Joaquin Sorolla (1863-1923) is the great Spanish painter of whom I had known very little—though his style, themes and time period ticks all the boxes of my favorite paintings. His luminous pictures—frequently capturing people near the seashore—sparkle with glancing light. And his bravura brushwork is spontaneous, bold and confident. I think of him as Spain's John Singer Sargent.
Shown above, Valencian Fishermen (1895) tend to their fishing creels while a fishing boat bobs in the background surf. Sorolla shows the light coming-in from behind the men which darkens their features while illuminating the seafoam brilliantly. This is the kind of "men-at-work" paintings I like; real people, authentically active in their craft or trade.
Sorolla painted plenty of commissioned portraits. And some of his works do get a little "soft and frilly" for my taste. However, many of his non-commissioned works—like the fishermen above—make him one of my favorite painters of this period.
One of Sorolla's most famous works was a massive canvas entitled Sad Inheritance! which was painted in 1899. In the picture, Sorolla shows a large group of disabled boys from a nearby institution, bathing in the sea, under the supervision of a single priest. The heartbreaking spectacle—was it for therapy, for fun, a little of both?—touched the painter (who had been painting on the beach when he encountered the scene) and he sought permission from the hospital to paint the subject. The work was exhibited at the Exposition Universelle 1900 in Paris where it won the Grand Prize. It is Sorolla's work with the most conspicuous "social message," but he liked it so much that he presented preparatory sketches to his fellow masters, William Merritt Chase and John Singer Sargent. When Sorolla offered to sell the painting to the Spanish State, conservative politicians blocked the purchase. It went to New York where it hung in the Episcopal Church of the Ascension on lower Fifth Avenue for many years. Today, it is in the collection of a Spanish bank and is exhibited periodically—both in Spain or traveling abroad. To learn more about this important work, click here.
Any day when I can stand before an original work of Michelangelo Buonarotti—be it sculpture or painting, finished or unfinished—it's a good day. Michelangelo (1475-1564) is my favorite artist of all time (when my husband is not included in the running). The picture above, called The Entombment (1500-01), was painted by a 25 year old Michelangelo. It was put-aside when the artist returned to Florence (in 1501) to begin carving his David. This picture was intended for a church in Rome and (apparently) he never got back to it. It is one of only three known "panel paintings" which Michelangelo produced. Note the sensational (and expensive) frame surrounding the unfinished work. Clearly, others feel as I do: even an unfinished Michelangelo is a treasure worthy of a magnificent frame.
Vincent Van Gogh's artwork transcends time. Standing before any of his pictures, time and again, I inevitably make the same comment: "This looks like he could have painted it yesterday." His works are timeless. The sunny yellow of Sunflowers (1888) belies the tortured master deftly manipulating the brush. Van Gogh associated yellow with hope and friendship. In August of 1888, alone, he painted four pictures of sunflowers—wishing to decorate his home in Arles with these sunny paintings. He painted this picture to hang in the bedroom of his friend, Paul Gauguin, who visited Vincent in Arles in October 1888.
Honoré Daumier (1808-1879) painted with a unique style—and has always been a favorite of mine. Raised in a working class family, he spent much of his artistic life lampooning the rich and powerful—showing a special delight when focusing upon the elites who controlled the country's legal system. His social commentary was delivered in a painterly style that was several decades ahead of his time. Furthermore, Daumier defied categorization; he produced caricatures for newspapers and other periodicals—straddling the defined worlds of illustration and fine art (a false distinction, in my opinion), which may have confused the art establishment. Though he was largely overlooked during his lifetime, he had a tremendous impact upon the Impressionists and Post-Impressionists who would come after him. Daumier was also a sculptor and printmaker—and highly prolific.
Shown above, Daumier depicts Don Quixote and Sancho Panza (c. 1855). Cervantes's creations were the type of idiosyncratic characters which Daumier loved to depict. Here the deluded Quixote charges headlong into battle, against the advice of his long-suffering squire, Sancho Panza. In fact, the skirmish in the distance is not two armies at battle; rather, it is a rambunctious flock of sheep, kicking-up a cloud of dust.
The picture above redeems for me the painter, Claude Monet (1840-1926). He depicts the French train station, La Gare Saint-Lazare (c. 1877)—a location he painted at least a dozen times. It's a muscular painting—gritty, architectural, industrial—and, yet, Monet shows great delicacy while capturing the sunlight passing-through the steam and smoke, into the eyes of the viewer. Monet's most popular works are his sugary pastel confections (which have been over-exposed on every coffee mug, apron and mouse pad in a museum gift shop). Here Monet creates a rugged mood, which I find a welcome antidote to his many saccharine works.
I have always loved the wintery morning light—clear, honest, uncompromising—as captured by American painter George Bellows (1882-1925). He depicted the difficult life of the working class in New York City. Shown above, Men of the Docks (1912) which portrays workers gathering on the Brooklyn waterfront, alongside an enormous transatlantic ship. Perhaps some of these men will be hired for a day of work by the powerful union bosses. The Manhattan skyline rises in the background. Bellows was socially conscious. Here he captures the condition of anonymous working people—who might be so easily crushed by the increasing pace and enormity of Industrial Modernity.
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