Guest post by Katherine A. McIver, Professor Emerita of Art History, University of Alabama at Birmingham
Thinking about the upcoming exhibition at the Prado, Madrid (October 2019) celebrating the Renaissance women artists Sofonisba Anguissola (1532–1625) and Lavinia Fontana (1552–1614) prompted me to revisit the self-portraits painted by these two women. Self-portraits can tell us so much about the artist, how they saw themselves and (in the case of these two, both as women and as artists) how they wanted the world to see them—always with a message, a story to tell. Self-portraits are about self-promotion, self-fashioning—advertising one’s talent. In an era with many restrictions limiting what women could do, Anguissola and Fontana showed the world how women could excel against great odds. Each woman, one a noblewoman and the other a professional artist, chose portraiture as a means to present personal messages to all who viewed them.
Sofonisba Anguissola’s self-fashioning as an artist is significant. As a member of a minor, somewhat impoverished, noble family from Cremona, she could not call herself a professional. But she could become a lady-in-waiting to Isabella de Valois, Queen of Spain, which she did, in 1559. As well, she taught Isabella how to draw, and she was unofficially a court painter for a portion of the reign of Philip II. Given her social status, Anguissola could not be paid in cash for her royal portraits and small devotional paintings; rather she accepted gifts of clothing and jewels.
Even before accepting this prestigious appointment, Anguissola clearly thought of herself as a professional artist. This is apparent in several of her self-portraits, including Self-Portrait at an Easel Painting a Devotional Panel (Figure 1) and Self-Portrait as being Painted by Bernardino Campi (Figure 3). Anguissola’s father, a forward-looking man, promoted her talent as an artist by hiring Bernardino Campi to train her. (As a noblewoman, she could not possibly work in the artist’s studio, so he taught her in the kitchen of the Anguissola home.) Perhaps he realized that with training, Anguissola could support herself and her family.
Sofonisba Anguissola was a prolific portraitist even before she became the unofficial court painter to the Queen. What better way to learn to paint than to use yourself as model as well as your own family? And she excelled. Even Giorgio Vasari, the first art historian, comments in The Lives of the Artists on her skill. He praises her ingenuity, and the liveliness of her portraits such as The Chess Game (Figure 2). To Vasari, her sitters seem to be alive, interacting with each other and the viewer. She is a virtuosa and, as Vasari writes, her portraits communicate with us. They are intimate and show invention and ingenuity. Thus he credits her with having created a new genre of portraiture.
Of the many self-portraits Sofonisba Anguissola painted, we’ll focus here on the two noted above. Both are large-scale paintings meant for public consumption, especially that of future clients. In the first portrait, Self-Portrait at an Easel Painting a Devotional Panel, Anguissola shows herself in the act of painting. She holds a mahlstick in one hand to support her right hand, as she paints this intimate scene. She stops her work to gaze out at the viewer, who has come into her studio and interrupted her work. Her palette is balanced on the shelf of her easel. Anguissola wears a black gown with maroon sleeves with embroidered cuffs and ruff of her white chemise. (Professional male artists traditionally wore black.) She wears no jewelry, not even a golden chain. Her hair is pulled back in braids wrapped around her head and held in place with a simple black hair net. It is significant to note that this is the costume she wears in all of her self-portraits prior to arrival in Spain. Once there, she abandons black for the fashionable dress of a court lady. But here, we see a serious young woman, an artist who can create a loving image of the Madonna embracing the Christ child.
In her Self-Portrait as being Painted by Bernardino Campi, she has changed from her customary black dress to a more elegant one, perhaps in anticipation of her new career. The collar of her chemise is open and she holds gloves in her left hand. She (and Campi) both gaze out toward the viewer. Anguissola created this work in 1559 in Milan on her way to Spain to take up her court appointment with the Queen. Here Campi is interrupted in his work, just as Anguissola was in the previous painting. Cleverly, Anguissola depicts her master painting his pupil—or so we presume until we realize that it is Sofonisba Anguissola standing at her easel outside the picture frame painting her master painting her—a tour de force! She, not he, is responsible for the image we see here. In this three-quarter length portrait of her own invention, she gives us a virtuoso performance. Clearly she saw herself as an artist, a professional, and wanted the world to know it. She advertises her skill, cleverness and ingenuity as she leaves Cremona behind to begin her new adventure.
In 1569, Anguissola married a Sicilian nobleman, with a dowry provided in the Queen’s will. Her fame grew and in 1624, when she was 92, the Flemish painter Anthony Van Dyck came to visit her in Palermo.
Lavinia Fontana was the daughter of Prospero Fontana, a prosperous artist in Bologna. A prolific painter, who survived 11 pregnancies, Lavinia Fontana supported her family through her art and by running the family business. Her aging father was nearly blind and her husband, Gian Paolo Zappi, a minor nobleman from Imola trained to paint by her father, became her assistant. He managed her workshop and acted as her agent (a woman needed a male relative to negotiate any legal transaction). This marriage increased her social standing. In the marriage contract, Prospero Fontana stipulated that his daughter be allowed to practice her trade. Once she arrived in Rome (1604), with her husband and children in tow, she was commissioned by popes and members of the nobility.
Although she is the first professional female artist of Renaissance Italy, she chooses to portray herself quite differently. In the two tiny self-portraits discussed here—the tondo Self-Portrait in the Studiolo (1579; Figure 4) and Self-Portrait at a Virginal (1577; Figure 5)—she depicts herself not as an artist, but as an educated woman in an elegant dress, with only hints to her profession.
While Lavinia Fontana painted many (usual full-length) portraits of others, she painted few self-portraits. Each of the two images considered here she created for a particular individual. She painted the round painting on copper showing her in her study, signed “Lavinia Fontana Zappi,” at the request of Alfonso Caiconio, the Spanish Dominican humanist. He wrote a letter in 1578 requesting a self-portrait to accompany the one he had of Sofonisba Anguissola. It was to hang among a vast collection of portraits of illustrious individuals of sixteenth-century Italy, where it could be seen and recognized by everyone. A portrait of a woman artist offered the collector an object of double beauty—the woman herself, and the painting. Fontana adopts the tondo format used by Parmigianino in his Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (1524, Kunsthistorishes Museum, Vienna), where he shows his hand prominently in the foreground, the tool of his trade. He sent it to Rome with the hopes of gaining commissions—that is, as a form of advertisement.
Fontana constructs herself seated not in her workshop, but in her study, at her desk. She is surrounded by her own extensive collection of antique marble and bronze fragments, perhaps from her father’s famous collection. She is sumptuously dressed with a large crucifix hanging from her neck (to please her Dominican patron). A sheet of paper lies in front of her and she holds a pen in her hand suggesting disegno—the intellectual, creative aspect of painting. Fontana had studied classical art at the University of Bologna (earning a doctorate); she shows herself as a humanist, a professional artist, and a prestigious and cultivated woman.
This painting is tiny—15 cm, or about 6 inches, in diameter—which could convey modesty. Because this tondo was commissioned by a collector, Fontana directs her self-image to a specific individual, and appeals to his sensitivity as a collector. She paints for him something so tiny he could hold this precious, round object in his hand, as he would a precious gem or ancient coin—he could admire both her artistic ingenuity and her portrait.
Painted two years before the tondo, Lavinia Fontana’s musical self-portrait was also directed to a particular individual—her future father-in-law, Severo Zappi. It, too, is small—about 10.8 x 9.6 inches in dimension. She sits at a virginal in a fine, elegant dress with her maid servant, holding a book of music. Behind Fontana, in a corner of another room, sits her empty easel. Her message is clear: she is an educated woman, who can play the virginal (also an illusion to her virginity), and she is prosperous enough to afford elegant clothing and fine jewelry, as well as an attendant. Moreover, she has the skills and the training to provide for her future family as her easel in the background suggests—it is empty, just waiting for the next commission.
In 1611, Felice Antonio Casoni constructed a medal of Lavinia Fontana in bronze (Figure 6). The front shows a typical profile portrait while the reverse shows Fontana as the Allegory of Painting with all her attributes. It is inscribed: “Through you, oh joyous state, I am sustained.”
Upcoming Exhibition at the Prado: ‘A Tale of Two Women Painters: Sofonisba Anguissola and Lavinia Fontana’
This Fall, Madrid’s Museo del Prado presents sixty paintings by Sofonisba Anguissola and Lavinia Fontana. ‘A Tale of Two Women Painters‘ explores the artistic personalities of two of the most outstanding female Old Masters in Western art. Their reputations have been to some extent obscured over the course of time. But happily, in recent years, these great Renaissance artists once again excite the interest of specialists and of the art-loving public. A number of the works on display at the Prado exhibition will come from US institutions, including the National Museum of Women in the Arts. The show runs from October 22, 2019 through February 2, 2020. Read more about the exhibit, and the artists, in this Smithsonian Magazine article.
Dr. Katherine A. McIver is Professor Emerita of Art History at the University of Alabama at Birmingham (UAB). She has authored, edited, and contributed essays to numerous books, on a variety of topics. In terms of her published work on early modern women, she is the author of Women, Art, and Architecture in Northern Italy, 1520–1580: Negotiating Power (Society for the Study of Early Modern Women Book Award winner, 2007). She is the editor of Widows, Mistresses, and Nuns in Early Modern Italy: Making the Invisible Visible through Art and Patronage, and co-Editor of Patronage, Gender and the Arts in Early Modern Italy: Essays in Honor of Carolyn Valone, among other collections. Her many articles include “Lavinia Fontana’s Self-Portrait Making Music” (Women’s Art Journal 19/1); “Vasari’s Women” in Reading Vasari; and “Lavinia Fontana” in the Oxford Encyclopedia of Women in World History.
More Art Herstory blog posts:
A Curator’s Perspective
Guest post by Judith W. Mann, Curator of European Art to 1800, the Saint Louis Art Museum
On the occasion of what would have been Artemisia Gentileschi’s 426th birthday (July 8), it is worth reflecting on events of the last year that mark important milestones in the perception of this most important painter.
In July 2018, the National Gallery London formally announced its purchase of a fascinating picture that Artemisia made during her years in Florence (roughly 1612–1620), a Self-Portrait as Saint Catherine of Alexandria (fig. 1). One of the finest and most prominent collections of Italian baroque painting had finally obtained an example of a major figure in seventeenth-century art as well as one of the most recognized women artists in the history of art. Perhaps even more important, it had paid £3.6 million ($4.7 million), a sum more than three times the record previously set for an Artemisia at auction in the summer of 2014. That painting, the Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy (discussed below, see fig. 8), marked the first time more than $1 million had been spent on any work by Artemisia’s hand.
Art celebrity and market value: what is the connection?
To those unfamiliar with the workings of the art world, such a sum may seem de rigueur in a market where inexplicably large sums of money have been paid with increasing frequency. But in truth, although paintings created by male artists have routinely fetched multi-million-dollar prices for decades, the products of women artists’ labors have not realized such high prices. Artemisia Gentileschi enjoys widespread fame among art historians, museum curators, and college students. Art history surveys have, for several decades, made her a fixture in the teaching of baroque art. In 2001, when the Metropolitan Museum of Art showed the exhibition “Orazio and Artemisia Gentileschi: Father and Daughter Painters in Baroque Italy,” (a show for which I was the originating curator), visitors to the exhibition were asked which of the two painters they liked best. The response was almost three to one in favor of Artemisia. Yet, at that time the largest sum that had been paid for an Artemisia on the market had been less than $500,000 while one of her father’s paintings was offered for sale by a New York dealer with a price of $6,000,000. There was (and still is) a clear disconnect between Artemisia’s celebrity and the market value of her paintings.
One is tempted to explain this phenomenon by saying that Artemisia’s fame exists within a small segment of the public, making it unsurprising that her pictures are not highly valued in the art market. However, the “small segment” that encompasses Artemisia’s fans also includes dealers and auction houses. Furthermore, her father is also appreciated by only a “small segment,” and yet his prices continue to rise. In January 2016 the Getty secured a work by Orazio for over $34 million, only two years after an Artemisia picture finally surpassed the $1 million mark. It is hard to understand why it has taken such a long time for his daughter to fetch multi-million dollar prices, and harder still to fathom why her prices still lag far below those of less important male artists. I can offer no definitive explanation for this, other than to note that when it comes to women artists, the market is distressingly conservative and slow to match the prices paid at auction for art created by male artists. Nonetheless, the amount paid for the newest Artemisia is still something of a marker and we should savor the moment.
Artemisia’s early master works
Rather than puzzling over the art market, it is more worthwhile to enjoy these two marvelous paintings that have set record prices. When institutions set their sights on getting a work created by an artist with a famous name, there is often a temptation to settle for something of lesser quality. The National Gallery did not, in my estimation, do that. Rather, they pursued an outstanding example of Artemisia’s work, created during the very productive period that she spent in Florence.
Artemisia moved from Rome to Florence in 1612 or 1613, having married a minor Florentine artist in the aftermath of her rape and the subsequent trial of her assailant, Agostino Tassi. When the assault occurred in March of 1611, Artemisia had already created one of the masterpieces of the early baroque, her signed and dated (1610) rendition of Susanna and the Elders (fig. 2). During the period of the legal proceedings, she created two more early masterworks, the powerful Cleopatra (fig. 3) in a private Milanese collection and the subsequent reworking of the reclining nude figure in her Danaë (fig. 4) in the Saint Louis Art Museum.
The Danaë, a forthrightly erotic painting, exhibits a daring approach to imagery. It shows the heroine who had been locked away by her father because he feared that if she became pregnant, an oracle’s prophesy would be realized and the resulting offspring would kill her father. The god Zeus was able to find her nonetheless. Transforming himself into golden rain, he entered the locked chamber and impregnated her. Few artists had addressed the nature of their coupling so directly; the gold coins pile up on Danaë’s pubic area. Some seem to have been forcefully pushed between her fingers, a fitting and obvious visual metaphor. Crafted by a female hand, such a sensuous picture must have provided additional pleasure to its original owner, very probably a male patron.
Original renditions of Saint Catherine
The newly discovered Artemisia (fig.1) displays a similar ability to infuse her art with fresh originality. In this case, the artist repeated a composition that she had already done, Saint Catherine (fig. 5). That work depicted the popular early Christian martyr Catherine of Alexandria, a princess whose oratorical victory over the Roman emperor in support of her Christian belief resulted in torture and eventual beheading. Artemisia’s initial rendering showed the saint in a sumptuous crown and costume, holding a martyr’s palm and fingering the spikes of the wheel used to inflict her suffering. She gazes heavenward to suggest the source of her faith.
In refashioning the composition in the National Gallery picture, Artemisia modified the pose, repeating one that she developed for a self-portrait. In that picture, Self-Portrait as a Lute Player (fig. 6), she depicted herself gazing steadfastly at the viewer while strumming a lute. Her hair has been curled and she wears earrings and a turban. I have suggested she may have been presenting herself as a courtesan. Even if we can’t confirm that she intended such a brazen act, it is certainly a work in which she took on a persona other than that of an artist.
In the new painting (fig. 1), Artemisia adopted the pose and gaze of the Self-Portrait and then added the trappings of the Saint Catherine. She supplemented them with a halo and loosened the turban so it drapes over the crown. One can only take it to be a self-conscious presentation of artifice and role-playing. Using her own countenance, she has suggested three different aspects of the image, princess (the crown), saint (the halo) and artist (the studio prop sash). We are to understand this perhaps as a commentary on the artist as creator and role player, making it a novel presentation by a creative practitioner.
A new take on Mary Magdalene
The Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy is similarly inventive. Artemisia offered a new interpretation of a popular subject. For a large portion of seventeenth-century artists and viewers, Mary represented a repenting sinner who became a devoted follower of Jesus. Her experience is often portrayed as a dramatic rejection of an errant past and the embrace of a pious future. These themes were most expediently depicted through a flood of heavenly light falling over the penitent saint. Seventeenth-century artists typically portrayed Mary’s chest, face, arms, torso, and hair radiant with glowing coloration. Titian produced some of the most eloquent renditions of the type, where the strands of the saint’s golden hair and the threads of her clothing enhance the sense of a luminous divine presence (fig. 7).
Presented as a half-figure with a sensuous body and luxuriant hair, Mary usually clasped her hands in prayer or touched a symbol (most often a skull or a book). These tangible elements evidence both the physical world of sin (Adam’s skull) as well as the promise of an eternal life through meditation and prayer (the book).
What is unusual in Artemisia’s Mary Magdalene painting (fig. 8) is the presentation of a figure in full command, luxuriating in deep personal satisfaction. The source of her pleasure is not made clear, although one can speculate. She contemplates no specific object—neither a skull, nor a crucifix, nor a text. Her ointment bottle, a traditional attribute, is not depicted, and she does not direct her gaze at some unseen heavenly force. There are no signs of emotional turmoil. Her clasped hands express neither prayer nor earthly renunciation; she merely embraces her knees as she pulls them toward her torso. Presumably, she is bathed in the light of spiritual enlightenment; Artemisia has presented her in her post-conversion state, completely at peace with her newfound path. This is an entirely original interpretation, and one that bespeaks an artist of exceptional narrative talent.
Market values for Artemisia Gentileschi paintings do not tell the full story. The new work that has recently been added to her oeuvre buttresses our sense of her as a daring and original artist, valuable no matter how high (or low) the price.
Dr. Judith W. Mann is Curator of European Art to 1800 at the Saint Louis Art Museum. She was the originating curator for the 2001–2002 exhibition “Orazio and Artemisia Gentileschi: Father and Daughter Painters of Baroque Italy,” and oversaw the portion of the catalogue devoted to Artemisia. She was one of the curators for the 2016–17 show, “Artemisia e il Suo Tempo” at the Palazzo Braschi, Rome. In 2005, she edited and contributed to Artemisia Gentileschi: Taking Stock, and she continues to publish on the artist. In 2018, she acquired a portrait by Angelica Kauffmann, Woman in Turkish Dress, for the Saint Louis Art Museum.
More Art Herstory blog posts about Italian women artists:
Orsola Maddalena Caccia (1596-1676), Convent Artist, by Dr. Angela Ghirardi
A Tale of Two Women Painters, Guest post / exhibition review by Natasha Moura
The Protofeminist Insects of Giovanna Garzoni and Maria Sibylla Merian (Guest post by Prof. Emma Steinkraus)
Renaissance Women Painting Themselves (Guest Post by Dr. Katherine A. McIver)
Other Art Herstory posts you might enjoy:
Susanna Horenbout, Artist & Courtier, by Dr. Kathleen E. Kennedy
Gesina ter Borch: Artist, not Amateur (Guest post by Dr. Nicole E. Cook)
Hearts of Our People: Native Women Artists (Guest post by Dr. Elizabeth Sutton)
‘Bright Souls’: A London Exhibition Celebrating Mary Beale, Joan Carlile, and Anne Killigrew (Guest post by Dr. Laura Gowing)
New Adventures in Teaching Art Herstory (Guest post by Dr. Julia Dabbs)
Why Do Old Mistresses Matter Today? (Guest Post by Dr. Merry Wiesner-Hanks)