Looking Presidential

In celebration of Halloween, the October Art Poll By Bob asked, “Which of the following paintings seems the spookiest?” You voted William Blake's The Ghost of a Flea (1819-1820) as the spookiest, with 17 votes. Arnold Böcklin's The Isle of the Dead (1880) and Salvador Dalí's Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War) (1936) tied for second, with 15 votes each. Edvard Munch's Vampire (1893-1894) with 11 votes, Henry Fuseli's The Nightmare (1781) with 10 votes, Albert Pinkham Ryder's The Race Track (Death on a Pale Horse) (1895-1910) with 9 votes, and Andrew Wyeth's Jack Be Nimble (1976) with 5 votes rounded out the field. Suffering the indignity of the first shutout in Art Poll By Bob history, David Wojnarowicz's Fire (1987) came in dead last with the doughnut of shame.

In honor of the tomorrow’s United States Presidential Election, I’ve decided to ask “Which of the following official Presidential portraits seems the most presidential to you?” (The Obama carved pumpkin [above, from Yes We Carve] would be an unconventional, yet very cool choice.):

Gilbert Stuart, George Washington (aka, the Lansdowne portrait, 1796)

Rembrandt Peale, Thomas Jefferson (1800)

George P.A. Healy, John Quincy Adams (1858)

George P.A. Healy, Abraham Lincoln (1869)

Anders Zorn, Grover Cleveland (1899)

John Singer Sargent, Theodore Roosevelt (1903)

Aaron Shikler, John F. Kennedy (1970)

Simmie Knox, Bill Clinton (2000)

Stuart’s almost regal Lansdowne Portrait actually started the tradition of official presidential portraits. Little-known George P.A. Healy painted every official presidential portrait from John Quincy Adams through Ulysses S. Grant, so he made the list twice. (Plus, I think he captured the stiffness of J.Q.A. perfectly.) Peale, Zorn, and Singer all earned fame beyond their momentary brush with high office. Shikler’s haunting posthumous portrait of JFK is familiar to most Americans even if the artist’s name isn’t. Simmie Knox makes the list for being the first African-American artist to paint an official presidential portrait and for capturing the Big Dog perfectly. I wish I could have added Thomas Eakins’ lost portrait of Rutherford B. Hayes. Eakins reportedly painted Hayes working at his desk on a sweltering summer day as bullets of sweat streamed down his reddened face. First Lady and Temperance movement queen “Lemonade” Lucy Rutherford reportedly so hated the portrait that she had it destroyed. The idea of a hard-working president seemed uncouth, I guess.

So, rock the vote and vote for the most “presidential” presidential portrait. And, tomorrow, vote for the most presidential president!

[This is Bob of Art Blog By Bob and I approve this message.]

Blind Ambition

When Benjamin West burst onto the English art scene in 1763, the brash American with a head full of Raphael and Titian thanks to his recent travels in Italy made few friends when King George III commissioned West to paint the royal family. Sir Joshua Reynolds and others turned their backs on the young artist they saw as too ambitious in infringing upon “their” territory. By 1768, however, West’s personal charm and artistic talent won the English artists over and he joined them in founding the Royal Academy of Arts, eventually succeeding his friend Reynolds as the academy’s second president in 1792. Born October 10, 1738, West stands as one of the first great American artists, yet the majority of his great works have nothing to do with America. West’s breakout work The Death of General Wolfe (above, from 1770) turned heads with its dramatic rendition of the final moments of the life of British General James Wolfe during the Battle of Quebec. By posing Wolfe as a fallen Christ figure, literally ripping off the composition and figures of the Renaissance, West fit in with the art ethos of the time in history painting. However, by allowing the figures to wear contemporary dress and not shrouding them in the togas of classicism, West changed the rules of the game, ambitiously aiming at a type of realism not seen before in history painting that opened the doors for Jacques-Louis David and his Neoclassicism on the verge of Romanticism.

Growing up in Philadelphia, it was hard not to see the works of West. The PAFA features two works by West that bookend their main staircase. To see these huge works you almost have to stand on the opposite side of the stairs, since there’s not enough room to back away from them without tumbling over the railing. A smaller work at the PAFA, West’s The Treaty of Penn with the Indians (above, from 1771-1772), presents an idealized version of the transaction in which William Penn secured land from the Native Americans to extend Pennsylvania. West reportedly first learned how to mix colors from the Native Americans living in Springfield, Pennsylvania, his birthplace (not far from where I live today). Like Penn, West was a Quaker and applied that sect’s principles of brotherhood and pacifism to Native Americans even when most whites considered them less than human.

It’s easy to discount the works of West today. Although he was hailed as “the American Raphael” in his day, many of his figures in his epic-sized works seem cartoonishly stilted today. The great draftsmanship of smaller works such as his altarpiece titled The Conversion of St. Paul (above, from 1786) is largely forgotten today, although he exhibited it to great acclaim during his lifetime. If critics can’t be converted to West’s talent, they should at least be open to accepting his role as a pivotal figure in early American painting. While living in London, West opened his doors to any American artist looking for guidance or a place to stay on their way to study in Europe. Such artists as Gilbert Stuart, Charles Willson Peale, John Singleton Copley, Washington Allston, John Trumbull, Thomas Sully, and Samuel F. B. Morse all spent time in West’s studio and home, learning with the master. Matthew Pratt actually painted a tribute to West’s open house titled The American School. Like later critics, many of these artists rejected West’s teachings after accepting his kindness, but West had greater ambitions for American art than the simple continuation of his personal style.