Art, Art & Archives, Exhibitions and Installations, J. Paul Getty Museum, Prints and Drawings

The Nazarenes: German Artists Illuminating the Spirit of the Age

Visitor in the emerald green galleries of the exhibition Spirit of an Age at the Getty Center

In the emerald-green galleries of the exhibition Spirit of an Age: Drawings from the Germanic World, I was drawn to a cluster of quiet drawings that convey beautiful stories: miraculous healings, heroic quests of medieval knights, momentous coronations. These are the works of the Nazarenes, a group of devout Germanic artists who lived in Rome in the early 19th century, brandishing graphite and ink to pay tribute to God and nature.

“They were about telling religious stories, not about expressing ego or making statements about art for art’s sake,” Edouard Kopp, assistant curator of drawings and the curator of the exhibition, told me. “They were very much literary artists.’’

<em>The Coronation of Charlemagne</em>, Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, 1840. Brown ink over graphite on paper. The J. Paul Getty Museum, 2009.5

The Coronation of Charlemagne, Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, 1840. Brown ink over graphite on paper. The J. Paul Getty Museum, 2009.5

The stories told by the Nazarenes are just one part of Spirit of an Age, which showcases 42 works in ink, chalk, graphite, and gouache by a variety of German and Austrian artists, including key figures such as Josef Anton Koch, Adolf von Menzel, and Gustav Klimt. The exhibition’s title comes from German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Hegel, who professed that art essentially reflects the spirit of the age—or “Zeitgeist”—in which it was made.

Between 1770 and 1900, the years covered by the show, the Germanic world went through tremendous upheaval. There was, notably, the chaos caused by the Napoleonic invasions. Intellectual heavyweights, like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, triggered earthquakes in conventional thought. The century also saw the birth of modern Germany as well as the Industrial Revolution, the economic transformation that brought us railroads and steam-powered ships. A psychological freight train—Sigmund Freud’s development of psychoanalysis—was right around the corner.

In the midst of this whirlwind, the Nazarenes fixed their mind on the divine. They lived in Rome, leading a quasi-monastic life. Some fellow German artists and writers criticized the Nazarenes for paying homage to Italian Renaissance artists like Raphael. Goethe, a most influential writer on art, was one of those who scoffed. He thought that the Nazarenes were going backwards, instead of shaping an art in keeping with modern life.

But the Nazarenes’ work has a quiet power and authenticity that’s as uplifting, in a sense, as a Viennese waltz or a thundering Wagner opera. Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, for example, shows grace and power in this pen-and-ink drawing, Elijah Revives the Son of the Widow of Zarephath. In an intimate scene, the prophet Elijah beckons God to heal a widow’s child as she weeps—and as the child, arms outstretched, comes back to life.

<em>Elijah Revives the Son of the Widow of Zarephath</em>, Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, 1842. Black ink on paper. The J. Paul Getty Museum, 2009.13

Elijah Revives the Son of the Widow of Zarephath, Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld, 1842. Black ink on paper. The J. Paul Getty Museum, 2009.13

(Another miraculous feat: this drawing was a study for one of 240 intricate illustrations in the monumental Bible in Pictures (Bibel in Bildern), which took Carolsfeld 40 years to finish.)

Like his fellow Nazarenes, Carolsfeld emphasized clear, unbroken lines. His drawings typically eschew the use of color. It seems that nothing ought to distract the viewer’s attention from what the critic Friedrich Schlegel called the “divine light of inner spirituality.”

Theodor Rehbenitz’s The Visitation is a fine example of how to render a divine glow without color. The Virgin Mary and her cousin Elizabeth, their faces in full halo, sweetly embrace as they privately rejoice at their mutual pregnancies. The faces are reminiscent of the paintings of Fra Angelico, while the draperies evoke the prints of German Renaissance master Albrecht Dürer.

<em>The Visitation</em> (detail), Theodor Rehbenitz, 1820. Graphite on paper. The J. Paul Getty Museum, 2009.70

The Visitation (detail), Theodor Rehbenitz, 1820. Graphite on paper. The J. Paul Getty Museum, 2009.70

In a far more public scene, Carolsfeld’s The Coronation of Charlemagne celebrates the crowning of the first leader of the Holy Roman Empire, as an enthusiastic crowd gestures with excitement. Commissioned by Ludwig I, King of Bavaria, the drawing was a study for a fresco for his Munich palace to honor the ties between Italy and Catholic Germany.

If you’re craving color, though, wander around the rest of Spirit of an Age and you’ll see works by artists who pursued other aesthetic goals—from extolling the hard-working peasant to synthesizing art and music. The drawings offer up contrasts as dramatic as the age itself: a picture-perfect pastel spring, a stroll along the Dresden riverbank, even a place to rest your head.

Emerald green galleries of Spirit of an Age at the Getty Center

Tagged , , , Bookmark the permalink. Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL.

Post a Comment

Your email is never published or shared. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>

*
*

  • Facebook

  • Twitter

  • Tumblr

    • photo from Tumblr

      #ProvenancePeek: Titian in Boston

      Every art object has a story—not only of how it was made, but of how it changed hands over time until it found its current home. That story is provenance.

      Portrait of a Man Holding a Book, in the collection of Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts, is no exception. The MFA carefully details the painting’s Italian provenance on its collection page, but the path of this object even since then is complex.

      Between 1901 and 1907, Portrait of a Man Holding a Book entered the stock of no less than three galleries, purchased from the Italian family who owned it first by Agnew’s in London, then by Trotti in Paris, and then by Cottier in New York (marking its movement from the Old World to the New). A collector purchased it from Cottier, and the painting was held privately for 36 years.

      That collector was Frederick Bayley Pratt (1865–1945), son of Charles Pratt, oil magnate and founder of the Brooklyn Institute that bears his family’s name (incidentally, this writer’s alma mater!). 

      The Knoedler Gallery dealt frequently with members of the Pratt family. A quick peek into the searchable database of Knoedler’s stock books turns up nine instances in which a Pratt (Charles and Mary, Frederick’s parents, or Herbert and John, his brothers) bought works, as well as five instances where they sold works. This Titian portrait is one of those instances. Frederick Pratt sold the work to Knoedler in early April of 1943, and by the 10th, it had been snapped up by the Museum of Fine Arts.

      Knoedler shared the sale with Pinakos, an art-dealing concern owned and operated by Rudolf J. Heinemann. Purchasing works in tandem with other dealers was a widespread practice amongst powerful art galleries of the time; nearly 6,000 records in the Knoedler database had joint ownership.

      The stock books of the Knoedler Gallery have recently been transformed into a searchable database that anyone can query for free. You can find this Titian under stock number A2555.

      Portrait of a Man Holding a Book, about 1540, Titian (Tiziano Vecellio). Oil on canvas. The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Charles Potter Kling Fund. Photograph © Museum of Fine Arts, Boston; stock and sales books documenting the painting’s sale by M. Knoedler & Co.

      _______

      ProvenancePeek is a monthly series by research assistant Kelly Davis peeking into provenance finds from the M. Knoedler & Co. archive at the Getty Research Institute.

      04/29/16

  • Flickr