his large drawings of processions, and in his coloured drawing of an evening entertainment in Vauxhali gardens – surely his tour de force.
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Posted in Art, Artist, Famous artists, Historical articles, History, News, Politics on Thursday, 20 February 2014
This edited article about British art first appeared in Look and Learn issue number 559 published on 30 September 1972.
It was a poet, Edward Bulwer-Lytton who coined the much-quoted truth:
“Beneath the rule of men entirely great,
“The pen is mightier than the sword.”
As a weapon of protest, attack or satire, the pen can be a deadly instrument. Even the best intentioned rulers and leaders have tended – and still tend – to dislike criticism, particularly when it is served up in the form of pictorial satire and ridicule.
In this series, we shall be dealing exclusively with the pen as a weapon of satire and comment in the field of graphic art.
Two terms we shall use are “caricature” and “cartoon.” Caricature is an exaggerated way of drawing a subject, whether it is the size of a man’s nose, the height of a mountain or the speed of a horse.
It comes from the Italian word “caricare,” which means to overload with exaggerated detail.
Nobody knows the name of the earliest caricaturist. But by the beginning of the 16th century, highly-regarded serious artists like Leonardo da Vinci and Albrecht Durer were making satirical comments on the shape and character of the human face that had everyone in stitches of laughter.
Also serious and respectable is the origin of the word “cartoon.” In the days of the Renaissance, it was simply the name given to the finished and perfected drawing from which the artist worked to paint his picture.
By the mid-19th century, most painters were working more or less directly on to the canvas, so the word slipped into disuse.
It picked up an entirely new meaning when the humorous magazine “Punch” used it to describe the type of drawing that relies upon parody and satire and the devices of caricature.
By this name, we know the political and humorous drawings that are so much a part of newspapers and topical magazines today.
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Posted in Art, Artist, British Countryside, Famous artists, Historical articles, History on Wednesday, 19 February 2014
This edited article about Thomas Gainsborough first appeared in Look and Learn issue number 558 published on 23 September 1972.
Thomas Gainsborough sketching an apple thief by Ron Embleton
When he was still a lad in Sudbury, Suffolk, Thomas Gainsborough sketched the face of a man peering over a hedge. The man ran away with the pears he had stolen. But young Tom’s sketch was a good enough likeness to identify the thief.
Later, Tom made a painting on wood from the pencil sketch and cut round the outline of the head. He would prop this up over the top of a hedge, and laugh at the people who bowed or raised their hats as they passed by.
It was this ability to capture the likeness of a human face and form, and paint it with photographic realism, that made Thomas Gainsborough in later life the most popular portrait painter of his day. Remember this was the eighteenth century, long before the colour camera.
A painter has to make a living, and to do this he has to sell his paintings. Gainsborough had his early struggles. He studied the engraving of pictures on metal plates. Prints from such plates could be made in some numbers. And even if each print fetched only a small sum, the total from each plate could make the effort worthwhile.
But Gainsborough had only small success. He tried painting landscapes, which failed to sell. And he gained few commissions for portraits, even at the low price of between three guineas and five guineas apiece.
His marriage in 1745, to Margaret Burr, a young lady with an income of £200 a year, enabled him to establish himself in a studio in London. Slowly, he built up a reputation as a portrait painter, both in London and later at Bath. He was soon demanding and getting a hundred guineas a portrait.
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Posted in Famous artists, Famous Composers, Historical articles, History, Leisure, London, Music, Oddities on Tuesday, 18 February 2014
Sir Henry Wood and the invisible pianists
A remarkable concert was recently held at Queen’s Hall, where a ‘Pianola’ Piano (‘Duo-Art’ Reproducing Model) – untouched by human hands – played Harold Bauer’s interpretation of Saint-Saens’ Concerto in G minor, accompanied by the Queen’s Hall Orchestra under the direction of Sir Henry J. Wood. It adequately accompanied Miss Carrie Tubb in vocal numbers, and Mr William Murdoch in a pianoforte duet. Pianoforte recordings by Paderewski, Madame Chaminade, Busoni and Pachmann were also given, the latter listening to his own playing from a seat in the stalls.
Many more pictures relating to London entertainments can be found at the Look and Learn picture library.
Posted in Architecture, Country House, Famous artists, Famous landmarks, Historical articles, History on Thursday, 6 February 2014
This edited article about architecture first appeared in Look and Learn issue number 544 published on 17 June 1972.
Pietro Torrigiano's monument of King Henry VII and his Queen in Westminster Abbey; it has been called “the finest Renaissance tomb north of the Alps”
Henry V, victor of Agincourt, died in 1422 and in that same year they began the building of Manchester Cathedral, in the Perpendicular Gothic style. It was not finished for nearly 100 years, and was one of the last of the great medieval cathedrals to be put up in this country. Yet, before Manchester Cathedral was even begun, an event took place in far-off Florence that was to mark the beginning of the end of the Gothic style in architecture.
In 1420, Filippo Brunelleschi, a disappointed goldsmith turned architect, began to build a great dome over the uncompleted cathedral of Florence. The dome was not finished in his lifetime, but Brunelleschi took time off to do other architectural jobs around the city, notably a Foundling Hospital in which he put up a graceful colonnade of Composite columns in the old Roman manner.
This was a sensation. Outside of Roman ruins, no one had ever seen a Composite column; nor a Tuscan, Doric, Ionic or Corinthian column.
With Brunelleschi’s dome and his colonnade, the phenomenon of Renaissance architecture had started off with a bang.
It was quite a while before the reverberations of that bang reached the shores of England.
This Renaissance – which means “rebirth” – started off in literature with the writings of Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio. They revived interest in the works of Ancient Greece and Rome, and set the stage for a revolt against Gothic architecture, which had never been widely popular in Italy anyhow.
Among the great classical works that was rediscovered was the “treatise on Architecture” by Vitruvius, who lived in the time of the Emperor Augustus. It was Vitruvius’s book that laid down the rules for building in the grand old Roman manner. The book soon became a “must” for all Italian architects.
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Posted in Art, Artist, Famous artists, Historical articles, History, Religion on Tuesday, 28 January 2014
This edited article about Michelangelo first appeared in Look and Learn issue number 528 published on 26 February 1972.
Michelangelo with St Peter's, the Sistine Chapel and the Pieta
Michelangelo Buonarroti, was born at Caprese in Tuscany in 1474 or 1475. His father was a nobleman, although the family was no longer affluent, and his mother was also of noble birth.
The infant Michelangelo was nursed by a stonecutter, which caused the great sculptor to say jestingly to his friend and biographer Vasari, the painter and historian of the Italian artists, “Giorgio, with the milk of my nurse, I sucked in the chisels and hammers wherewith I make my figures.”
From an early age, the boy’s talent for drawing was self-evident and he was sent to study in Florence. But at the age of 14 there was nothing more his teacher – himself a famous artist – could teach him. “The boy,” he said, “knows more about it than I do.”
At that time, a nobleman of Florence, Lorenzo de Medici, was decorating his garden with beautiful examples of Greek and Roman sculpture and there he founded a school for artists. Michelangelo entered this school at the age of 15 or 16 and one day he sculptered an antique satyr’s head in marble with extraordinary skill.
Admiring the work, Lorenzo remarked in jest that Michelangelo’s satyr had its mouth open, showing the teeth all complete, which was strange for so old a person as the satyr seemed to be. Michelangelo thereupon knocked out one of the teeth with a hammer, to Lorenzo’s great amusement.
Thereafter, the Medici nobleman took the boy into his own family and treated him like one of his own children.
When Lorenzo died, Michelangelo, aged 18, was launched upon his long career of ceaseless, almost miraculous creation. He went to Rome where he executed his first large sculpture, the “Pieta” (the dead Christ with his mourning Mother), now in St. Peter’s Cathedral. This lovely group established his fame.
After executing his David in Florence, Michelangelo returned to Rome to work for Pope Julius the Second. Here he carved an awe-inspiring image of Moses.
Here too, he painted the gigantic frescoes on the vault of the Sistine Chapel, working day and night for 20 months in a constant fury of divine inspiration. And here he laboured for 17 years as the architect of St. Peter’s Cathedral in Rome.
Working, always working, he was nearly 90 when he died, leaving another brilliant artist, Raphael, to “thank God that he was born in the time of Michelangelo,” and the painter Vega to describe him as “the master, the prince, the deity of Design.”
Posted in Art, Artist, Famous artists, Historical articles, History on Tuesday, 28 January 2014
This edited article about Renaissance sculpture first appeared in Look and Learn issue number 528 published on 26 February 1972.
The head of David by Michelangelo
The two great artists looked at the vast block of marble, felt its texture, took measurements, and stepped back to survey its length, all the time making notes on their pads. At last, they turned away thoughtfully and walked out from the yard of the Opera del Duorio where the marble block lay, into the hard bright sunlight of the streets of Florence.
The two artists were Sansovino the sculptor and Leonardo da Vinci, who is best described as all things to art. The giant marble block they had come to look at was fast becoming a bit of a nuisance to the authorities of Renaissance Florence.
For more than 20 years it had lain in the Opera yard. An artist-sculptor, Agostino di Duccio, had attempted to make something of it with no success. In doing so, he had cut it about so much that most people thought it was no longer of use to anyone.
Now Sansovino and Leonardo had both agreed to check its proportions to see if their brilliant hands could make something of this huge problem stone.
While they were considering the problem, a young man rode into Florence. He was broad-chested with muscles of iron and there was a defiant, independent look in his eye.
Although he had come northwards from Rome, Michelangelo Buonarroti, for that was his name, was no stranger to Florence. For years before this his talents had dazzled even that dazzling city. But during his sojourn in Rome he had produced works which had made his fame all over Italy. And now he was returning to his favourite city in search of something out of the ordinary.
It was not long before Michelangelo and the problem hunk of marble in the Opera yard made each other’s acquaintance. He might have had doubts as he surveyed it, for to fail with it would have been a serious setback to his career.
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Posted in Arts and Crafts, Famous artists, Historical articles, History, Music on Monday, 16 December 2013
This edited article about music first appeared in Look and Learn issue number 495 published on 10 July 1971.
The violin: Stradivarius in his workshop
On a bright March day in 1783, Father Ascensio, a violin maker and friend of the Spanish King Charles IV sat down at his desk and opened his diary.
“The Keeper of the Royal Musical Instruments,” he wrote, “has brought me a violin today asking me, by order of His Royal Highness, to Improve the tone. The instrument is dated 1709, and bears the name of Antonio Stradivari.”
Father Ascensio looked at the violin which lay on the table beside him, then closed the diary. It was a magnificent instrument, this Stradivarius, with a deep lustre made even richer by the morning sun which flooded in through the windows.
“It’s almost a crime,” he told himself. “This instrument is perfect. The tone is mellow, but powerful, and the craftsmanship is superb.”
The violin that had so impressed Father Ascensio had been made by Antonio Stradivari, one of the greatest violin-makers of all time, and a painstaking perfectionist.
Stradivari was born in the Italian town of Cremona, although the exact date of his birth is not known. At the age of 12, he had been apprenticed to the violin maker, Nicolo Amati. But Amati soon realised that the boy needed little tuition. He had a genius for his trade.
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