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Florentine painting between Giotto and Michelangelo contains the names of such artists as Orcagna, Masaccio, Fra Filippo, Pollaiuolo, Verrocchio, Leonardo, and Botticelli. Put beside these the greatest names in Venetian art, the Vivarini, the Bellini, Giorgione, Titian, and Tintoret. The difference is striking. The significance of the Venetian names is exhausted with their significance as painters. Not so with the Florentines. Forget that they were painters, they remain great sculptors; forget that they were sculptors, and still they remain architects, poets, and even men of science. They left no form of expression untried, and to none could they say, “This will perfectly convey my meaning.” Painting, therefore, offers but a partial and not always the most adequate manifestation of their personality, and we feel the artist as greater than his work, and the man as soaring above the artist.
[Page heading: MANYSIDEDNESS of the painters]
The immense superiority of the artist even to his greatest achievement in any one art form, means that his personality was but slightly determined by the particular art in question, that he tended to mould it rather than let it shape him. It would be absurd, therefore, to treat the Florentine painter as a mere link between two points in a necessary evolution. The history of the art of Florence never can be, as that of Venice, the study of a placid development. Each man of genius brought to bear upon his art a great intellect, which, never condescending merely to please, was tirelessly striving to reincarnate what it comprehended of life in forms that would fitly convey it to others; and in this endeavour each man of genius was necessarily compelled to create forms essentially his own. But because Florentine painting was pre-eminently an art formed by great personalities, it grappled with problems of the highest interest, and offered solutions that can never lose their value. What they aimed at, and what they attained, is the subject of the following essay.
The first of the great personalities in Florentine painting was Giotto. Although he affords no exception to the rule that the great Florentines exploited all the arts in the endeavour to express themselves, he, Giotto, renowned as architect and sculptor, reputed as wit and versifier, differed from most of his Tuscan successors in having peculiar aptitude for the essential in painting as an art.
But before we can appreciate his real value, we must come to an agreement as to what in the art of figure-painting—the craft has its own altogether diverse laws—is the essential; for figure-painting, we may say at once, was not only the one pre-occupation of Giotto, but the dominant interest of the entire Florentine school.
[Page heading: Imagination of touch]
Psychology has ascertained that sight alone gives us no accurate sense of the third dimension. In our infancy, long before we are conscious of the process, the sense of touch, helped on by muscular sensations of movement, teaches us to appreciate depth, the third dimension, both in objects and in space.
In the same unconscious years we learn to make of touch, of the third dimension, the test of reality. The child is still dimly aware of the intimate connection between touch and the third dimension. He cannot persuade himself of the unreality of Looking-Glass Land until he has touched the back of the mirror. Later, we entirely forget the connection, although it remains true, that every time our eyes recognise reality, we are, as a matter of fact, giving tactile values to retinal impressions.
Now, painting is an art which aims at giving an abiding impression of artistic reality with only two dimensions. The painter must, therefore, do consciously what we all do unconsciously,—construct his third dimension. And he can accomplish his task only as we accomplish ours, by giving tactile values to retinal impressions. His first business, therefore, is to rouse the tactile sense, for I must have the illusion of being able to touch a figure, I must have the illusion of varying muscular sensations inside my palm and fingers corresponding to the various projections of this figure, before I shall take it for granted as real, and let it affect me lastingly.
It follows that the essential in the art of painting—as distinguished from the art of colouring, I beg the reader to observe—is somehow to stimulate our consciousness of tactile values, so that the picture shall have at least as much power as the object represented, to appeal to our tactile imagination.
[Page heading: Giotto]
Well, it was of the power to stimulate the tactile consciousness—of the essential, as I have ventured to call it, in the art of painting—that Giotto was supreme master. This is his everlasting claim to greatness, and it is this which will make him a source of highest aesthetic delight for a period at least as long as decipherable traces of his handiwork remain on mouldering panel or crumbling wall. For great though he was as a poet, enthralling as a story-teller, splendid and majestic as a composer, he was in these qualities superior in degree only, to many of the masters who painted in various parts of Europe during the thousand years that intervened between the decline of antique, and the birth, in his own person, of modern painting. But none of these masters had the power to stimulate the tactile imagination, and, consequently, they never painted a figure which has artistic existence. Their works have value, if at all, as highly elaborate, very intelligible symbols, capable, indeed, of communicating something, but losing all higher value the moment the message is delivered.
Giotto’s paintings, on the contrary, have not only as much power of appealing to the tactile imagination as is possessed by the objects represented—human figures in particular—but actually more, with the necessary result that to his contemporaries they conveyed a keener sense of reality, of life-likeness than the objects themselves! We whose current knowledge of anatomy is greater, who expect more articulation and suppleness in the human figure, who, in short, see much less naively now than Giotto’s contemporaries, no longer find his paintings more than life-like; but we still feel them to be intensely real in the sense that they still powerfully appeal to our tactile imagination, thereby compelling us, as do all things that stimulate our sense of touch while they present themselves to our eyes, to take their existence for granted. And it is only when we can take for granted the existence of the object painted that it can begin to give us pleasure that is genuinely artistic, as separated from the interest we feel in symbols.
[Page heading: Analysis of enjoyment of painting]
At the risk of seeming to wander off into the boundless domain of aesthetics, we must stop at this point for a moment to make sure that we are of one mind regarding the meaning of the phrase “artistic pleasure,” in so far at least as it is used in connection with painting.
What is the point at which ordinary pleasures pass over into the specific pleasures derived from each one of the arts? Our judgment about the merits of any given work of art depends to a large extent upon our answer to this question. Those who have not yet differentiated the specific pleasures of the art of painting from the pleasures they derive from the art of literature, will be likely to fall into the error of judging the picture by its dramatic presentation of a situation or its rendering of character; will, in short, demand of the painting that it shall be in the first place a good illustration. Those others who seek in painting what is usually sought in music, the communication of a pleasurable state of emotion, will prefer pictures which suggest pleasant associations, nice people, refined amusements, agreeable landscapes. In many cases this lack of clearness is of comparatively slight importance, the given picture containing all these pleasure-giving elements in addition to the qualities peculiar to the art of painting. But in the case of the Florentines, the distinction is of vital consequence, for they have been the artists in Europe who have most resolutely set themselves to work upon the specific problems of the art of figure-painting, and have neglected, more than any other school, to call to their aid the secondary pleasures of association. With them the issue is clear. If we wish to appreciate their merit, we are forced to disregard the desire for pretty or agreeable types, dramatically interpreted situations,
Now in what way, we ask, can form in painting give me a sensation of pleasure which differs from the ordinary sensations I receive from form? How is it that an object whose recognition in nature may have given me no pleasure, becomes, when recognised in a picture, a source of aesthetic enjoyment, or that recognition pleasurable in nature becomes an enhanced pleasure the moment it is transferred to art? The answer, I believe, depends upon the fact that art stimulates to an unwonted activity psychical processes which are in themselves the source of most (if not all) of our pleasures, and which here, free from disturbing physical sensations, never tend to pass over into pain. For instance: I am in the habit of realising a given object with an intensity that we shall value as 2. If I suddenly realise this familiar object with an intensity of 4, I receive the immediate pleasure which accompanies a doubling of my mental activity. But the pleasure rarely stops here. Those who are capable of receiving direct pleasure from a work of art, are generally led on to the further pleasures of self-consciousness. The fact that the psychical process of recognition goes forward with the unusual intensity of 4 to 2, overwhelms them with the sense of having twice the capacity they had credited themselves with: their whole personality is enhanced, and, being aware that this enhancement is connected with the object in question, they for some time after take not only an increased interest in it, but continue to realise it with the new intensity. Precisely this is what form does in painting: it lends a higher coefficient of reality to the object represented, with the consequent enjoyment of accelerated psychical processes, and the exhilarating sense of increased capacity in the observer. (Hence, by the way, the greater pleasure we take in the object painted than in itself.)
And it happens thus. We remember that to realise form we must give tactile values to retinal sensations. Ordinarily we have considerable difficulty in skimming off these tactile values, and by the time they have reached our consciousness, they have lost much of their strength. Obviously, the artist who gives us these values more rapidly than the object itself gives them, gives us the pleasures consequent upon a more vivid realisation of the object, and the further pleasures that come from the sense of greater psychical capacity.
Furthermore, the stimulation of our tactile imagination awakens our consciousness of the importance of the tactile sense in our physical and mental functioning, and thus, again, by making us feel better provided for life than we were aware of being, gives us a heightened sense of capacity. And this brings us back once more to the statement that the chief business of the figure painter, as an artist, is to stimulate the tactile imagination.
The proportions of this small book forbid me to develop further a theme, the adequate treatment of which would require more than the entire space at my command. I must be satisfied with the crude and unillumined exposition given already, allowing myself this further word only, that I do not mean to imply that we get no pleasure from a picture except the tactile satisfaction. On the contrary, we get much pleasure from composition, more from colour, and perhaps more still from movement, to say nothing of all the possible associative pleasures for which every work of art is the occasion. What I do wish to say is that unless it satisfies our tactile imagination, a picture will not exert the fascination of an ever-heightened reality; first we shall exhaust its ideas, and then its power of appealing to our emotions, and its “beauty” will not seem more significant at the thousandth look than at the first.
My need of dwelling upon this subject at all, I must repeat, arises from the fact that although this principle is important indeed in other schools, it is all-important in the Florentine school. Without its due appreciation it would be impossible to do justice to Florentine painting. We should lose ourselves in admiration of its “teaching,” or perchance of its historical importance—as if historical importance were synonymous with artistic significance!—but we should never realise what artistic idea haunted the minds of its great men, and never understand why at a date so early it became academic.
[Page heading: GIOTTO AND VALUES OF TOUCH]
Let us now turn back to Giotto and see in what way he fulfils the first condition of painting as an art, which condition, as we agreed, is somehow to stimulate our tactile imagination. We shall understand this without difficulty if we cover with the same glance two pictures of nearly the same subject that hang side by side in the Florence Academy, one by “Cimabue,” and the other by Giotto. The difference is striking, but it does not consist so much in a difference of pattern and types, as of realisation. In the “Cimabue” we patiently decipher the lines and colours, and we conclude at last that they were intended to represent a woman seated, men and angels standing by or kneeling. To recognise these representations we have had to make many times the effort that the actual objects would have required, and in consequence our feeling of capacity has not only not been confirmed, but actually put in question. With what sense of relief, of rapidly rising vitality, we turn to the Giotto! Our eyes scarcely have had time to light on it before we realise it completely—the throne occupying a real space, the Virgin satisfactorily seated upon it, the angels grouped in rows about it. Our tactile imagination is put to play immediately. Our palms and fingers accompany our eyes much more quickly than in presence of real objects, the sensations varying constantly with the various projections represented, as of face, torso, knees; confirming in every way our feeling of capacity for coping with things,—for life, in short. I care little that the picture endowed with the gift of evoking such feelings has faults, that the types represented do not correspond to my ideal of beauty, that the figures are too massive, and almost unarticulated; I forgive them all, because I have much better to do than to dwell upon faults.
But how does Giotto accomplish this miracle? With the simplest means, with almost rudimentary light and shade, and functional line, he contrives to render, out of all the possible outlines, out of all the possible variations of light and shade that a given figure may have, only those that we must isolate for special attention when we are actually realising it. This determines his types, his schemes of colour, even his compositions. He aims at types which both in face and figure are simple, large-boned, and massive,—types, that is to say, which in actual life would furnish the most powerful stimulus to the tactile imagination. Obliged to get the utmost out of his rudimentary light and shade, he makes his scheme of colour of the lightest that his contrasts may be of the strongest. In his compositions, he aims at clearness of grouping, so that each important figure may have its desired tactile value. Note in the “Madonna” we have been looking at, how the shadows compel us to realise every concavity, and the lights every convexity, and how, with the play of the two, under the guidance of line, we realise the significant parts of each figure, whether draped or undraped. Nothing here but has its architectonic reason. Above all, every line is functional; that is to say, charged with purpose. Its existence, its direction, is absolutely determined by the need of rendering the tactile values. Follow any line here, say in the figure of the angel kneeling to the left, and see how it outlines and models, how it enables you to realise the head, the torso, the hips, the legs, the feet, and how its direction, its tension, is always determined by the action. There is not a genuine fragment of Giotto in existence but has these qualities, and to such a degree that the worst treatment has not been able to spoil them. Witness the resurrected frescoes in Santa Croce at Florence!
[Page heading: SYMBOLISM OF GIOTTO]
The rendering of tactile values once recognised as the most important specifically artistic quality of Giotto’s work, and as his personal contribution to the art of painting, we are all the better fitted to appreciate his more obvious though less peculiar merits—merits, I must add, which would seem far less extraordinary if it were not for the high plane of reality on which Giotto keeps us. Now what is back of this power of raising us to a higher plane of reality but a genius for grasping and communicating real significance? What is it to render the tactile values of an object but to communicate its material significance? A painter who, after generations of mere manufacturers of symbols, illustrations, and allegories had the power to render the material significance of the objects he painted, must, as a man, have had a profound sense of the significant. No matter, then, what his theme, Giotto feels its real significance and communicates as much of it as the general limitations of his art, and of his own skill permit. When the theme is sacred story,
[Page heading: GIOTTO]
Still another exemplification of his sense for the significant is furnished by his treatment of action and movement. The grouping, the gestures never fail to be just such as will most rapidly convey the meaning. So with the significant line, the significant light and shade, the significant look up or down, and the significant gesture, with means technically of the simplest, and, be it remembered, with no knowledge of anatomy, Giotto conveys a complete sense of motion such as we get in his Paduan frescoes of the “Resurrection of the Blessed,” of the “Ascension of our Lord,” of the God the Father in the “Baptism,” or the angel in “Zacharias’ Dream.”
This, then, is Giotto’s claim to everlasting appreciation as an artist: that his thorough-going sense for the significant in the visible world enabled him so to represent things that we realise his representations more quickly and more completely than we should realise the things themselves, thus giving us that confirmation of our sense of capacity which is so great a source of pleasure.
[Page heading: FOLLOWERS OF GIOTTO]
For a hundred years after Giotto there appeared in Florence no painter equally endowed with dominion over the significant. His immediate followers so little understood the essence of his power that some thought it resided in his massive types, others in the swiftness of his line, and still others in his light colour, and it never occurred to any of them that the massive form without its material significance, its tactile values, is a shapeless sack, that the line which is not functional is mere calligraphy, and that light colour by itself can at the best spot a surface prettily. The better of them felt their inferiority, but knew no remedy, and all worked busily, copying and distorting Giotto, until they and the public were heartily tired. A change at all costs became necessary, and it was very simple when it came. “Why grope about for the significant, when the obvious is at hand? Let me paint the obvious; the obvious always pleases,” said some clever innovator. So he painted the obvious,—pretty clothes, pretty faces, and trivial action, with the results foreseen: he pleased then, and he pleases still. Crowds still flock to the Spanish chapel in S. Maria Novella to celebrate the triumph of the obvious, and non-significant. Pretty faces, pretty colour, pretty clothes, and trivial action! Is there a single figure in the fresco representing the “Triumph of St. Thomas” which incarnates the idea it symbolises, which, without its labelling instrument, would convey any meaning whatever? One pretty woman holds a globe and sword, and I am required to feel the majesty of empire; another has painted over her pretty clothes a bow and arrow, which are supposed to rouse me to a sense of the terrors of war; a third has an organ on what was intended to be her knee, and the sight of this instrument must suffice to put me into the ecstasies of heavenly music; still another pretty lady has her arm akimbo, and if you want to know what edification she can bring, you must read her scroll. Below these pretty women sit a number of men looking as worthy as clothes and beards can make them; one highly dignified old gentleman gazes with all his heart and all his soul at—the point of his quill. The same lack of significance, the same obviousness characterise the fresco representing the “Church Militant and Triumphant.” What more obvious symbol for the Church than a church? what more significant of St. Dominic than the refuted Paynim philosopher who (with a movement, by the way, as obvious as it is clever) tears out a leaf from his own book? And I have touched only on the value of these frescoes as allegories. Not to speak of the emptiness of the one and the confusion of the other, as compositions, there is not a figure in either which has tactile values,—that is to say, artistic existence.
While I do not mean to imply that painting between Giotto and Masaccio existed in vain—on the contrary, considerable progress was made in the direction of landscape, perspective, and facial expression,—it is true that, excepting the works of two men, no masterpieces of art were produced. These two, one coming in the middle of the period we have been dwelling upon, and the other just at its close, were Andrea Orcagna and Fra Angelico.
[Page heading: ORCAGNA]
Of Orcagna it is difficult to speak, as only a single fairly intact painting of his remains, the altar-piece in S. Maria Novella. Here he reveals himself as a man of considerable endowment: as in Giotto, we have tactile values, material significance; the figures artistically exist. But while this painting betrays no peculiar feeling for beauty of face and expression, the frescoes in the same chapel, the one in particular representing Paradise, have faces full of charm and grace. I am tempted to believe that we have here a happy improvement made by the recent restorer. But what these mural paintings must always have had is real artistic existence, great dignity of slow but rhythmic movement, and splendid grouping. They still convince us of their high purpose. On the other hand, we are disappointed in Orcagna’s sculptured tabernacle at Or Sammichele, where the feeling for both material and spiritual significance is much lower.
[Page heading: FRA ANGELICO]
We are happily far better situated toward Fra Angelico, enough of whose works have come down to us to reveal not only his quality as an artist, but his character as a man. Perfect certainty of purpose, utter devotion to his task, a sacramental earnestness in performing it, are what the quantity and quality of his work together proclaim. It is true that Giotto’s profound feeling for either the materially or the spiritually significant was denied him—and there is no possible compensation for the difference; but although his sense for the real was weaker, it yet extended to fields which Giotto had not touched. Like all the supreme artists, Giotto had no inclination to concern himself with his attitude toward the significant, with his feelings about it; the grasping and presentation of it sufficed him. In the weaker personality, the significant, vaguely perceived, is converted into emotion, is merely felt, and not realised. Over this realm of feeling Fra Angelico was the first great master. “God’s in his heaven—all’s right with the world” he felt with an intensity which prevented him from perceiving evil anywhere. When he was obliged to portray it, his imagination failed him and he became a mere child; his hells are bogy-land; his martyrdoms are enacted by children solemnly playing at martyr and executioner; and he nearly spoils one of the most impressive scenes ever painted—the great “Crucifixion” at San Marco—with the childish violence of St. Jerome’s tears. But upon the picturing of blitheness, of ecstatic confidence in God’s loving care, he lavished all the resources of his art. Nor were they small. To a power of rendering tactile values, to a sense for the significant in composition, inferior, it is true, to Giotto’s, but superior to the qualifications of any intervening painter, Fra Angelico added the charm of great facial beauty, the interest of vivid expression, the attraction of delicate colour. What in the whole world of
[Page heading: MASACCIO]
Giotto born again, starting where death had cut short his advance, instantly making his own all that had been gained during his absence, and profiting by the new conditions, the new demands—imagine such an avatar, and you will understand Masaccio.
Giotto we know already, but what were the new conditions, the new demands? The mediaeval skies had been torn asunder and a new heaven and a new earth had appeared, which the abler spirits were already inhabiting and enjoying. Here new interests and new values prevailed. The thing of sovereign price was the power to subdue and to create; of sovereign interest all that helped man to know the world he was living in and his power over it. To the artist the change offered a field of the freest activity. It is always his business to reveal to an age its ideals. But what room was there for sculpture and painting,—arts whose first purpose it is to make us realise the material significance of things—in a period like the Middle Ages, when the human body was denied all intrinsic significance? In such an age the figure artist can thrive, as Giotto did, only in spite of it, and as an isolated phenomenon. In the Renaissance, on the contrary, the figure artist had a demand made on him such as had not been made since the great Greek days, to reveal to a generation believing in man’s power to subdue and to possess the world, the physical types best fitted for the task. And as this demand was imperative and constant, not one, but a hundred Italian artists arose, able each in his own way to meet it,—in their combined achievement, rivalling the art of the Greeks.
In sculpture Donatello had already given body to the new ideals when Masaccio began his brief career, and in the education, the awakening, of the younger artist the example of the elder must have been of incalculable force. But a type gains vastly in significance by being presented in some action along with other individuals of the same type; and here Donatello was apt, rather than to draw his meed of profit, to incur loss by descending to the obvious—witness his bas-reliefs at Siena, Florence, and Padua. Masaccio was untouched by this taint. Types, in themselves of the manliest, he presents with a sense for the materially significant which makes us realise to the utmost their power and dignity; and the spiritual significance thus gained he uses to give the highest import to the event he is portraying; this import, in turn, gives a higher value to the types, and thus, whether we devote our attention to his types or to his action, Masaccio keeps us on a high plane of reality and significance. In later painting we shall easily find greater science, greater craft, and greater perfection of detail, but greater reality, greater significance, I venture to say, never. Dust-bitten and ruined though his Brancacci Chapel frescoes now are, I never see them without the strongest stimulation of my tactile consciousness. I feel that I could touch every figure, that it would yield a definite resistance to my touch, that I should have to expend thus much effort to displace it, that I could walk around it. In short, I scarcely could realise it more, and in real life I should scarcely realise it so well, the attention of each of us being too apt to concentrate itself upon some dynamic quality, before we have at all begun to realise the full material significance of the person before us. Then what strength to his young men, and what gravity and power to his old! How quickly a race like this would possess itself of the earth, and brook no rivals but the forces of nature! Whatever they do—simply because it is they—is impressive and important, and every movement, every gesture, is world-changing. Compared with his figures, those in the same chapel by his precursor, Masolino, are childish, and those by his follower, Filippino, unconvincing and without significance, because without tactile values. Even Michelangelo, where he comes in rivalry, has, for both reality and significance, to take a second place. Compare his “Expulsion from Paradise” (in the Sixtine Chapel) with the one here by Masaccio. Michelangelo’s figures are more correct, but far less tangible and less powerful; and while he represents nothing but a man warding off a blow dealt from a sword, and a woman cringing with ignoble fear, Masaccio’s Adam and Eve stride away from Eden heart-broken with shame and grief, hearing, perhaps, but not seeing, the angel hovering high overhead who directs their exiled footsteps.
Masaccio, then, like Giotto a century earlier,—himself the Giotto of an artistically more propitious world—was, as an artist, a great master of the significant, and, as a painter, endowed to the highest degree with a sense of tactile values, and with a skill in rendering them. In a career of but few years he gave to Florentine painting the direction it pursued to the end. In many ways he reminds us of the young Bellini. Who knows? Had he but lived as long, he might have laid the foundation for a painting not less delightful and far more profound than that of Venice. As it was, his frescoes at once became, and for as long as there were real artists among them remained, the training-school of Florentine painters.
Masaccio’s death left Florentine painting in the hands of three men older, and two somewhat younger than himself, all men of great talent, if not of genius, each of whom—the former to the extent habits already formed would permit, the latter overwhelmingly, felt his influence. The older, who, but for Masaccio, would themselves have been the sole determining personalities in their art, were Fra Angelico, Paolo Uccello, and Andrea del Castagno; the younger, Domenico Veneziano and Fra Filippo. As these were the men who for a whole generation after Masaccio’s death remained at the head of their craft, forming the taste of the public, and communicating their habits and aspirations to their pupils, we at this point can scarcely do better than try to get some notion of each of them and of the general art tendencies they represented.
[Page heading: PAOLO UCCELLO]
Fra Angelico we know already as the painter who devoted his life to picturing the departing mediaeval vision of a heaven upon earth. Nothing could have been farther from the purpose of Uccello and Castagno. Different as these two were from each other, they have this much in common, that in their works which remain to us, dating, it is true, from their years of maturity, there is no touch of mediaeval sentiment, no note of transition. As artists they belonged entirely to the new era, and they stand at the beginning of the Renaissance as types of two tendencies which were to prevail in Florence throughout the whole of the fifteenth century, partly supplementing and partly undoing the teaching of Masaccio.
Uccello had a sense of tactile values and a feeling for colour, but in so far as he used these gifts at all, it was to illustrate scientific problems. His real passion was perspective, and painting was to him a mere occasion for solving some problem in this science, and displaying his mastery over its difficulties. Accordingly he composed pictures in which he contrived to get as many lines as possible leading the eye inward. Prostrate horses, dead or dying cavaliers, broken lances, ploughed fields, Noah’s arks, are used by him with scarcely an attempt at disguise, to serve his scheme of mathematically
[Page heading: ART FOR DEXTERITY’S SAKE]
The essential in painting, especially in figure-painting, is, we agreed, the rendering of the tactile values of the forms represented, because by this means, and this alone, can the art make us realise forms better than we do in life. The great painter, then, is, above all, an artist with a great sense of tactile values and great skill in rendering them. Now this sense, though it will increase as the man is revealed to himself, is something which the great painter possesses at the start, so that he is scarcely, if at all, aware of possessing it. His conscious effort is given to the means of rendering. It is of means of rendering, therefore, that he talks to others; and, because his triumphs here are hard-earned and conscious, it is on his skill in rendering that he prides himself. The greater the painter, the less likely he is to be aware of aught else in his art than problems of rendering—but all the while he is communicating what the force of his genius makes him feel without his striving for it, almost without his being aware of it, the material and spiritual significance of forms. However—his intimates hear him talk of nothing but skill; he seems to think of nothing but skill; and naturally they, and the entire public, conclude that his skill is
[Page heading: NATURALISM IN ART]
What is a Naturalist? I venture upon the following definition:—A man with a native gift for science who has taken to art. His purpose is not to extract the material and spiritual significance of objects, thus communicating them to us more rapidly and intensely than we should perceive them ourselves, and thereby giving us a sense of heightened vitality; his purpose is research, and his communication consists of nothing but facts. From this perhaps too abstract statement let us take refuge in an example already touched upon—the figure of the Almighty in Uccello’s “Sacrifice of Noah.” Instead of presenting this figure as coming toward us in an attitude and with an expression that will appeal to our sense of solemnity, as a man whose chief interest was artistic would have done—as Giotto, in fact, did in his “Baptism”—Uccello seems to have been possessed with nothing but the scientific intention to find out how a man swooping down head-foremost would have looked if at a given
[Page heading: ANDREA DEL CASTAGNO]
Uccello, as I have said, was the first representative of two strong tendencies in Florentine painting—of art for dexterity’s sake, and art for scientific purposes. Andrea del Castagno, while also unable to resist the fascination of mere science and dexterity, had too much artistic genius to succumb to either. He was endowed with great sense for the significant, although, it is true, not enough to save him completely from the pitfalls which beset all Florentines, and even less from one more peculiar to himself—the tendency to communicate at any cost a feeling of power. To make us feel power as Masaccio and Michelangelo do at their best is indeed an achievement, but it requires the highest genius and the profoundest sense for the significant. The moment this sense is at all lacking, the artist will not succeed in conveying power, but such obvious manifestations of it as mere strength, or, worse still, the insolence not infrequently accompanying high spirits. Now Castagno, who succeeds well enough in one or two such single figures as his Cumaean Sibyl or his Farinata degli Uberti, which have great, if not the greatest, power, dignity, and even beauty, elsewhere condescends to mere swagger,—as in his Pipo Spano or Niccolo di Tolentino—or to mere strength, as in his “Last Supper,” or, worse still, to actual brutality, as in his Santa Maria Nuova “Crucifixion.” Nevertheless, his few remaining works lead us to suspect in him the greatest artist, and the most influential personality among the painters of the first generation after Masaccio.
[Page heading: DOMENICO VENEZIANO]
To distinguish clearly, after the lapse of nearly five centuries, between Uccello and Castagno, and to determine the precise share each had in the formation of the Florentine school, is already a task fraught with difficulties. The scantiness of his remaining works makes it more than difficult, makes it almost impossible, to come to accurate conclusions regarding the character and influence of their somewhat younger contemporary, Domenico Veneziano. That he was an innovator in technique, in affairs of vehicle and medium, we know from Vasari; but as such innovations, indispensable though they may become to painting as a craft, are in themselves questions of theoretic and applied chemistry, and not of art, they do not here concern us. His artistic achievements seem to have consisted in giving to the figure movement and expression, and to the face individuality. In his existing works we find no trace of sacrifice made to dexterity and naturalism, although it is clear that he must have been master of whatever science and whatever craft were prevalent in his day. Otherwise he would not have been able to render a figure like the St. Francis in his Uffizi altar-piece, where tactile values and movement expressive of character—what we usually call individual gait—were perhaps for the first time combined; or to attain to such triumphs as his St. John and St. Francis, at Santa Croce, whose entire figures express as much fervour as their eloquent faces. As to his sense for the significant in the individual, in other words, his power as a portrait-painter, we have in the Pitti one or two heads to witness, perhaps, the first great achievements in this kind of the Renaissance.
[Page heading: FRA FILIPPO LIPPI]
No such difficulties as we have encountered in the study of Uccello, Castagno, and Veneziano meet us as we turn to Fra Filippo. His works are still copious, and many of them are admirably preserved; we therefore have every facility for judging him as an artist, yet nothing is harder than to appreciate him at his due. If attractiveness, and attractiveness of the best kind, sufficed to make a great artist, then Filippo would be one of the greatest, greater perhaps than any other Florentine before Leonardo. Where shall we find faces more winsome, more appealing, than in certain of his Madonnas—the one in the Uffizi, for instance—more momentarily evocative of noble feeling than in his Louvre altar-piece? Where in Florentine painting is there anything more fascinating than the playfulness of his children, more poetic than one or two of his landscapes, more charming than is at times his colour? And with all this, health, even robustness, and almost unfailing good-humour! Yet by themselves all these qualities constitute only a high-class illustrator, and such by native endowment I believe Fra Filippo to have been.
[Page heading: NATURALISM IN FLORENTINE ART]
From the brief account just given of the four dominant personalities in Florentine painting from about 1430 to about 1460, it results that the leanings of the school during this interval were not artistic and artistic alone, but that there were other tendencies as well, tendencies on the one side, toward the expression of emotion (scarcely less literary because in form and colour than if in words), and, on the other, toward the naturalistic reproduction of objects. We have also noted that while the former tendency was represented by Filippo alone, the latter had Paolo Uccello, and all of Castagno and Veneziano that the genius of these two men would permit them to sacrifice to naturalism and science. To the extent, however, that they took sides and were conscious of a distinct purpose, these also sided with Uccello and not with Filippo. It may be agreed, therefore, that the main current of Florentine painting for a generation after Masaccio was naturalistic, and that consequently the impact given to the younger painters who during this period were starting, was mainly toward naturalism. Later, in studying Botticelli, we shall see how difficult it was for any one young at the time to escape this tide, even if by temperament farthest removed from scientific interests.
Meanwhile we must continue our study of the naturalists, but now of the second generation. Their number and importance from 1460 to 1490 is not alone due to the fact that art education toward the beginning of this epoch was mainly naturalistic, but also to the real needs of a rapidly advancing craft, and even more to the character of the Florentine mind, the dominant turn of which was to science and not to art. But as there were then no professions scientific in the stricter sense of the word, and as art of some form was the pursuit of a considerable proportion of the male inhabitants of Florence, it happened inevitably that many a lad with the natural capacities of a Galileo was in early boyhood apprenticed as an artist. And as he never acquired ordinary methods of scientific expression, and never had time for occupations not bread-winning, he was obliged his life long to make of his art both the subject of his strong instinctive interest in science, and the vehicle of conveying his knowledge to others.
[Page heading: ALESSIO BALDOVINETTI]
This was literally the case with the oldest among the leaders of the new generation, Alessio Baldovinetti, in whose scanty remaining works no trace of purely artistic feeling or interest can be discerned; and it is only less true of Alessio’s somewhat younger, but far more gifted contemporaries, Antonio Pollaiuolo and Andrea Verrocchio. These also we should scarcely suspect of being more than men of science, if Pollaiuolo once or twice, and Verrocchio more frequently, did not dazzle us with works of almost supreme art, which, but for our readiness to believe in the manifold possibilities of Florentine genius, we should with exceeding difficulty accept as their creation—so little do they seem to result from their conscious striving. Alessio’s attention being largely devoted to problems of vehicle—to the side of painting which is scarcely superior to cookery—he had time for little else, although that spare time he gave to the study of landscape, in the rendering of which he was among the innovators. Andrea and Antonio set themselves the much worthier task of increasing on every side the effectiveness of the figure arts, of which, sculpture no less than painting, they aimed to be masters.
[Page heading: POLLAIUOLO AND VERROCCHIO]
To confine ourselves, however, as closely as we may to painting, and leaving aside for the present the question of colour, which, as I have already said, is, in Florentine art, of entirely subordinate importance, there were three directions in which painting as Pollaiuolo and Verrocchio found it had greatly to advance before it could attain its maximum of effectiveness: landscape, movement, and the nude. Giotto had attempted none of these. The nude, of course, he scarcely touched; movement he suggested admirably, but never rendered; and in landscape he was satisfied with indications hardly more than symbolical, although quite adequate to his purpose, which was to confine
[Page heading: REPRESENTATION OF MOVEMENT]
Turning our attention first to movement—which, by the way, is not the same as motion, mere change of place—we find that we realise it just as we realise objects, by the stimulation of our tactile imagination, only that here touch retires to a second place before the muscular feelings of varying pressure and strain. I see (to take an example) two men wrestling, but unless my retinal impressions are immediately translated into images of strain and pressure in my muscles, of resistance to my weight, of touch all over my body, it means nothing to me in terms of vivid experience—not more, perhaps, than if I heard some one say “Two men are wrestling.” Although a wrestling match may, in fact, contain many genuinely artistic elements, our enjoyment of it can never be quite artistic; we are prevented from completely realising it not only by our dramatic interest in the game, but also, granting the possibility of being devoid of dramatic interest, by the succession of movements being too rapid for us to realise each completely, and too fatiguing, even if realisable. Now if a way could be found of conveying to us the realisation of movement without the confusion and the fatigue of the actuality, we should be getting out of the wrestlers more than they themselves can give us—the heightening of vitality which comes to us whenever we keenly realise life, such as the actuality itself would give us, plus the greater effectiveness of the heightening brought about by the clearer, intenser, and less fatiguing realisation. This is precisely what the artist who succeeds in representing movement achieves: making us realise it as we never can actually, he gives us a heightened sense of capacity,
It is just here that the scientific spirit of the Florentine naturalists was of immense service to art. This logic of sequence is to be attained only by great, although not necessarily more than empiric, knowledge of anatomy, such perhaps as the artist pure would never be inclined to work out for himself, but just such as would be of absorbing interest to those scientists by temperament and artists by profession whom we have in Pollaiuolo and, to a less extent, in Verrocchio. We remember how Giotto contrived to render tactile values. Of all the possible outlines, of all the possible variations of light and shade that a figure may have, he selected those that we must isolate for special attention when we are actually realising it. If instead of figure, we say figure in movement, the same statement applies to the way Pollaiuolo rendered movement—with this difference, however, that he had to render what in actuality we never can perfectly isolate, the line and light and shade most significant of any given action. This the artist must construct himself out of his dramatic feeling for pressure and strain and his ability to articulate the figure in all its logical sequences, for, if he would convey a sense of movement, he must give the line and the light and shade which will best render not tactile values alone, but the sequences of articulations.
[Page heading: “BATTLE OF THE NUDES”]
It would be difficult to find more effective illustration of all that has just been said about movement than one or two of Pollaiuolo’s own works, which, in contrast to most of his achievements, where little more than effort and research are visible, are really masterpieces of life-communicating art. Let us look first at his engraving known as the “Battle of the Nudes.” What is it that makes us return to this sheet with ever renewed, ever increased pleasure? Surely it is not the hideous faces of most of the figures and their scarcely less hideous bodies. Nor is it the pattern as decorative design, which is of great beauty indeed, but not at all in proportion to the spell exerted upon us. Least of all is it—for most of us—an interest in the technique or history of engraving. No, the pleasure we take in these savagely battling forms arises from their power to directly communicate life, to immensely heighten our sense of vitality. Look at the combatant prostrate on the ground and his assailant bending over, each intent on stabbing the other. See how the prostrate man plants his foot on the thigh of his enemy, and note the tremendous energy he exerts to keep off the foe, who, turning as upon a pivot, with his grip on the other’s head, exerts no less force to keep the advantage gained. The significance of all these muscular strains and pressures is so rendered that we cannot help realising them; we imagine ourselves imitating all the movements, and exerting the force required for them—and all without the least effort on our side. If all this without moving a muscle, what should we feel if we too had exerted ourselves! And thus while under the spell of this illusion—this hyperaesthesia not bought with drugs, and not paid for with cheques drawn on our vitality—we feel as if the elixir of life, not our own sluggish blood, were coursing through our veins.
[Page heading: “HERCULES STRANGLING DAVID”]
Let us look now at an even greater triumph of movement than the Nudes, Pollaiuolo’s “Hercules Strangling Antaeus.” As you realise the suction of Hercules’ grip on the earth, the swelling of his calves with the pressure that falls on them, the violent throwing back of his chest, the stifling force of his embrace; as you realise the supreme effort of Antaeus, with one hand crushing down upon the head and the other tearing at the arm of Hercules, you feel as if a fountain of energy had sprung up under your feet and were playing through your veins. I cannot refrain from mentioning still another masterpiece, this time not only of movement, but of tactile values and personal beauty as well—Pollaiuolo’s “David” at Berlin. The young warrior has sped his stone, cut off the giant’s head, and now he strides over it, his graceful, slender figure still vibrating with the rapidity of his triumph, expectant, as if fearing the ease of it. What lightness, what buoyancy we feel as we realise the movement of this wonderful youth!
[Page heading: VERROCCHIO AND LANDSCAPE]
In all that concerns movement, Verrocchio was a learner from Pollaiuolo, rather than an initiator, and he probably never attained his master’s proficiency. We have unfortunately but few terms for comparison, as the only paintings which can be with certainty ascribed to Verrocchio are not pictures of action. A drawing however like that of his angel, in the British Museum, which attempts as much movement as the Hercules by Pollaiuolo, in the same collection, is of obviously inferior quality. Yet in sculpture, along with works which are valuable as harbingers of Leonardo rather than for any intrinsic perfection, he created two such masterpieces of movement as the “Child with the Dolphin” in the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio, and the Colleoni monument at Venice—the latter sinning, if at all, by an over-exuberance of movement, by a step and swing too suggestive of drums and trumpets. But in landscape Verrocchio was a decided innovator. To understand what new elements he introduced, we must at this point carry out our determination to enquire into the source of our pleasure in landscape painting; or rather—to avoid a subject of vast extent for which this is not the place—of landscape painting as practised by the Florentines.
[Page heading: LANDSCAPE PAINTING]
Before Verrocchio, his precursors, first Alessio Baldovinetti and then Pollaiuolo, had attempted to treat landscape as naturalistically as painting would permit. Their ideal was to note it down with absolute correctness from a given point of view; their subject almost invariably the Valdarno; their achievement, a bird’s-eye view of this Tuscan paradise. Nor can it be denied that this gives pleasure, but the pleasure is only such as is conveyed by tactile values. Instead of having the difficulty we should have in nature to distinguish clearly points near the horizon’s edge, we here see them perfectly and without an effort, and in consequence feel great confirmation of capacity for life. Now if landscape were, as most people vaguely believe, a pleasure coming through the eyes alone, then the Pollaiuolesque treatment could be equalled by none that has followed, and surpassed only by Rogier van der Weyden, or by the quaint German “Master of the Lyversberg Passion,” who makes us see objects miles away with as great a precision and with as much intensity of local colour as if we were standing off from them a few feet. Were landscape really this, then nothing more inartistic than gradation of tint, atmosphere, and plein air, all of which help to make distant objects less clear, and therefore tend in no way to heighten our sense of capacity. But as a matter of fact the pleasure we take in actual landscape is only to a limited extent an affair of the eye, and to a great extent one of unusually intense well-being. The painter’s problem, therefore, is not merely to render the tactile
[Page heading: VERROCCHIO’S LANDSCAPES]
Verrocchio was, among Florentines at least, the first to feel that a faithful reproduction of the contours is not landscape, that the painting of nature is an art distinct from the painting of the figure. He scarcely knew where the difference lay, but felt that light and atmosphere play an entirely different part in each, and that in landscape these have at least as much importance as tactile values. A vision of plein air, vague I must grant, seems to have hovered before him, and, feeling his powerlessness to cope with it in full effects of light such as he attempted in his earlier pictures, he deliberately chose the twilight hour, when, in Tuscany, on fine days, the trees stand out almost black against a sky of light opalescent grey. To render this subduing, soothing effect of the coolness and the dew after the glare and dust of the day—the effect so matchlessly given in Gray’s “Elegy”—seemed to be his first desire as a painter, and in presence of his “Annunciation” (in the Uffizi), we feel that he succeeded as only one other Tuscan succeeded after him, that other being his own pupil Leonardo.
[Page heading: GENRE ARTISTS]
It is a temptation to hasten on from Pollaiuolo and Verrocchio to Botticelli and Leonardo, to men of genius as artists reappearing again after two generations, men who accomplished with scarcely an effort what their precursors had been toiling after. But from these it would be even more difficult than at present to turn back to painters of scarcely any rank among the world’s great artists, and of scarcely any importance as links in a chain of evolution, but not to be passed by, partly because of certain qualities they do possess, and partly because their names would be missed in an account, even so brief as this, of Florentine painting. The men I chiefly refer to, one most active toward the middle and the other toward the end of the fifteenth century, are Benozzo Gozzoli and Domenico Ghirlandaio. Although they have been rarely coupled together, they have much in common. Both were, as artists, little more than mediocrities with almost no genuine feeling for what makes painting a great art. The real attractiveness of both lies entirely outside the sphere of pure art, in the realms of genre illustration. And here the likeness between them ends; within their common ground they differed widely.
[Page heading: BENOZZO GOZZOLI]
Benozzo was gifted with a rare facility not only of execution but of invention, with a spontaneity, a freshness, a liveliness in telling a story that wake the child in us, and the lover of the fairy tale. Later in life, his more precious gifts deserted him, but who wants to resist the fascination of his early works, painted, as they seem, by a Fra Angelico who had forgotten heaven and become enamoured of the earth and the spring-time? In his Riccardi Palace frescoes, he has sunk already to portraying the Florentine apprentice’s dream of a holiday in the country on St. John’s Day; but what a naif ideal of luxury and splendour it is! With these, the glamour in which he saw the world began to fade away from him, and in his Pisan frescoes we have, it is true, many a quaint bit of genre (superior to Teniers only because of superior associations), but never again the fairy tale. And as the better recedes, it is replaced by the worse, by the bane of all genre painting, non-significant detail, and positive bad taste. Have London or New York or Berlin worse to show us than the jumble of buildings in his ideal of a great city, his picture of Babylon? It may be said he here continues mediaeval tradition, which is quite true, but this very fact indicates his real place, which, in spite of his adopting so many of the fifteenth-century improvements, is not with the artists of the Renaissance, but with the story-tellers and costumed fairy-tale painters of the transition, with Spinello Aretino and Gentile da Fabriano, for instance. And yet, once in a while, he renders a head with such character, or a movement with such ease that we wonder whether he had not in him, after all, the making of a real artist.
[Page heading: GHIRLANDAIO]
Ghirlandaio was born to far more science and cunning in painting than was current in Benozzo’s early years, and all that industry, all that love of his occupation, all that talent even, can do for a man, they did for him; but unfortunately he had not a spark of genius. He appreciated Masaccio’s tactile values, Pollaiuolo’s movement, Verrocchio’s effects of light, and succeeded in so sugaring down what he adopted from these great masters that the superior philistine of Florence could say: “There now is a man who knows as much as any of the great men, but can give me something that I can really enjoy!” Bright colour, pretty faces, good likenesses, and the obvious everywhere—attractive and delightful, it must be granted, but, except in certain single figures, never significant. Let us glance a moment at his famous frescoes in Santa Maria Novella. To begin with, they are so undecorative that, in spite of the tone and surface imparted to them by four centuries, they still suggest so many tableaux vivants pushed into the wall side by side, and in tiers. Then the compositions are as overfilled as the sheets of an illustrated newspaper—witness the
[Page heading: LEONARDO]
All that Giotto and Masaccio had attained in the rendering of tactile values, all that Fra Angelico or Filippo had achieved in expression, all that Pollaiuolo had accomplished in movement, or Verrocchio in light and shade, Leonardo, without the faintest trace of that tentativeness, that painfulness of effort which characterised his immediate precursors, equalled or surpassed. Outside Velasquez, and perhaps, when at their best, Rembrandt and Degas, we shall seek in vain for tactile values so stimulating and so convincing as those of his “Mona Lisa”; outside Degas, we shall not find such supreme mastery over the art of movement as in the unfinished “Epiphany” in the Uffizi; and if Leonardo has been left far behind as a painter of light, no one has succeeded in conveying by means of light and shade a more penetrating feeling of mystery and awe than he in his “Virgin of the Rocks.” Add to all this, a feeling for beauty and significance that have scarcely ever been approached. Where again youth so poignantly attractive, manhood so potently virile, old age so dignified and possessed of the world’s secrets! Who like Leonardo has depicted the mother’s happiness in her child and the child’s joy in being alive; who like Leonardo has portrayed the timidity, the newness to experience, the delicacy and refinement of maidenhood; or the enchantress intuitions, the inexhaustible fascination of the woman in her years of mastery? Look at his many sketches for Madonnas, look at his profile drawing of Isabella d’Este, or at the Belle Joconde, and see whether elsewhere you find their equals. Leonardo is the one artist of whom it may be said with perfect literalness: Nothing that he touched but turned into a thing of eternal beauty. Whether it be the cross-section of a skull, the structure of a weed, or a study of muscles, he, with his feeling for line and for light and shade, forever transmuted it into life-communicating values; and all without intention, for most of these magical sketches were dashed off to illustrate purely scientific matter, which alone absorbed his mind at the moment.
And just as his art is life-communicating as is that of scarcely another, so the contemplation of his personality is life-enhancing as that of scarcely any other man. Think that great though he was as a painter, he was no less renowned as a sculptor and architect, musician and improviser, and that all artistic occupations whatsoever were in his career but moments snatched from the pursuit of theoretical and practical knowledge. It would seem as if there were scarcely a field of modern science but he either foresaw it in vision, or clearly anticipated it, scarcely a realm of fruitful speculation of which he was not a freeman; and as if there were hardly a form of human energy which he did not manifest. And all that he demanded of life was the chance to be useful! Surely, such a man brings us the gladdest of all tidings—the wonderful possibilities of the human family, of whose chances we all partake.
Painting, then, was to Leonardo so little of a preoccupation that we must regard it as merely a mode of expression used at moments by a man of universal genius, who recurred to it only when he had no more absorbing occupation, and only when it could express what nothing else could, the highest spiritual through the highest material significance. And great though his mastery over his craft, his feeling for significance was so much greater that it caused him to linger long over his pictures, labouring to render the significance he felt but which his hand could not reproduce, so that he rarely finished them. We thus have lost in quantity, but have we lost in quality? Could a mere painter, or even a mere artist, have seen and felt as Leonardo? We may well doubt. We are too apt to regard a universal genius as a number of ordinary brains somehow conjoined in one skull, and not always on the most neighbourly terms. We forget that genius means mental energy, and that a Leonardo, for the self-same reason that prevents his being merely a painter—the fact that it does not exhaust a hundredth part of his energy—will, when he does turn to painting, bring to bear a power of seeing, feeling, and rendering, as utterly above that of the ordinary painter as the “Mona Lisa” is above, let us say, Andrea del Sarto’s “Portrait of his Wife.” No, let us not join in the reproaches made to Leonardo for having painted so little; because he had much more to do than to paint, he has left all of us heirs to one or two of the supremest works of art ever created.
[Page heading: BOTTICELLI]
Never pretty, scarcely ever charming or even attractive; rarely correct in drawing, and seldom satisfactory in colour; in types, ill-favoured; in feeling acutely intense and even dolorous—what is it then that makes Sandro Botticelli so irresistible that nowadays we may have no alternative but to worship or abhor him? The secret is this, that in European painting there has never again been an artist so indifferent
Look, for instance, at Botticelli’s “Venus Rising from the Sea.” Throughout, the tactile imagination is roused to a keen activity, by itself almost as life heightening as music. But the power of music is even surpassed where, as in the goddess’ mane-like tresses of hair fluttering to the wind, not in disorderly rout but in masses yielding only after resistance, the movement is directly life-communicating. The entire picture presents us with the quintessence of all that is pleasurable to our imagination of touch and of movement. How we revel in the force and freshness of the wind, in the life of the wave! And such an appeal he always makes. His subject may be fanciful, as in the “Realm of Venus” (the “Spring"); religious, as in the Sixtine Chapel frescoes or in the “Coronation of the Virgin”; political, as in the recently discovered “Pallas Taming a Centaur”; or even crudely allegorical, as in the Louvre frescoes,—no matter how unpropitious, how abstract the idea, the vivid appeal to our tactile sense, the life-communicating movement is always there. Indeed, at times it seems that the less artistic the theme, the more artistic the fulfilment, the painter being impelled to give the utmost values of touch and movement to just those figures which are liable to be read off as mere empty symbols. Thus, on the figure representing political disorder—the Centaur—in the “Pallas,” Botticelli has lavished his most intimate gifts. He constructs the torso and flanks in such a way that every line, every indentation, every boss appeals so vividly to the sense of touch that our fingers feel as if they had everywhere been in contact with his body, while his face gives to a still heightened degree this convincing sense of reality, every line functioning perfectly for the osseous structure of brow, nose, and cheeks. As to the hair—imagine shapes having the supreme life of line you may see in the contours of licking flames, and yet possessed of all the plasticity of something which caresses the hand that models it to its own desire!
[Page heading: LINEAL DECORATION]
In fact, the mere subject, and even representation in general, was so indifferent to Botticelli, that he appears almost as if haunted by the idea of communicating the unembodied values of touch and movement. Now there is a way of rendering even tactile values with almost no body, and that is by translating them as faithfully as may be into values of movement. For instance:—we want to render the roundness of a wrist without the slightest touch of either light or shade; we simply give the movement of the wrist’s outline and the movement of the drapery as it falls over it, and the roundness is communicated to us almost entirely in terms of movement. But let us go one step further. Take this line that renders the roundness of the wrist, or a more obvious example, the lines that render the movements of the tossing hair, the fluttering draperies, and the dancing waves in the “Birth of Venus”—take these lines alone with all their power of stimulating our imagination of movement, and what do we have? Pure values of movement abstracted, unconnected with any representation whatever. This kind of line, then, being the quintessence of movement, has, like the essential elements in all the arts, a power of stimulating our imagination and of directly communicating life. Well! imagine an art made up entirely of these quintessences of movement-values, and you will have something that holds the same relation to representation that music holds to speech—and this art exists, and is called lineal decoration. In this art of arts Sandro Botticelli may have had rivals in Japan and elsewhere in the East, but in Europe never. To its demands he was ready to sacrifice everything that habits acquired under Filippo and Pollaiuolo,—and his employers!—would permit. The representative element was for him a mere libretto: he was happiest when his subject lent itself to translation into what may be called a lineal symphony. And to this symphony everything was made to yield; tactile values were translated into values of movement, and, for the same reason—to prevent the drawing of the eye inward, to permit it to devote itself to the rhythm of the line—the backgrounds were either entirely suppressed or kept as simple as possible. Colour also, with almost a contempt for its representative function, Botticelli entirely subordinated to his lineal scheme, compelling it to draw attention to the line, rather than, as is usual, away from it.
This is the explanation of the value put upon Botticelli’s masterpieces. In some of his later works, such as the Dresden predelle, we have, it is true, bacchanals rather than symphonies of line, and in many of his earlier paintings, in the “Fortezza,” for instance, the harness and trappings have so disguised Pegasus that we scarcely know him from a cart horse. But the painter of the “Venus Rising from the Sea,” of the “Spring,” or of the Villa Lemmi frescoes is the greatest artist of lineal design that Europe has ever had.
[Page heading: POPULARISERS OF ART]
Leonardo and Botticelli, like Michelangelo after them, found imitators but not successors. To communicate more material and spiritual significance than Leonardo, would have taken an artist with deeper feeling for significance; to get more music out of design than Botticelli, would have required a painter with even greater passion for the re-embodiment of the pure essences of touch and movement. There were none such in Florence, and the followers of Botticelli—Leonardo’s were all Milanese, and do not here concern us—could but imitate the patterns of their master: the patterns of the face, the patterns of the composition, and the patterns of the line; dragging them down to their own level, sugaring them down to their own palate, slowing them down to their own insensitiveness for what is life-communicating. And although their productions, which were nothing but translations of great man’s art into average man’s art, became popular, as was inevitable, with the average man of their time, (who comprehended them better and felt more comfortable in their presence than in that of the originals which he respectfully admired but did not so thoroughly enjoy), nevertheless we need not dwell on these popularisers nor on their popularisations—not even on Filippino, with his touch of consumptive delicacy, nor Raffaelino del Garbo, with his glints of never-to-be-fulfilled promise.
[Page heading: FRA BARTOLOMMEO]
Before approaching the one man of genius left in Florence after Botticelli and Leonardo, before speaking of Michelangelo, the man in whom all that was most peculiar and much that was greatest in the striving of Florentine art found its fulfilment, let us turn for a moment to a few painters who, just because they were men of manifold talent, might elsewhere almost have become masters. Fra Bartolommeo, Andrea del Sarto, Pontormo, and Bronzino were perhaps no less gifted as artists than Palma, Bonifazio Veronese, Lotto, and Tintoretto; but their talents, instead of being permitted to flower naturally, were scorched by the passion for showing off dexterity, blighted by academic ideals, and uprooted by the whirlwind force of Michelangelo.
Fra Bartolommeo, who in temperament was delicate, refined, graceful, and as a painter had a miniaturist’s feeling for the dainty, was induced to desert his lovely women, his exquisite landscape, and his gentleness of expression for figures constructed mechanically on a colossal scale, or for effects of the round at any cost. And as evil is more obvious than good, Bartolommeo, the painter of that masterpiece of colour and light and shade, of graceful movement and charming feeling, the “Madonna with the Baptist and St. Stephen” in the Cathedral at Lucca, Bartolommeo, the dainty deviser of Mr. Mond’s tiny “Nativity,” Bartolommeo, the artificer of a hundred masterpieces of pen drawing, is almost unknown; and to most people Fra Bartolommeo is a sort of synonym for pomposity. He is known only as the author of physically colossal, spiritually insignificant prophets and apostles, or, perchance, as the painter of pitch-dark altar-pieces: this being the reward of devices to obtain mere relief.
[Page heading: ANDREA DEL SARTO]
Andrea del Sarto approached perhaps as closely to a Giorgione or a Titian as could a Florentine, ill at ease in the neighbourhood of Leonardo and Michelangelo. As an artist he was, it is true, not endowed with the profoundest sense for the significant, yet within the sphere of common humanity who has produced anything more genial than his “Portrait of a Lady”—probably his wife—with a Petrarch in her hands? Where out of Venetia can we find portraits so simple, so frank, and yet so interpretive as his “Sculptor,” or as his various portraits of himself—these, by the way, an autobiography as complete as any in existence, and tragic as few? Almost Venetian again is his “St. James” caressing children, a work of the sweetest feeling. Even in colour effect, and technique, how singularly close to the best Venetian painting in his “Dispute about the Trinity”—what blacks and whites, what greys and purplish browns! And in addition, tactile values peculiar to Florence—what a back St. Sebastian’s! But in a work of scarcely less technical merit, the “Madonna of the Harpies,” we already feel the man not striving to get the utmost out of himself, but panting for the grand and magnificent. Even here, he remains almost a great artist, because his natural robustness comes to his rescue; but the “Madonna” is too obviously statuesque, and, good saints, pray why all these draperies?
The obviously statuesque and draperies were Andrea’s devices for keeping his head above water in the rising tide of the Michelangelesque. As you glance in sequence at the Annunziata frescoes, on the whole so full of vivacity, gaiety, and genuine delight in life, you see from one fresco to another the increased attention given to draperies. In the Scalzo series, otherwise masterpieces of tactile values, the draperies do their utmost to smother the figures. Most of these paintings are closed in with ponderous forms which have no other purpose than to serve as a frame, and as clothes-horses for draperies: witness the scene of Zacharias in the temple, wherein none of the bystanders dare move for fear of disturbing their too obviously arranged folds.
Thus by constantly sacrificing first spiritual, and then material significance to pose and draperies, Andrea loses all feeling for the essential in art. What a sad spectacle is his “Assumption,” wherein the Apostles, the Virgin herself, have nothing better to do than to show off draperies! Instead of feeling, as in the presence of Titian’s “Assunta,” wrapt to heaven, you gaze at a number of tailor’s men, each showing how a stuff you are thinking of trying looks on the back, or in a certain effect of light. But let us not end on this note; let us bear in mind that, despite all his faults, Andrea painted the one “Last Supper” which can be looked at with pleasure after Leonardo’s.
[Page heading: PONTORMO]
Pontormo, who had it in him to be a decorator and portrait-painter of the highest rank, was led astray by his awe-struck admiration for Michelangelo, and ended as an academic constructor of monstrous nudes. What he could do when expressing himself, we see in the lunette at Poggio a Caiano, as design, as colour, as fancy, the freshest, gayest, most appropriate mural decoration now remaining in Italy; what he could do as a portrait-painter, we see in his wonderfully decorative panel of Cosimo dei Medici at San Marco, or in his portrait of a “Lady with a Dog” (at Frankfort), perhaps the first portrait ever painted in which the sitter’s social position was insisted upon as much as the personal character. What Pontormo sank to, we see in such a riot of meaningless nudes, all caricatures of Michelangelo, as his “Martyrdom of Forty Saints.”
[Page heading: BRONZINO]
Bronzino, Pontormo’s close follower, had none of his master’s talent as a decorator, but happily much of his power as a portrait-painter. Would he had never attempted anything else! The nude without material or spiritual significance, with no beauty of design or colour, the nude simply because it was the nude, was Bronzino’s ideal in composition, and the result is his “Christ in Limbo.” But as a portrait-painter, he took up the note struck by his master and continued it, leaving behind him a series of portraits which not only had their effect in determining the character of Court painting all over Europe, but, what is more to the point, a series of portraits most of which are works of art. As painting, it is true, they are hard, and often timid; but their air of distinction, their interpretive qualities, have not often been surpassed. In his Uffizi portraits of Eleanora di Toledo, of Prince Ferdinand, of the Princess Maria, we seem to see the prototypes of Velasquez’ queens, princes, and princesses: and for a fine example of dignified rendering of character, look in the Sala Baroccio of the Uffizi at a bust of a young woman with a missal in her hand.
[Page heading: MICHELANGELO]
The great Florentine artists, as we have seen, were, with scarcely an exception, bent upon rendering the material significance of visible things. This, little though they may have formulated it, was the conscious aim of most of them; and in proportion as they emancipated themselves from ecclesiastical dominion, and found among their employers men capable of understanding them, their aim became more and more conscious and their striving more energetic. At last appeared the man who was the pupil of nobody, the heir of everybody, who felt profoundly and powerfully what to his precursors had been vague instinct, who saw and expressed the meaning of it all. The seed that produced him had already flowered into a Giotto, and once again into a Masaccio; in him, the last of his race, born in conditions artistically most propitious, all the energies remaining in his stock were concentrated, and in him Florentine art had its logical culmination.
[Page heading: ANTHROPOMORPHISM IN ART]
Michelangelo had a sense for the materially significant as great as Giotto’s or Masaccio’s, but he possessed means of rendering, inherited from Donatello, Pollaiuolo, Verrocchio and Leonardo,—means that had been undreamt of by Giotto or even by Masaccio. Add to this that he saw clearly what before him had been felt only dimly, that there was no other such instrument for conveying material significance as the human nude. This fact is as closely dependent on the general conditions of realising objects as tactile values are on the psychology of sight. We realise objects when we perfectly translate them into terms of our own states, our own feelings. So obviously true is this, that even the least poetically inclined among us, because we keenly realise the movement of a railway train, to take one example out of millions, speak of it as going or running, instead of rolling on its wheels, thus being no less guilty of anthropomorphising than the most unregenerate savages. Of this same fallacy we are guilty every time we think of anything whatsoever with the least warmth—we are lending this thing some human attributes. The more we endow it with human attributes, the less we merely know it, the more we realise it, the more does it approach the work of art. Now there is one and only one object in the visible universe which we need not anthropomorphise to realise—and that is man himself. His movements, his actions, are the only things we realise without any myth-making effort—directly. Hence, there is no visible object of such artistic possibilities as the human body; nothing with which we are so familiar; nothing, therefore, in which we so rapidly perceive changes; nothing, then, which if represented so as to be realised more quickly and vividly than in life, will produce its effect with such velocity and power, and so strongly confirm our sense of capacity for living.
[Page heading: VALUE OF THE NUDE IN ART]
Values of touch and movement, we remember, are the specifically artistic qualities in figure painting (at least, as practised by the Florentines), for it is through them chiefly that painting directly heightens life. Now while it remains true that tactile values can, as Giotto and Masaccio have forever established, be admirably rendered on the draped figure, yet drapery is a hindrance, and, at the best, only a way out of a difficulty, for we feel it masking the really significant, which is the form underneath. A mere painter, one who is satisfied to reproduce what everybody sees, and to paint for the fun of painting, will scarcely comprehend this feeling. His only significant is the obvious—in a figure, the face and the clothing, as in most of the portraits manufactured nowadays. The artist, even when compelled to paint draped figures, will force the drapery to render the nude, in other words the material significance of the human body. But how much more clearly will this significance shine out, how much more convincingly will the character manifest itself, when between its perfect rendering and the artist nothing intervenes! And this perfect rendering is to be accomplished with the nude only.
If draperies are a hindrance to the conveyance of tactile values, they make the perfect rendering of movement next to impossible. To realise the play of muscle everywhere, to get the full sense of the various pressures and resistances, to receive the direct inspiration of the energy expended, we must have the nude; for here alone can we watch those tautnesses of muscle and those stretchings and relaxings and ripplings of skin which, translated into similar strains on our own persons, make us fully realise movement. Here alone the translation, owing to the multitude and the clearness of the appeals made, is instantaneous, and the consequent sense of increased capacity almost as great as can be attained; while in the draped figure we miss all the appeal of visible muscle and skin, and realise movement only after a slow translation of certain functional outlines, so that the sense of capacity which we receive from the perception of movement is increased but slightly.
We are now able to understand why every art whose chief preoccupation is the human figure must have the nude for its chief interest; why, also, the nude is the most absorbing problem of classic art at all times. Not only is it the best vehicle for all that in art which is directly life-confirming and life-enhancing, but it is itself the most significant object in the human world. The first person since the great days of Greek sculpture to comprehend fully the identity of the nude with great figure art, was Michelangelo. Before him, it had been studied for scientific purposes—as an aid in rendering the draped figure. He saw that it was an end in itself, and the final purpose of his art. For him the nude and art were synonymous. Here lies the secret of his successes and his failures.
[Page heading: MICHELANGELO]
First, his successes. Nowhere outside of the best Greek art shall we find, as in Michelangelo’s works, forms whose tactile values so increase our sense of capacity, whose movements are so directly communicated and inspiring. Other artists have had quite as much feeling for tactile values alone,—Masaccio, for instance; others still have had at least as much sense of movement and power of rendering it,—Leonardo, for example; but no other artist of modern times, having at all his control over the materially significant, has employed it as Michelangelo did, on the one subject where its full value can be manifested—the nude. Hence of all the achievements of modern art, his are the most invigorating. Surely not often is our imagination of touch roused as by his Adam in the “Creation,” by his Eve in the “Temptation,” or by his many nudes in the same ceiling of the Sixtine Chapel,—there for no other purpose, be it noted, than their direct tonic effect! Nor is it less rare to quaff such draughts of unadulterated energy as we receive from the “God Creating Adam,” the “Boy Angel” standing by Isaiah, or—to choose one or two instances from his drawings (in their own kind the greatest in existence)—the “Gods Shooting at a Mark” or the “Hercules and the Lion.”
And to this feeling for the materially significant and all this power of conveying it, to all this more narrowly artistic capacity, Michelangelo joined an ideal of beauty and force, a vision of a glorious but possible humanity, which, again, has never had its like in modern times. Manliness, robustness, effectiveness, the fulfilment of our dream of a great soul inhabiting a beautiful body, we shall encounter nowhere else so frequently as among the figures in the Sixtine Chapel. Michelangelo completed what Masaccio had begun, the creation of the type of man best fitted to subdue and control the earth, and, who knows! perhaps more than the earth.
[Page heading: LAST WORKS OF MICHELANGELO]
But unfortunately, though born and nurtured in a world where his feeling for the nude and his ideal of humanity could be appreciated, he passed most of his life in the midst of tragic disasters, and while yet in the fulness of his vigour, in the midst of his most creative years, he found himself alone, perhaps the greatest, but alas! also the last of the giants born so plentifully during the fifteenth century. He lived on in a world he could not but despise, in a world which really could no more employ him than it could understand him. He was not allowed, therefore, to busy himself where he felt most drawn by his genius, and, much against his own strongest impulses, he was obliged to expend his energy upon such subjects as the “Last Judgment.” His later works all show signs of the altered conditions, first in an overflow into the figures he was creating of the scorn and bitterness he was feeling, then in the lack of harmony between his genius and what he was compelled to execute. His passion was the nude, his ideal power. But what outlet for such a passion, what expression for such an ideal could there be in subjects like the “Last Judgment,” or the “Crucifixion of Peter”—subjects which the Christian world imperatively demanded should incarnate the fear of the humble and the self-sacrifice of the patient? Now humility and patience were feelings as unknown to Michelangelo as to Dante before him, or, for that matter, to any other of the world’s creative geniuses at any time. Even had he felt them, he had no means of expressing them, for his nudes could convey a sense of power, not of weakness; of terror, not of dread; of despair, but not of submission. And terror the giant nudes of the “Last Judgment” do feel, but it is not terror of the Judge, who, being in no wise different from the others, in spite of his omnipotent gesture, seems to be announcing rather than willing what the bystanders, his fellows, could not unwill. As the representation of the moment before the universe disappears in chaos—Gods huddling together for the Goetterdaemmerung—the “Last Judgment” is as grandly conceived as possible: but when the crash comes, none will survive it, no, not even God. Michelangelo therefore failed in his conception of the subject, and could
That Michelangelo had faults of his own is undeniable. As he got older, and his genius, lacking its proper outlets, tended to stagnate and thicken, he fell into exaggerations—exaggerations of power into brutality, of tactile values into feats of modelling. No doubt he was also at times as indifferent to representation as Botticelli! But while there is such a thing as movement, there is no such thing as tactile values without representation. Yet he seems to have dreamt of presenting nothing but tactile values: hence his many drawings with only the torso adequately treated, the rest unheeded. Still another result from his passion for tactile values. I have already suggested that Giotto’s types were so massive because such figures most easily convey values of touch. Michelangelo tended to similar exaggerations, to making shoulders, for instance, too broad and too bossy, simply because they make thus a more powerful appeal to the tactile imagination. Indeed, I venture to go even farther, and suggest that his faults in all the arts, sculpture no less than painting, and architecture no less than sculpture, are due to this self-same predilection for salient projections. But the lover of the figure arts for what in them is genuinely artistic and not merely ethical, will in Michelangelo, even at his worst, get such pleasures as, excepting a few, others, even at their best, rarely give him.
* * * * *
[Page heading: CONSTANT AIMS OF FLORENTINE ART]
In closing, let us note what results clearly even from this brief account of the Florentine school, namely that, although no Florentine merely took up and continued a predecessor’s work, nevertheless all, from first to last, fought for the same cause. There is no opposition between Giotto and Michelangelo. The best energies of the first, of the last, and of all the intervening great Florentine artists were persistently devoted to the rendering of tactile values, or of movement, or of both. Now successful grappling with problems of form and of movement is at the bottom of all the higher arts; and because of this fact, Florentine painting, despite its many faults, is, after Greek sculpture, the most serious figure art in existence.
NOTE.
The following lists make no claim to absolute completeness, but no genuine work by the painters mentioned, found in the better known public or private collections, has been omitted. With the exception of three or four pictures, which he knows only in the photographs, the author has seen and carefully studied every picture indicated, and is alone responsible for the attributions, although he is happy to acknowledge his indebtedness to the writings of Signor Cavalcaselle, of the late Giovanni Morelli, of Signor Gustavo Frizzoni, and of Dr. J. P. Richter. For the convenience of students, lists of the sculptures, but the more important only, have been appended to the lists of pictures by those artists who have left sculptures as well as paintings.
Public galleries are mentioned first, then private collections, and churches last. The principal public gallery is always understood after the simple mention of a city or town. Thus, Paris means Paris, Louvre, London means London, National Gallery, etc.
An interrogation point after the title of a picture indicates that its attribution to the given painter is doubtful. Distinctly early or late works are marked E. or L.
It need scarcely be said that the attributions here given are not based on official catalogues, and are often at variance with them.
1474-1515. Pupil of Cosimo Rosselli and Pier
di Cosimo; influenced by
Lorenzo di Credi; worked in
partnership with Fra Bartolommeo.
Agram (Croatia).
STROSSMAYER COLLECTION.
Adam and Eve driven from Paradise. E.
Bergamo.
LOCHIS, 203. Crucifixion.
MORELLI, 32. St. John
and the Magdalen. E.
Cambridge.
FITZWILLIAM MUSEUM, 162.
Madonna and infant John. 1509.
Chartres.
MUSEE. Tabernacle:
Madonna and Saints, Crucifixion, etc. E.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 63. Trinity.
167. Madonna and four
Saints.
169. Annunciation. 1510.
PITTI, 365. Holy Family.
UFFIZI, 71. Last Judgment
(begun in 1499 by Fra Bartolommeo).
1259. Visitation, with
Predella. 1503.
CORSINI, 160. Holy Family
(in part). 1511.
CERTOSA (near Florence).
Crucifixion. 1505.
Geneva.
MUSEE. Annunciation.
1511.
Gloucester.
HIGHNAM COURT, SIR HUBERT
PARRY, 7. Nativity.
24. Scenes from the Creation.
E.
The Hague.
306. Holy Family with
infant John (on Fra Bartolommeo’s cartoon).
Madrid.
DUKE OF ALBA. Madonna.
Milan.
POLDI-PEZZOLI, 477. Triptych.
1500.
Munich.
1057. Annunciation and
the two Saints.
New York.
MR. SAMUEL UNTERMEYER.
Female Saint.
Paris.
Descriptive name for Florentine painter whose real
name appears to have
been Bartolommeo di Giovanni.
Flourished last two decades of
fifteenth century. Assistant
of Ghirlandajo; influenced by Amico di
Sandro.
Aix-en-Provence.
MUSEE. Madonna and infant
John adoring Child.
Arezzo.
MUSEO, SALA II, 4. Tabernacle:
Magdalen and St. Antony at foot of
Cross.
Dresden.
17 and 18. Tondi:
SS. Michael and Raphael.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 67. Pieta
and Stories of Saints.
268. St. Thomas Aquinas,
Gabriel, and a Prophet.
269. Madonna with St.
Dominic and a Prophet.
278. St. Jerome.
279. St. Francis receiving
the Stigmata.
280. Entombment.
UFFIZI, 85. Tondo:
Madonna and infant John. 1208. St. Benedict
and
two Monks.
MUSEO DI SAN MARCO, SMALL
REFECTORY. Crucifixion with SS. Peter,
Andrew,
the Magdalen, and two other Saints.
MARCHESE MANELLI RICCARDI.
Pieta.
INNOCENTI, GALLERY, 63-70.
Seven Predelle to Ghirlandajo’s
altarpiece
in church, in which he painted also the “Massacre
of
the
Innocents.” 1488.
Horsmonden (Kent).
CAPEL MANOR, MRS. AUSTEN.
Two Cassone-fronts: Centaurs and
Lapithae.
Liverpool.
WALKER ART GALLERY, 17.
Martyrdom of St. Sebastian.
18. Bishop dining with
a Woman.
London.
MR. BRINSLEY MARLAY.
Four Cassone-fronts: Stories of Joseph
and
of
The Taking of Troy.
SIR KENNETH MUIR MACKENZIE.
Madonna and infant John.
Longleat (Warminster).
MARQUESS OF BATH. Two
Cassone-fronts: Feast and Flight.
Lovere (Lago d’Iseo).
GALLERIA TADINI, 29.
Madonna and infant John.
Milan.
BORROMEO. Pieta
Narni.
MUNICIPIO. Two compartments
of the Predelle to Ghirlandajo’s
Coronation
of Virgin: SS. Francis and Jerome. 1486.
An artistic personality between Botticelli and Filippino Lippi.
Altenburg.
LINDENAU MUSEUM, 100.
Profile Portrait of Caterina Sforza.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 21. Profile
Portrait of Giuliano de’ Medici.
Berlin.
82. Madonna.
HERR EDWARD SIMON. Bust
of Young Man.
Budapest.
52. Madonna in Landscape
with St. Antony of Padua and kneeling
Monk.
Chantilly.
MUSEE CONDE. Cassone-front:
Story of Esther.
Florence.
PITTI, 336. “La Bella
Simonetta.”
353. Death of Lucretia.
UFFIZI, 23. Madonna and
three Angels (from S. Maria Nuova). E.
1547. Madonna adoring
Child.
CENACOLO DI FOLIGNO (VIA FAENZA),
100. Madonna and infant John
adoring
Child.
CORSINI GALLERY, 340.
The Five Virtues.
Horsmonden (Kent).
CAPEL MANOR, MRS. AUSTEN.
Madonna and Angel (version of lost
original
by Botticelli). E.
London.
1124. Adoration of Magi.
1412. Madonna and infant
John.
VICTORIA AND ALBERT MUSEUM,
IONIDES BEQUEST. Portrait of Esmeralda
Bandinelli.
E.
MR. ROBERT BENSON. Tobias
and the Angel.
Meiningen.
GRAND DUCAL PALACE. Nativity.
Milan.
PRINCE TRIVULZIO. Profile
of Lady.
Naples.
Madonna and two Angels.
E.
MUSEO FILANGIERI, 1506 bis.
Portrait of Young Man.
Oxford.
CHRIST CHURCH LIBRARY, 4,
5. Two panels with Sibyls in Niches.
Paris.
1662A. Cassone-front:
Death of Virginia.
1663. Portrait of Young
Man.
COMTE PASTRE: Cassone-front:
Story of Esther.
BARON SCHLICHTING. Madonna
(version of Filippo’s Madonna at
Munich).
Philadelphia.
MR. JOHN G. JOHNSON.
Portrait of Man.
Rome.
COUNT GREGORI STROGANOFF.
Two Angels swinging Censers.
ANDREA (Vanucci) DEL SARTO.
1486-1531. Pupil of Pier di Cosimo; influenced
by Fra Bartolommeo and
Michelangelo.
Berlin.
240. Bust of his Wife.
246. Madonna and Saints.
1528.
Dresden.
76. Marriage of St. Catherine.
E.
77. Sacrifice of Isaac.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 61. Two Angels.
1528.
75. Fresco: Dead
Christ.
76. Four Saints. 1528.
77. Predelle to 76.
PITTI, 58. Deposition.
1524.
66. Portrait of Young
Man.
81. Holy Family.
87, 88. Life of Joseph.
1516.
124. Annunciation.
172. Dispute over the
Trinity. 1517.
184. Portrait of Young
Man.
191. Assumption. 1531.
225. Assumption. 1526.
272. The Baptist.
476. Madonna.
UFFIZI, 93. “Noli
me Tangere.” E.
188. Portrait of his
Wife.
280. Fresco: Portrait
of Himself.
1112. “Madonna
dell’ Arpie.” 1517.
1176. Portrait of Himself.
1230. Portrait of Lady.
1254. St. James.
CORSINI GALLERY. Apollo
and Daphne. E.
CHIOSTRO DELLO SCALZO.
Monochrome Frescoes: Charity, 1512-15.
Preaching
of Baptist, finished 1515. Justice, 1515.
St. John
Baptising,
1517. Baptist made Prisoner, 1517. Faith,
1520. Dance
of
Salome, 1522. Annunciation to Zacharias, 1522.
Decapitation
of
Baptist, 1523. Feast of Herod, 1523. Hope,
1523. Visitation,
1524.
Birth of Baptist, 1526.
SS. ANNUNZIATA, ENTRANCE
COURT. Frescoes: Five to L. with the Story
of
St. Filippo Benizzi, 1509-1510. R., Adoration
of Magi, 1511.
Birth
of Virgin, 1514.
CHAPEL TO L. OF
ENTRANCE. Head of Christ.
INNER CLOISTER,
OVER DOOR. Fresco: “Madonna del Sacco.”
1525.
S. SALVI. Fresco:
Four Evangelists. 1515. Fresco: Last Supper,
begun
in 1519.
POGGIO A CAJANO (Royal Villa
near Florence). Fresco: Caesar
receiving
Tribute. 1521 (finished by A. Allori).
London.
690. Portrait of a Sculptor.
HERTFORD HOUSE. Madonna
and Angels.
MR. ROBERT BENSON. Tondo:
Madonna with infant John. L.
MR. LEOPOLD DE ROTHSCHILD.
Madonna and infant John.
Madrid.
383. Portrait of his
Wife.
385. Holy Family and
Angel.
387. Sacrifice of Isaac.
1529.
Naples.
Copy of Raphael’s Leo
X.
Paris.
1514. Charity. 1518.
1515. Holy Family.
1387-1455. Influenced by Lorenzo Monaco and Masaccio.
Agram (Croatia).
STROSSMAYER COLLECTION, St.
Francis receiving Stigmata; Death of
St.
Peter Martyr.
Altenburg.
LINDENAU MUSEUM, 91.
St. Francis before the Sultan.
Berlin.
60. Madonna and Saints.
60A. Last Judgment.
L.
61. SS. Dominic
and Francis.
62. Glory of St. Francis.
(Magazine.) Head of Saint.
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. J. L. GARDNER. Death
and Assumption of Virgin.
Brant Broughton (Lincolnshire).
REV. ARTHUR F. SUTTON.
A Bishop.
Cortona.
S. DOMENICO, OVER ENTRANCE.
Fresco: Madonna and Saints.
GESU. Annunciation.
E.
Two Predelle.
E.
Triptych:
Madonna with four Saints, etc.
Duesseldorf.
AKADEMIE, 27. Head of
Baptist.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 166. Deposition
(three pinnacles by Lorenzo Monaco).
227. Madonna and six
Saints.
234-237. Fourteen scenes
from Life of Christ. 1448.
240. Madonna enthroned
(but not the Trinity above).
243. Story of SS.
Cosmas and Damian (in part).
246. Entombment.
250. Crucifixion.
251. Coronation of Virgin.
252-254, Sixteen scenes from
Life of Christ and Virgin, except the
“Legge
d’Amore.” 1448.
258. Martyrdom of SS.
Cosmas and Damian.
265. Madonna with six
Saints and two Angels.
266. Last Judgment (not
the Damned nor the Inferno).
281. Madonna and eight
Saints and eight Angels. 1438 (ruined).
283. Predella:
Pieta and Saints. L. (ruined).
UFFIZI, 17. Triptych:
Madonna with Saints and Angels; Predella.
1433.
1162. Predella to No.
1290: Birth of John.
1168. Predella to No.
1290: Sposalizio.
1184. Predella to No.
1290: Dormition.
1290. Coronation of Virgin.
1294. Tabernacle:
Madonna, Saints, and Angels. 1443.
MUSEO DI SAN MARCO. Frescoes,
all painted from between about 1439
to
no later than 1445.
CLOISTER.
St. Peter Martyr; St. Dominic at foot of Cross; St.
Dominic
(ruined); Pieta; Christ as Pilgrim with two
Dominicans;
St. Thomas Aquinas.
CHAPTER HOUSE.
Large Crucifixion.
UPPER FLOOR, WALLS.
BACCHIACCA (Francesco Ubertini).
About 1494-1557. Pupil of Perugino and Franciabigio;
influenced by
Andrea del Sarto and Michelangelo.
Asolo.
CANONICA DELLA PARROCCHIA.
Madonna with St. Elizabeth.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 62. Death of
Abel.
Berlin.
267. Baptism.
267A. Portrait of Young
Woman.
(MAGAZINE.) Decapitation of
Baptist.
HERR EUGEN SCHWEIZER.
Leda and the Swan.
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. J. L. GARDNER. Head
of Woman.
Brocklesby (Lincolnshire).
EARL OF YARBOROUGH. Madonna
and St. Anne.
Budapest.
70. Preaching of Baptist.
Cassel.
484. Old Man Seated.
Dijon.
Musee, Donation Jules Maciet.
Resurrection.
Dresden.
80. Legendary Subject.
1523.
Florence.
PITTI, 102. The Magdalen.
UFFIZI, 87. Descent from
Cross.
1296. Predelle:
Life of St. Ascanius.
1571. Tobias and Angel.
CORSINI GALLERY, 164.
Madonna, infant John, and sleeping Child.
206. Portrait of Man.
1540.
CONTE NICCOLINI (Via dei Servi).
Madonna with St. Anne and infant
John.
CONTE SERRISTORI. Madonna
with St. Anne and infant John.
Locko Park (near Derby).
MR. DRURY LOWE, 44. Christ
bearing Cross.
London.
1218, 1219. Story of
Joseph.
1304. Marcus Curtius.
MR. CHARLES BUTLER. Portrait
of Young Man.
MR. FREDERICK A. WHITE.
Birth Plate.
Milan.
COMM. BENIGNO CRESPI.
Adoration of Magi; Madonna.
DR. GUSTAVO FRIZZONI.
Adam and Eve.
Munich.
1077. Madonna and infant
John.
Oxford.
CHRIST CHURCH LIBRARY, 55.
“Noli me Tangere.”
57. Resurrection of Lazarus.
Richmond (Surrey).
SIR FREDERICK COOK. Holy
Family; Last Supper; Crucifixion.
Two Grisailles:
Apollo and Cupid; Apollo and Daphne.
Rome.
BORGHESE, 338. Madonna.
425, 426, 440, 442, 463.
Life of Joseph.
MISS HERTZ. Bust of Magdalen.
Troyes.
MUSEE. Tobias and Angel.
Venice.
SEMINARIO, 23. Madonna.
PRINCE GIOVANELLI. Moses
Striking Rock.
Wiesbaden.
NASSAUISCHES KUNSTVEREIN,
114. Madonna and infant John.
1425-1499. Pupil of Domenico Veneziano; influenced by Paolo Uccello.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 23. Fresco:
Portrait of Himself (fragment from S. Trinita,
Florence).
Berlin.
1614. Profile of Young
Woman. (?)
Florence.
ACADEMY, 159. Trinity.
1471.
233. Marriage of Cana;
Baptism; Transfiguration. 1448.
UFFIZI, 56. Annunciation.
60. Madonna and Saints.
MR. B. BERENSON. Madonna.
E.
S. AMBROGIO. Baptist
with SS. Catherine, Stephen, Ambrose, and
Angels,
FRA BARTOLOMMEO (Baccio delta Porta).
1475-1517. Pupil of Pier di Cosimo; influenced
by Leonardo and
Michelangelo.
Ashridge Park (Berkhampstead).
EARL BROWNLOW, Madonna.
L.
Berlin.
249. Assumption (upper
part by Albertinelli). Probably, 1508.
Besancon.
CATHEDRAL. Madonna in
Glory, Saints, and Ferry Carondolet as Donor.
1512
Cambridge (U. S. A.).
FOGG MUSEUM. Sacrifice
of Abel.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 58. St. Vincent
Ferrer.
97. Vision of St. Bernard.
1506.
168. Heads in Fresco.
171. Fresco: Madonna.
172. Portrait of Savonarola.
173. Fresco: Madonna.
PITTI, 64. Deposition.
125. St. Mark. 1514.
159. Christ and the four
Evangelists. 1516.
208. Madonna and Saints.
1512.
256. Holy Family.
377. Fresco: Ecce
Homo.
UFFIZI, 71. Fresco:
Last Judgment. Begun 1499, finished by
Albertinelli.
1126. Isaiah.
1130. Job.
1161. Small Diptych.
E.
1265. Underpainting for
Altarpiece (from his cartoons). 1510-13.
MUSEO DI SAN MARCO, SAVONAROLA’S
CELL. Fresco: Madonna, 1514.
Profile
of Savonarola. E. Fresco: Christ at Emmaus.
S. MARCO, 2D ALTAR R. Madonna
and Saints. 1509.
PIAN DI MUGNONE (near Florence).
S. MADDALENA. Frescoes:
Annunciation.
1515; “Noli me Tangere.” 1517.
Grenoble.
MUSEE, 374. Madonna.
London.
1694. Madonna in Landscape.
COL. G. L. HOLFORD, DORCHESTER
HOUSE. Madonna (in part).
MR. LUDWIG MOND. Holy
Family; Small Nativity.
EARL OF NORTH BROOK.
Holy Family (finished by Albertinelli).
Lucca.
“Madonna della Misericordia.”
1515.
God adored by Saints. 1509.
DUOMO, CHAPEL L. OF CHOIR.
Madonna and Saints. 1509.
Naples.
Assumption of Virgin (in great
part). 1516.
Panshanger (Hertford).
Holy Family.
Burial and Ascension of S.
1420-1497. Pupil possibly of Giuliano Pesello,
and of the Bicci;
assistant and follower of
Fra Angelico.
Berlin.
60B. Madonna, Saints,
and Angels.
Miracle of S. Zanobi. 1461.
Beziers.
MUSEE, 193. St. Rose
and the Magdalen.
Cambridge (U. S. A.).
FOGG MUSEUM. Madonna.
Castelfiorentino (near Empoli).
CAPPELLA DI S. CHIARA.
Tabernacle with Frescoes (in great part).
MADONNA DELLA TOSSE (on way
to Castelnuovo). Frescoes (in great
part).
1484.
Certaldo.
CAPPELLA DEL PONTE DELL’
AGLIENA. Tabernacle with Frescoes. 1465.
Cologne.
520. Madonna and Saints.
1473.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 37. Pilaster
with SS. Bartholomew, James, and John the
Baptist
(execution probably by Giusto d’Andrea).
UFFIZI, 1302. Predella:
Pieta and Saints.
PALAZZO RICCARDI. Frescoes:
Procession of Magi; Angels. 1459.
PALAZZO ALESSANDRI. Four
Predelle: Miracle of St. Zanobi; Totila
before
St. Benedict; Fall of Simon Magus; Conversion of St.
Paul.
E.
MR. HERBERT P. HORNE.
Large Crucifixion. L.
Locko Park (near Derby).
MR. DRURY LOWE. Crucifixion.
E.
London.
283. Madonna, Saints,
and Angels. 1461.
H. M. THE KING, BUCKINGHAM
PALACE. Death of Simon Magus. 1461.
MR. C. N. ROBINSON. Madonna
and Angels.
Meiningen.
GRAND DUCAL PALACE. St.
Ursula.
Milan.
BRERA, 475. St. Dominic
restoring Child to Life. 1461.
Montefalco.
PINACOTECA (S. Francesco).
BAY TO R. OF ENTRANCE. Various Frescoes,
1452.
CHOIR. Frescoes:
Scenes from Life of St. Francis, etc. Finished,
1452.
S. FORTUNATO, OVER ENTRANCE.
Fresco: Madonna, Saints, and Angels.
1450.
R. WALL.
Fresco: Madonna and Angel, 1450.
SECOND ALTAR R.
Fresco: S. Fortunato enthroned. 1450.
Narni.
MUNICIPIO. Annunciation.
Paris.
1319. Triumph of St.
Thomas Aquinas.
BARONNE D’ADELSWARD.
BOTTICELLI (Alessandro di Mariano Filipepi).
1444-1510. Pupil of Fra Filippo; influenced early by the Pollajuoli.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 25. Story of
Virginia. L.
Berlin.
106. Madonna and Saints.
1485.
1128. St. Sebastian.
1474.
VON KAUFMANN COLLECTION.
Judith (in part). L.
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. J. L. GARDNER. Madonna
with Angel offering Ears of Wheat to
Child.
E.
Death of Lucretia. L.
Dresden.
9. Scenes from Life of
S. Zanobi. L.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 73. Coronation.
(Virgin and God the Father by inferior
hand).
Probably, 1490.
74. Predelle to above.
80. “Primavera.”
85. Madonna, Saints,
and Angels.
157, 158, 161, 162. Predelle
to 85: Dead Christ; Death of St.
Ignatius;
Salome; Vision of St. Augustine.
UFFIZI, 39. Birth of
Venus.
1154. Portrait of Giovanni
di Cosimo de’ Medici. E.
1156. Judith. E.
1158. Holofernes.
E.
1179. St. Augustine.
1182. Calumny. L.
1267 bis. Tondo:
“Magnificat.”
1286. Adoration of Magi.
1446-1498. Pupil of Neri di Bicci; influenced
by Castagno; worked under
and was formed by Cosimo Rosselli
and Verrocchio; influenced later
by Amico di Sandro.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 33. Tobias and
the Angel.
Berlin.
70A. Crucifixion and
Saints, 1475.
72. Coronation of the
Virgin. E.
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. J. L. GARDNER. Madonna
in Landscape.
Chicago (U. S. A.).
MR. MARTIN RYERSON. Tondo:
Adoration of Magi.
Cleveland (U. S. A.).
HOLDEN COLLECTION, 3.
Madonna adoring Child (?).
13. Madonna.
Empoli.
OPERA DEL DUOMO, 25.
Annunciation. Towards 1473.
Tabernacle for
Sacrament, with St. Andrew and Baptist;
Predelle:
Last Supper; Martyrdom of two Saints. 1484-1491.
Tabernacle for
sculptured St. Sebastian with two Angels and
Donors;
Predelle: Story of St. Sebastian.
Towards 1473.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 30. St. Vincent
Ferrer.
59. St. Augustine.
60. St. Monica.
84. Tobias and the three
Archangels.
154. Tobias and the Angel,
with youthful Donor.
Martyrdom of St. Andrew.
PITTI, 347. Madonna,
infant John, and Angels worshipping Child.
BRONZINO (Angelo Allori).
1502(?)-1572. Pupil of Pontormo; influenced by Michelangelo.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 65. Portrait
of Alessandro de’ Medici.
Berlin.
338. Portrait of Youth.
338A. Portrait of Ugolino
Martelli.
338B. Portrait of Eleonora
da Toledo.
SIMON COLLECTION,
2. Bust of Youth.
HERR EDWARD SIMON. Portrait
of Bearded Man.
Besancon.
MUSEE, 57. Deposition.
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. J. L. GARDNER. Portrait
of a Medici Princess.
Budapest.
190. Venus and Cupid
(in part).
191. Adoration of Shepherds.
Cassel.
Portrait of Duke Cosimo de’
Medici in armour, holding
Myrtle-branch.
1475-1554. Pupil of Ghirlandajo and Pier di Cosimo;
assistant of
Albertinelli; influenced by
Perugino, Michelangelo, Francesco
Francia, and Franciabigio.
Agram.
STROSSMAYER GALLERY.
Madonna seated in a Loggia looking down
towards
infant John (?).
Berlin.
142, 149. Cassone-panels:
Story of Tobias.
283. Madonna and Saints.
MUSEUM OF INDUSTRIAL ART.
Cassone-front: Story of St. Felicitas.
PALACE OF EMPEROR WILLIAM
I. Cassone-front: Story of Tobias.
Bologna.
25. St. John in Desert.
26. Madonna enthroned
with SS. Catherine, Antony of Padua, and
infant
John.
745. Tondo: Madonna.
Bonn.
UNIVERSITY GALLERY, 285.
Madonna with infant John.
Bowood Park (Calne).
MARQUESS OF LANSDOWNE.
Copy of Perugino’s Madonna in Louvre (No.
1565).
RAFFAELLE DEI CARLI (or Croli).
1470-after 1526. Started under influence of Ghirlandajo
and Credi, later
became almost Umbrian, and
at one time was in close contact with
Garbo, whom he may have assisted.
Berlin.
VON KAUFMANN COLLECTION.
Three half-length figures of Saints in
small
ovals.
Dresden.
21. Madonna and two Saints.
Duesseldorf.
120. Tondo: Madonna,
with Child blessing.
Eastnor Castle (Ledbury).
LADY HENRY SOMERSET.
Altarpiece: Madonna and Saints.
Esher.
MR. HERBERT F. COOK, COPSEHAM.
Israelites crossing Red Sea. The
Golden
Calf.
Florence.
UFFIZI, 90. Madonna appearing
to four Saints. Madonna, two Saints,
and
two Donors (probably painted in Garbo’s studio).
The four
Evangelists
(framed above Triptych ascribed to Spinello Aretino)
(?).
MAGAZINE.
Annunciation.
MR. B. BERENSON. Christ
in Tomb between Mary and John.
DUCA DI BRINDISI. Combat
of Marine Deities.
MR. H. W. CANNON, VILLA DOCCIA
(near Fiesole), CHAPEL IN WOODS.
Fresco.
CORSINI GALLERY. Madonna
with two Saints and two Angels.
VIA CONSERVATORIO CAPPONI,
I. Tabernacle: Madonna and two Angels.
VIA DELLE COLONNE, SCUOLA
ELEMENTARE. Fresco: Miracle of Loaves and
Fishes.
1503.
MRS. ROSS, POGGIO GHERARDO.
Madonna in Glory, and two Bishops.
S. AMBROGIO, FIRST ALTAR R.
St. Ambrogio and other Saints;
Annunciation
in lunette.
S. MARIA MADDALENA DEI PAZZI.
St. Roch. St. Ignatius.
S. PROCOLO. ALTAR R.
Visitation with Saints and Angels.
S. SPIRITO, SOUTH TRANSEPT.
Madonna and Evangelist with SS.
Stephen,
Lawrence, and Bernard. 1505.
Madonna with Evangelist, St.
Bartholomew, and two Angels. E.
Madonna with two Angels and
SS. Nicholas and Bartholomew, and busts
of
Jerome and another Saint.
BROZZI (near Florence).
S. ANDREA, R. WALL. Fresco in lunette: SS.
Albert
and Sigismund.
Le Mans.
MUSEE, 19. Madonna.
Locko Park (near Derby).
MR. DRURY LOWE. Deposition.
The Baptist.
London.
MR. ROBERT BENSON. Mass
of St. Gregory. 1501.
Lucca.
SALA IV, 16. Polyptych.
Milan.
POLDI-PEZZOLI, 158. Madonna
and infant John.
Montepulciano.
MUNICIPIO, 80. Tondo:
Madonna in Landscape.
Olantigh Towers (Wye).
MR. ERLE-DRAX. Pieta.
Oxford.
CHRIST CHURCH LIBRARY.
The Magdalen.
Paris.
1303. Coronation and
four Saints.
BARON MICHELE LAZZARONI.
Resurrection, with kneeling Donors.
M. EUGENE RICHTEMBERGER. Tondo:
Madonna and two Angels. L.
Pisa.
MUSEO CIVICO, 238. Madonna
and four Saints.
SALA VI, 15.
God appearing to kneeling Company.
S. MATTEO, L. WALL. Predelle
to No. 238 in Museo.
Poggibonsi.
S. LUCCHESE, R. WALL.
“Noli me Tangere.”
Prato.
MUNICIPIO, 6. Madonna
and infant John.
San Miniato del Tedeschi.
Died rather young in 1457. Influenced by Donatello and Paolo Uccello.
Florence.
UFFIZI, THIRD TUSCAN ROOM.
12. Fresco: Crucifixion and Saints.
S. APPOLONIA, REFECTORY.
Frescoes: Last Supper; Crucifixion;
Entombment;
Resurrection. Soon after 1434. (Nine Figures)
Boccaccio;
Petrarch; Dante; Queen Thomyris; Cumaean Sibyl;
Niccolo
Acciajuoli; Farinati degli Uberti; Filippo Scolari
("Pippo
Spano"); Esther. L.—Frieze of Putti
with Garlands.
CLOISTER.
Fresco: Dead Christ and Angels. Soon after
1434.
HOSPITAL (33 VIA DEGLI ALFANI),
COURT. Fresco: Crucifixion.
SS. ANNUNZIATA, FIRST
ALTAR L. Fresco: Christ and St. Julian. L.
(Invisible.)
SECOND ALTAR L.
Fresco: Trinity with St. Jerome and other Saints.
L.
(Invisible.)
DUOMO, WALL R. OF ENTRANCE:
Fresco: Equestrian Portrait of Niccolo
da
Tolentino. 1456.
WINDOW IN DRUM
OF CUPOLA (from his design). Deposition. 1444.
Locko Park (near Derby).
MR. DRURY LOWE. David
(painted on a Shield). L.
London.
1138. Small Crucifixion.
MR. J. PIERPONT MORGAN.
Bust of Man.
About 1240-about 1301.
The following works are all by the same hand, probably Cimabue’s.
Assisi.
S. FRANCESCO, UPPER CHURCH,
CHOIR AND TRANSEPTS. Frescoes.
LOWER CHURCH,
R. TRANSEPT. Fresco: Madonna and Angels with
St.
Francis.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 102. Madonna,
Angels, and four Prophets.
Paris.
1260. Madonna and Angels.
COSIMO, see PIER DI COSIMO.
1456-1537. Pupil of Verrocchio.
Berlin.
80. Bust of Young Woman
(?). E.
100. Madonna.
103. St. Mary of Egypt.
Cambridge.
FITZWILLIAM MUSEUM, 125.
St. Sebastian (the Saint only).
Carlsruhe.
409. Madonna and infant
John adoring Child.
Castiglione Fiorentino.
COLLEGIATA, ALTAR R. OF HIGH
ALTAR. Nativity. L.
Cleveland (U. S. A.).
HOLDEN COLLECTION, 14.
Madonna.
Dresden.
13. Madonna and infant
John. E.
14. Nativity (in part).
DOMENICO, see VENEZIANO.
FILIPPINO and FILIPPO, see LIPPI.
1482-1525. Pupil of Pier di Cosimo and Albertinelli;
worked with and
was influenced by Andrea del
Sarto.
Barnard Castle.
BOWES MUSEUM, 235. Bust
of Young Man.
Berlin.
235. Portrait of Man.
245. Portrait of Man
writing. 1522.
245A. Portrait of Youth
in Landscape.
HERR EUGEN SCHWEIZER.
Madonna with infant John.
Bologna.
294. Madonna.
Brussels.
1466-1524 (?). Pupil of Botticelli and Filippino
Lippi; influenced by
Ghirlandajo and Perugino.
Berlin.
78. Bust of Man.
81. Profile of Young
Woman.
90. Tondo: Madonna
and Angels.
SIMON COLLECTION,
i. Tondo: Madonna and Angels. E.
Dresden.
22. Madonna and infant
John.
Florence.
1449-1494. Pupil of Baldovinetti; influenced
slightly by Botticelli and
more strongly by Verrocchio.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 66. Madonna
and Saints.
195. Adoration of Shepherds.
1485.
UFFIZI, 19. Madonna and
Saints.
43. Portrait of Giovanni
Bicci de’ Medici.
1295. Adoration of Magi.
1297. Madonna, Saints,
and Angels.
MUSEO DI SAN MARCO, SMALL
REFECTORY. Fresco: Last Supper.
PALAZZO VECCHIO, FLAG ROOM.
Fresco: Triumph of S. Zanobi.
1482-1484.
DUOMO, OVER N. DOOR.
Mosaic: Annunciation. 1490.
INNOCENTI, HIGH ALTAR.
Adoration of Magi (the episode of the
“Massacre
of the Innocents” painted by Alunno di Domenico).
1488.
S. MARIA NOVELLA, CHOIR.
Frescoes: Lives of the Virgin and Baptist,
etc.
(execution, save certain portrait heads, chiefly by
David,
Mainardi,
and other assistants). Begun 1486, finished 1490.
OGNISSANTI, L. WALL.
Fresco: St. Augustine. 1480.
ALTAR R. Fresco:
Madonna della Misericordia (in part). E.
REFECTORY.
Fresco: Last Supper. 1480.
S. TRINITA. CHAPEL R.
OF CHOIR. Frescoes: Life of St. Francis.
1483-1485.
OVER ARCH.
Fresco: Augustus and Sibyl (in part). Same
date.
BADIA DI PASSIGNANO (TAVERNELLE,
NEAR FLORENCE), REFECTORY.
Frescoes:
Last Supper, etc. 1477.
London.
1299. Portrait of Young
Man (repainted).
MR. ROBERT BENSON. Francesco
Sassetti and his Son.
MR. LUDWIG MOND. Madonna.
MR. J. PIERPONT MORGAN.
Profile of Giovanna Tornabuoni. 1488.
MR. GEORGE SALTING. Madonna
and infant John. Bust of Costanza de’
Medici.
Lucca.
DUOMO, SACRISTY. Madonna
and Saints, with Pieta in lunette.
Narni.
MUNICIPIO. Coronation
of Virgin (in part). 1486.
New Haven (U. S. A.).
JARVES COLLECTION, 73.
Fresco: Head of Woman (Cf. woman to extreme
1483 to 1561. Pupil of Granacci, and eclectic
imitator of most of his
important contemporaries.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 51. Bust of
Man.
Berlin.
91. Nativity.
Budapest.
58. Nativity. 1510.
Chatsworth.
DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE. Bust
of Man (?). L.
Colle di Val d’Elsa.
S. AGOSTINO, THIRD ALTAR R.
Pieta. 1521.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 83, 87. Panels
with three Angels each. E.
PITTI, 207. Portrait
of a Goldsmith. E.
224. Portrait of a Lady.
1509.
UFFIZI, 1275, 1277. Miracles
of S. Zanobi. 1510.
BIGALLO. Predelle.
1515.
PALAZZO VECCHIO, CAPPELLA
DEI PRIORI. Frescoes. 1514.
CORSINI GALLERY, 129.
Portrait of Man.
PALAZZO TORRIGIANI. Portrait
of Ardinghelli.
LA QUIETE. St. Sebastian.
Glasgow.
MR. WILLIAM BEATTIE.
Portrait of Man (?).
London.
1143. Procession to Calvary.
E.
MR. GEORGE SALTING. Portrait
of Girolamo Beniviene.
Lucardo (near Certaldo).
HIGH ALTAR. Madonna with
SS. Peter, Martin, Justus, and the
Baptist.
E.
Milan.
COMM. BENIGNO CRESPI.
Small Triptych. Nativity and Saints.
New Haven (U. S. A.).
JARVES COLLECTION, 97.
Madonna and Saints.
Paris.
1324. Coronation of Virgin.
1503.
Philadelphia.
ELKINS PARK, MR. PETER WIDENER,
191. Bust of Lucrezia Summaria, E.
Pistoia.
S. PIETRO MAGGIORE. Madonna
and Saints. 1508.
Prato.
DUOMO. Madonna giving
Girdle to St. Thomas. 1514.
Reigate (Surrey).
THE PRIORY, MR. SOMERS SOMERSET.
Portrait of Girolamo Beniviene.
St. Petersburg.
40. Portrait of Old Man.
Wantage.
LOCKINGE HOUSE, LADY WANTAGE.
Youngish Man looking up from Letter.
1276-1336. Follower of Pietro Cavallini; influenced by Giovanni Pisano.
Assisi.
S. FRANCESCO, LOWER CHURCH,
CHAPEL OF THE MAGDALEN: Frescoes: Feast
in
the House of Simon (in great part); Raising of Lazarus;
“Noli
me
Tangere,” (in part); Magdalen and Donor (in part)(?).
(The
remaining
frescoes in this chapel are by assistants.) Before
1328.
UPPER CHURCH.
II-XIX of frescoes recounting the Life of St.
Francis
(with occasional aid of A). E.
WEST WALL.
Fresco: Madonna.
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. J. L. GARDNER: Presentation
of Christ in the Temple. L.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 103. Madonna
enthroned and Angels.
S. CROCE, BARDI CHAPEL.
Frescoes: Life of St. Francis, etc. (Little
more
than the compositions are now Giotto’s.) Not
earlier than
1317.
PERUZZI CHAPEL.
Frescoes: Lives of the Baptist and St. John the
Evangelist
(considerably repainted). L.
Munich.
983. Last Supper.
Padua.
ARENA CHAPEL. Frescoes:
Lives of Christ and His Mother; Last
Judgment;
Symbolical Figures. About 1305-6.
SACRISTY.
Painted Crucifix. About 1305-6.
Rome.
S. GIOVANNI LATERANO, PILLAR
R. AISLE. Fragment of Fresco: Boniface
VIII
proclaiming the Jubilee. 1300.
[An attempt to distinguish in the mass of work usually
ascribed to
Giotto the different artistic
personalities engaged as his most
immediate followers and assistants.]
A.
Assisi.
S. FRANCESCO, UPPER CHURCH.
XX-XXV and first of Frescoes recounting
the
Life of St. Francis, done perhaps under Giotto’s
directions.
XXVI-XXVIII
of same series done more upon his own
responsibility.
LOWER CHURCH,
CHAPEL OF THE SACRAMENT. Frescoes: Legend
of St.
Nicholas;
Christ with SS. Francis and Nicholas and Donors,
etc.
(?). Before 1316. Madonna between SS.
Francis and
Nicholas
(?). Before 1316.
Florence.
UFFIZI, 20. Altarpiece
of St. Cecily. E.
S. MARGHERITA A MONTICI (beyond
Torre del Gallo). Madonna. E.
Altarpiece
with St. Margaret. E.
S. MINIATO: Altarpiece
with S. Miniato. E.
B.
Assisi.
S. FRANCESCO, LOWER CHURCH,
OVER TOMB OF SAINT. Frescoes:
Allegories
of Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience, and Triumph of
St.
Francis. (The Francis between the two Angels in the
“Obedience”
and nearly all of the “Triumph” were executed
by
another
hand, probably C.)
R. TRANSEPT.
Frescoes: Bringing to Life of Child fallen from
Window;
Francis and a crowned Skeleton; Two Scenes (one on
either
side of arch leading to the Chapel of the Sacrament)
representing
Assisi.
S. FRANCESCO, LOWER CHURCH,
R. TRANSEPT. Frescoes: Eight Scenes
from
the Childhood of Christ.
Berlin.
1074A. Crucifixion.
Florence.
BARGELLO CHAPEL. Fresco:
Paradise (?). (Cf. also under B for
assistance
rendered by C.)
VARIOUS.
Bologna.
PINACOTECA, 102. Polyptych:
Madonna and Saints.
Florence.
S. FELICE. Painted Crucifix.
Munich.
981. Crucifixion (?).
Paris.
1512. St. Francis receiving
Stigmata.
Rome.
ST. PETER’S, SAGRESTIA
DEI CANONICI. Stefaneschi Polyptych
(suggests
Bernardo Daddi).
Strasburg.
203. Crucifixion.
GOZZOLI, see BENOZZO.
1477-1543. Pupil first of Credi, and then of
Ghirlandajo, whom he
assisted; influenced by Botticelli,
Michelangelo Fra Bartolommeo,
and Pontormo.
Berlin.
74 and 76. SS. Vincent
and Antonino (in Ghirlandajo’s studio).
Soon
after
1494.
88. Madonna and four
Saints (kneeling figures and landscape his own
cartoons,
the rest Ghirlandajesque design).
97. Madonna with Baptist
and Archangel Michael, E.
229. The Trinity.
Budapest.
54. St. John at Patmos.
78. Madonna and infant
John (?)
Cassel.
480. Tondo: Madonna
holding Child on Parapet.
482. Crucifixion.
Chantilly.
MUSEE CONDE, 95. Madonna
(from Ghirlandajo’s studio) (?).
Citta di Castello.
PINACOTECA. Coronation
of Virgin (in part; done in Ghirlandajo’s
studio).
Darmstadt.
Small Crucifixion. L.
Dublin.
78. Holy Family.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 68. Assumption
of Virgin.
154. Madonna.
285-290. Stories of Saints.
L.
PITTI, 345. Holy Family.
UFFIZI, 1249, 1282. Life
of Joseph.
Portrait of Lucrezia del Fede.
Covoni Altarpiece, Madonna
and Saints.
ISTITUTO DEI MINORENNI CORRIGENDI
(VIA DELLA SCALA.) Altarpiece:
Madonna
with SS. Sebastian and Julian (?).
BROZZI (near Florence).
S. ANDREA. L. WALL. Frescoes: Baptism,
Madonna
enthroned between SS. Dominic and Sebastian
(Ghirlandajo’s
designs).
QUINTOLE (NEAR FLORENCE).
S. PIETRO. Pieta. L.
VILLAMAGNA (NEAR FLORENCE),
CHURCH. Madonna with SS. Gherardo and
Donnino.
Glasgow.
MR. JAMES MANN. Madonna
1452-1519. Pupil of Verrocchio.
Florence.
UFFIZI, 1252. Adoration
of Magi (unfinished). Begun in 1481.
London.
BURLINGTON HOUSE, DIPLOMA
GALLERY. Large Cartoon for Madonna with
St.
Anne.
Milan.
S. MARIA DELLE GRAZIE, REFECTORY.
Fresco: Last Supper.
Paris.
1265. Annunciation.
E.
1598. Madonna with St.
Anne (unfinished).
1599. “La Vierge
aux Rochers.”
1601. “La Gioconda.”
Rome.
VATICAN, PINACOTECA.
St. Jerome, (unfinished).
NOTE:—An adequate conception of Leonardo as an artist can be obtained only by an acquaintance with his drawings, many of the best of which are reproduced in Dr. J. P. Richter’s “Literary Works of Leonardo da Vinci,” and in B. Berenson’s “Drawings of the Florentine Painters.”
1457-1504. Pupil of Botticelli; influenced by
Amico di Sandro, and very
slightly by Piero di Cosimo.
Berlin.
78A. Allegory of Music.
L.
96. Crucifixion with
Virgin and St. Francis. L.
101. Madonna.
Fragment of Fresco: Head
of Youth in black cap, with brown curls.
Bologna.
S. DOMENICO, CHAPEL R. OF
HIGH ALTAR. Marriage of St. Catherine.
1501.
Copenhagen.
Meeting of Joachim and Anne.
L.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 89. St. Mary
of Egypt.
91. St. Jerome.
93. The Baptist.
98. Deposition (finished
by Perugino).
PITTI, 336. Allegorical
Subject.
UFFIZI, 286. Fresco:
Portrait of Himself. E.
1167. Fresco: Old
Man. E.
1257. Adoration of Magi.
1496.
1268. Madonna and Saints.
1486.
PALAZZO CORSINI. Tondo:
Madonna and Angels. E.
MR. HERBERT P. HORNE.
Christ on Cross. L.
PALAZZO TORRIGIANI. Bust
of Youth.
S. AMBROGIO, NICHE L. Monochromes:
Angels, and medallions in
predella.
L.
BADIA. Vision of St.
Bernard with Piero di Francesco del Pugliese
as
Donor. Soon after 1480.
CARMINE, BRANCACCI CHAPEL.
Completion of Masaccio’s Frescoes. 1484.
Angel
delivering St. Peter; Paul visiting Peter in Prison;
Peter
and
Paul before the Proconsul; Martyrdom of Peter; (in
the
“Raising
of the King’s Son”) the group of four men
on the
extreme
L.; the Boy; and eight men and a child in a row.
S. MARIA NOVELLA, STROZZI
CHAPEL. Frescoes: Episodes from Lives of
Evangelist
and St. Philip, etc. Finished 1502.
S. SPIRITO. Madonna and
Saints, with Tanai di Nerli and his Wife.
VILLA REALE DI POGGIO A CAJANO
(near Florence), PORCH. Fragment of
Fresco.
Genoa.
PALAZZO BIANCO, SALA V, 30.
Madonna and Saints. 1503.
Kiel.
PROF. MARTIUS. Madonna.
Lewes (Sussex).
MR. E. P. WARREN. Tondo:
Holy Family and St. Margaret.
London.
293. Madonna with SS.
Jerome and Dominic.
927. Angel adoring.
MR. ROBERT BENSON. Dead
Christ.
SIR HENRY SAMUELSON.
Moses striking the Rock. Adoration of Golden
Calf.
SIR JULIUS WERNHER. Madonna.
L.
Lucca.
S. MICHELE, FIRST ALTAR R.
SS. Helena, Jerome, Sebastian, and Roch.
E.
Naples.
Annunciation, with Baptist
and St. Andrew. E.
New Haven (U. S. A.).
JARVES COLLECTION, 81.
Christ on Cross.
Oxford.
CHRIST CHURCH LIBRARY.
Centaur; on back, unfinished allegorical
figures.
Prato.
MUNICIPIO, 16. Madonna
with Baptist and St. Stephen. 1503.
Fresco in TABERNACLE ON STREET
CORNER: Madonna and Saints. 1498.
Rome.
S. MARIA SOPRA MINERVA, CARAFFA
CHAPEL. Annunciation. Frescoes:
Triumph
of St. Thomas Aquinas; Assumption of Virgin. 1489-1493.
St. Petersburg.
1406-1469. Pupil of Lorenzo Monaco and follower
of Masaccio; influenced
by Fra Angelico.
Ashridge Park (Berkhampstead).
EARL BROWNLOW. Madonna.
Berlin.
58. Madonna.
69. Madonna adoring Child.
95. “Madonna della
Misericordia.”
95B. Predella:
Miraculous Infancy of a Saint.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 55. Madonna
and Saints.
62. Coronation of Virgin.
1441.
79. Virgin adoring Child.
82. Nativity. E.
86. Predelle:
S. Frediano changing the Course of the Serchio;
Virgin
receiving the Announcement of her Death; St. Augustine
in
his
Study.
263. Gabriel and Baptist.
264. Madonna and St.
Antony Abbot.
PITTI, 343. Madonna.
1442.
UFFIZI, 1307. Madonna.
PALAZZO ALESSANDRI. St.
Antony Abbot and a Bishop. SS. Lawrence,
Cosmas,
and Damian and Donors.
PALAZZO RICCARDI (PREFECTURE).
Madonna.
S. LORENZO, MARTELLI CHAPEL.
Annunciation, and Predelle.
London.
248. Vision of St. Bernard.
1447.
666. Annunciation.
E.
667. Seven Saints.
E.
Lyons.
M. EDOUARD AYNARD. Predella:
St. Benedict and Novice.
Munich.
1005. Annunciation.
E.
1006. Madonna.
Oxford.
UNIVERSITY GALLERIES, 12.
Meeting of Joachim and Anne.
Paris.
1344. Madonna and Angels.
1437.
Prato.
DUOMO, CHOIR. Frescoes:
Lives of St. Stephen and the Baptist
(assisted
by Fra Diamante). 1452-1464.
R. TRANSEPT.
Fresco: Death of St. Bernard (the upper part by
Fra
Diamante).
Ordered 1450.
Richmond (Surrey).
SIR FREDERICK COOK. Tondo:
Adoration of Magi. E. SS. Michael and
Antony
Abbot. 1457.
Rome.
LATERAN, 65. Triptych:
Coronation, Saints and Donors (the angels
are,
in execution at least, by another hand, probably Fra
Diamante’s).
PRINCE DORIA. Annunciation.
MR. LUDWIG MOND. Annunciation
and Donors.
Spoleto.
DUOMO, APSE. Frescoes:
Life of Virgin (chiefly by Fra Diamante).
Left
unfinished at death.
Turin.
ACCADEMIA ALBERTINA, 140,
141. The Four Church Fathers.
About 1370-1425. Follower of Agnolo Gaddi and the Sienese.
Altenburg.
LINDENAU MUSEUM, 23.
Crucifixion with SS. Francis, Benedict, and
Romuald.
E.
90. Flight into Egypt.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 10. Dead Christ.
Berlin.
1110. Madonna with Baptist
and St. Nicholas. E.
PRINT ROOM. Illuminations:
Visitation. Journey of Magi.
VON KAUFMANN COLLECTION.
St. Jerome. Nativity.
Brant Broughton (Lincolnshire).
REV. ARTHUR F. SUTTON.
Miracles of St. Benedict.
Brunswick.
SS. Stephen, Dominic,
Francis, and Lawrence. E.
Cambridge.
FITZWILLIAM MUSEUM, 555.
Madonna and two Angels.
Cassel.
478. King David.
Copenhagen.
THORWALDSEN MUSEUM, i.
Madonna.
Empoli.
OPERA DEL DUOMO, 20.
Triptych. 1404.
Fiesole.
S. ANSANO (to be transferred
to Museo). Christ on Cross between
Mary,
John, and Francis.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 143. Annunciation.
144. Life of St. Onofrio.
145. Nativity.
146. Life of St. Martin.
166. Three Pinnacles
above Fra Angelico’s Deposition.
BARGELLO. Codex X, Miniatures.
1412-1413.
UFFIZI, 39. Adoration
of Magi (Annunciation and Prophets in frame
by
Cosimo Rosselli).
40. Pieta. 1404.
41. Triptych: Madonna
and Saints. 1410.
42. Madonna with Baptist
and St. Paul. 1309. Coronation and Saints.
1413.
MUSEO DI SAN MARCO. 11, 12,
13. Crucifixion with Mary and John.
BIBLIOTECA LAURENZIANA.
Miniatures. 1409.
HOSPITAL (S. MARIA NUOVA),
OVER DOOR IN A CORRIDOR. Fresco:
Fragment
of a Pieta. E.
MR. CHARLES LOESER. Crucifixion.
S. CROCE, REFECTORY, 6.
St. James enthroned.
S. GIOVANNI DEI CAVALIERI.
Crucifix; Mary; John.
S. GIUSEPPE. Crucifix.
CHIOSTRO DEGLI OBLATI (25
VIA S. EGIDIO). Frescoes: Pieta, with
Symbols
of Passion; Christ and Apostles; Agony in Garden.
S. TRINITA, BARTOLINI CHAPEL.
Altarpiece: Annunciation and
Predelle.
L. Frescoes: Life of Virgin. L.
Gloucester.
HIGHNAM COURT, SIR HUBERT
PARRY, 49. Adoration of Magi; Visitation.
London.
215, 216. Various Saints.
1897. Coronation of Virgin.
MR. HENRY WAGNER. Legend
of S. Giovanni Gualberto.
Milan.
COMM. BENIGNO CRESPI.
Small Shrine with Madonna and Saints.
CAV. ALDO NOSEDA.
Madonna. 1405.
Munich.
LOTZBECK COLLECTION, 96.
St. Peter enthroned. E.
New Haven (U. S. A.).
JARVES COLLECTION, 18.
Crucifixion.
Parcieux (near Trevoux).
LA GRANGE BLANCHE, M. HENRI
CHALANDON. Three Panels with Saint and
Prophet
in each.
Paris.
1348. Agony in Garden;
Three Marys at Tomb. 1408.
Posen.
RACZYNSKI COLLECTION.
Adoration of Magi.
Richmond (Surrey).
SIR FREDERICK COOK. Madonna.
About 1450-1513. Pupil and imitator of his brother-in-law,
Domenico
Ghirlandajo.
Altenburg.
LINDENAU MUSEUM, 102.
Bust of Woman.
Berlin.
77. Madonna.
83. Portrait of Young
Woman.
85. Portrait of a Cardinal.
86. Portrait of Young
Man.
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. QUINCY A. SHAW.
Madonna adoring Child.
Cologne.
522. Madonna and five
Saints.
Dresden.
16 Tondo: Nativity.
Florence.
UFFIZI, 1315. St. Peter
Martyr between SS. James and Peter.
BARGELLO, CHAPEL. Fresco:
Madonna. 1490.
PALAZZO TORRIGIANI. Tondo:
Madonna and two Angels.
S. CROCE, BARONCELLI CHAPEL.
Fresco: Virgin giving Girdle to St.
Thomas.
CHIESA DI ORBETELLO, R. WALL.
Fresco: Madonna and two Cherubim (SS.
Andrew
and Dionysus, etc., by another Ghirlandajesque
hand).
BROZZI (near Florence), FATTORIA
ORSINI. Frescoes: Nativity (Cf.
Dresden
16); Saints.
Hamburg.
WEBER COLLECTION, 30.
Madonna.
Hildesheim.
1134. Tondo: Madonna.
Locko Park (near Derby).
MR. DRURY-LOWE. Replicas
of Berlin Portraits, Nos. 83 and 86.
London.
1230. Bust of Young Woman.
SIR HENRY HOWORTH. Madonna
and three Angels adoring Child.
MR. GEORGE SALTING. Bust
of Young Man.
Longleat (Warminster).
MARQUESS OF BATH. Madonna,
four Saints, Putti, and Angels.
Lyons.
M. EDOUARD AYNARD. St.
Stephen.
Milan.
COMM. BENIGNO CRESPI.
Two panels with Men and Women Worshippers.
Munich.
1012, 1013. SS.
Lawrence and Catherine of Siena (soon after 1494).
1014. Madonna and Donor.
1015. SS. George
and Sebastian.
Muenster i./W.
KUNSTVEREIN, 32. Marriage
of St. Catherine.
Oxford.
UNIVERSITY MUSEUM, 21.
SS. Bartholomew and Julian.
Palermo.
BARON CHIARAMONTE BORDONARO,
98. Madonna with SS. Paul and Francis.
1506.
Paris.
1367. Tondo: Madonna
with infant John and Angels.
COMTESSE ARCONATI-VISCONTI.
Busts of Man and Woman (free replicas
of
Berlin, Nos. 83 and 86).
Philadelphia.
MR. JOHN G. JOHNSON.
Madonna with SS. Sebastian and Appolonia.
1401-1428. Pupil of Masolino; influenced by Brunellesco and Donatello.
Berlin.
58A. Adoration of Magi.
Probably 1426.
58B. Martyrdom of St.
Peter and Baptist. Probably 1426.
58C. A Birth Plate.
58D. Four Saints.
Probably 1426.
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. J. L. GARDNER. Profile
of Young Man.
Brant Broughton (Lincolnshire).
REV. ARTHUR F. SUTTON.
Madonna enthroned on high Seat with two
Angels
below worshipping and two others seated playing on
Lutes.
Probably
1426.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 73. Madonna
with St. Anne. E.
CARMINE, BRANCACCI CHAPEL.
Frescoes: Expulsion from Paradise;
Tribute
Money; SS. Peter and John healing the Sick with
their
Shadows;
St. Peter Baptising; SS. Peter and John distributing
Alms;
Raising of the King’s Son (except the Son, a
Child, and
eight
Figures of same group, as well as four figures on extreme
left,
all of which are by Filippino Lippi, while the fourth
head
of
this group is again by Masaccio).
S. MARIA NOVELLA, WALL R.
OF ENTRANCE. Fresco: Trinity with Virgin
and
St. John and Donor and his Wife.
Montemarciano (Val d’Arno Superiore).
ORATORIO. Fresco:
Madonna with Michael and Baptist. E.
Naples.
Crucifixion. Probably
1426.
Pisa.
SALA VI, 27. St. Paul.
Probably 1426.
Strasburg.
UNIVERSITY GALLERY, 211.
Resurrected Christ (?). E.
Vienna.
COUNT LANCKORONSKI. St.
Andrew. Probably 1426.
1384-after 1435.
Bremen.
KUNSTHALLE, 164. Madonna.
1423.
Castiglione d’Olona.
CHURCH. Frescoes:
Life of Virgin.
BAPTISTERY. Frescoes:
Life of Baptist.
PALAZZO CASTIGLIONE.
1475-1564. Pupil of Ghirlandaio; influenced by
the works of Jacopo della
Quercia, Donatello, and Signorelli.
Florence.
UFFIZI, 1139. Tondo:
Holy Family.
London.
790. Deposition (unfinished).
Rome.
VATICAN, SIXTINE CHAPEL.
Frescoes: On Ceiling, 1508-1512. W. WALL.
Last
Judgment. 1534-1541.
CAPPELLA PAOLINA.
Frescoes: Conversion of Paul; Martyrdom of St.
Peter.
L.
SCULPTURE.
Berlin.
Small Marble Apollo.
Bologna.
S. DOMENICO. S. Petronio;
An Angel (for Ark of St. Dominic). 1494.
Bruges.
NOTRE DAME. Madonna.
Finished before August, 1506.
Florence.
ACADEMY. David. 1504.
Life size model of reclining Male Figure.
COURT. St.
Matthew. 1504.
BARGELLO. Bacchus.
E. Bust of Brutus. Tondo, Relief: Madonna.
Apollo.
COURT. Victory.
BOBOLI GARDENS, GROTTO.
Four unfinished Figures.
CASA BUONARROTI. Reliefs:
Centaurs and Lapithae. E. Madonna. E.
DUOMO, BEHIND HIGH ALTAR.
Pieta. L.
S. LORENZO, NEW SACRISTY.
Madonna; Tombs of Lorenzo dei Medici,
Duke
of Urbino, and Giuliano, Duke of Nemours. Left
unfinished
1534.
London.
BURLINGTON HOUSE, DIPLOMA
GALLERY. Tondo, Relief: Madonna.
VICTORIA AND ALBERT MUSEUM.
Cupid.
BEIT COLLECTION. Young
Athlete (bronze).
Milan.
PRINCE TRIVULZIO. Small
Slave (bronze).
Paris.
ROOM OF RENAISSANCE SCULPTURE.
Two Slaves.
Rome.
PALAZZO RONDANINI. Pieta
(unfinished). L.
S. MARIA SOPRA MINERVA.
Christ with Cross. Finished 1521.
ST. PETER’S. Pieta.
1499.
S. PIETRO IN VINCOLI.
Moses, Rachel, and Leah.
St. Petersburg.
Crouching Boy.
MONACO see LORENZO.
Andrea, 1308(?)-1368. Pupil of Andrea Pisano;
follower of Giotto;
influenced by Ambrogio Lorenzetti
of Siena.
Of the brothers, Nardo, who died in 1365, was scarcely his inferior.
The only painting certainly from Andrea’s hand
is the altarpiece at S.
Maria Novella. The frescoes
in the same church are probably by
Nardo.
Budapest.
50. Madonna and Angels.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 14. Vision of
St. Bernard and Saints.
40. Trinity with Evangelist
and St. Romuald. 1365.
UFFIZI, 10. St. Bartholomew
and Angel (?). E.
29. Coronation of the
Virgin.
THIRD TUSCAN ROOM.
20. St. Matthew Triptych. Begun in 1367.
MR. B. BERENSON. St.
Benedict receiving a Novice.
BADIA, CAPPELLA BONSI.
Descent of Holy Spirit.
S. CROCE, SACRISTY. Madonna
with SS. Gregory and Job. 1365.
S. MARIA NOVELLA, L. TRANSEPT.
Altarpiece. 1357. Frescoes:
Paradise;
Last Judgment; Hell.
CLOISTER.
Frescoes: Annunciation to Joachim and Anne; Meeting
of
Same;
Birth of Virgin; Presentation of Virgin in Temple;
Full
length
figures of Saints.
CERTOSA (near Florence), CHAPEL.
Madonna.
London.
569-578. Coronation and
Saints, with nine smaller panels
representing
the Trinity, Angels, and Gospel Scenes.
New Haven (U. S. A.).
JARVES COLLECTION, 25.
Baptist.
26. St. Peter.
Palermo.
BARON CHIARAMONTE-BORDONARO.
Madonna.
SCULPTURE (by Andrea).
Berlin.
VON KAUFMANN COLLECTION.
Head of female Saint.
Florence.
BARGELLO. 139. Angel
playing Viol.
OR SAN MICHELE. Tabernacle.
Finished 1359.
1422-1457. Pupil possibly of his grandfather,
Giuliano Pesello; follower
of Fra Angelico, Masaccio
and Domenico Veneziano, but chiefly of Fra
Filippo Lippi.
Altenburg.
LINDENAU MUSEUM, 96.
SS. Jerome and Francis.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 9. Florentine
arraigned before a Judge.
11. Story of Griselda.
Berlin.
Small Crucifixion.
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. J. L. GARDNER. Two
Cassone panels: Triumphs of Petrarch.
Chantilly.
MUSEE CONDE, 11. Madonna
and Saints.
12. Adoration of Magi.
(?).
Empoli.
OPERA DEL DUOMO, 24.
Madonna and Saints.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 72. Predelle:
Nativity; Martyrdom of SS. Cosmas and
Damian;
Miracle of St. Antony of Padua.
Gloucester.
HIGHNAM COURT, SIR HUBERT
PARRY, 95. Annunciation.
London.
COL. G. L. HOLFORD, DORCHESTER
HOUSE. Madonna and Saints.
Milan.
POLDI-PEZZOLI, 436. Annunciation
1462-1521. Pupil of Cosimo Rosselli; influenced
by Verrocchio,
Signorelli, Filippino, Leonardo,
and Credi.
Berlin.
107. Venus, Cupid, and
Mars.
204. Adoration of Shepherds.
VON KAUFMANN COLLECTION.
Prometheus Myth (Cf. Strasburg).
Borgo San Lorenzo (Mugello).
CHIESA DEL CROCIFISSO.
Madonna with St. Thomas and Baptist.
Chantilly.
MUSEE CONDE, 13. “La
Bella Simonetta.”
Dresden.
20. Holy Family and Angels.
Dulwich.
Head of Young Man.
Fiesole.
S. FRANCESCO. Coronation
of Virgin (in part). L.
Florence.
PITTI, 370. Head of a
Saint.
UFFIZI. Immaculate Conception.
82, 83, 84. Story of
Perseus and Andromeda.
1312. Rescue of Andromeda.
3414. Portrait of “Caterina
Sforza” (?).
MAGAZINE. Tondo:
Madonna with infant John. L.
INNOCENTI, GALLERY. Holy
Family and Saints.
S. LORENZO, R. TRANSEPT.
Madonna and Saints adoring Child.
Glasgow.
MR. WILLIAM BEATTIE. Tondo:
Madonna with the two Holy Children
embracing.
The Hague.
254, 255. Giuliano di
Sangallo and his Father.
Harrow-on-the-Hill.
REV. J. STOGDON.
Large Nativity with three Saints and three Donors
(?).
E. Tondo: Madonna and Angels.
London.
698. Death of Procris.
895. Portrait of Man
in Armour.
HERTFORD HOUSE. Triumph
of Venus (?).
MR. ROBERT BENSON. Hylas
and the Nymphs. E. Portrait of Clarissa
Orsini
(?).
EARL OF PLYMOUTH. Head
of Young Man.
MR. CHARLES RICKETTS.
Combat of Centaurs and Lapithae (Cf. New
York).
MR. A. E. STREET. Tondo:
Madonna adoring Child.
Lyons.
M. EDOUARD AYNARD. Tondo:
Madonna with Lamb.
Milan.
BORROMEO. Madonna.
L.
PRINCE TRIVULZIO. Madonna
and Angels. L.
New Haven (U. S. A.).
JARVES COLLECTION, 68.
Lady holding Rabbit.
Newlands Manor (Hampshire).
COL. CORNWALLIS WEST.
Visitation.
New York.
METROPOLITAN MUSEUM.
The Hunt. Return from the Hunt (Cf. Mr.
Ricketts,
London).
Oxford.
CHRIST CHURCH LIBRARY, 2.
Tondo: Pieta. L.
Paris.
1274. The Young Baptist.
1416. Coronation of Virgin.
L.
1662. Madonna.
Philadelphia.
MR. JOHN G. JOHNSON.
Known to have been active during the last three decades
of the fifteenth
century. Pupil possibly
of Fra Angelico or Benozzo Gozzoli;
influenced by Neri di Bicci;
eclectic imitator of Alesso
Baldovinetti, Fra Filippo,
and Pesellino. Some of the best of the
following are copies of the
two last and of Compagno di Pesellino.
Altenburg.
LINDENAU MUSEUM, 97.
Madonna with infant John.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 36. SS.
Jerome and Francis (version of Pesellino at
Altenburg).
Berlin.
71A. Madonna against
Rose-hedge (version of M. Aynard’s Compagno di
Pesellino).
Brussels.
Madonna.
Budapest.
55. Madonna and infant
John.
Cambridge (U. S. A.).
FOGG MUSEUM. Madonna.
Castelnuovo di Val d’Elsa.
S. BARBARA, HIGH ALTAR.
Madonna and Saints surrounded by Frescoes.
FIRST ALTAR R.
Madonna and Saints.
Certaldo.
PALAZZO DEI PRIORI, LOWER
FLOOR. Fresco: Pieta. 1484. Fresco:
Incredulity
of Thomas.
UPPER FLOOR.
Fresco: Madonna. 1495.
CAPPELLA DEL PONTE D’AGLIENA.
Frescoes: Tobias and Angel. St.
Jerome.
Cleveland (U. S. A.).
HOLDEN COLLECTION, 8.
Madonna adoring Child.
Colle di Val d’Elsa.
PALAZZO ANTICO DEL COMUNE.
Altarpiece: Madonna and four Saints,
Predelle,
etc. Madonna with SS. Bernardino, Antony
Abbot,
Magdalen,
and Catherine.
VIA GOZZINA. Tabernacle,
Fresco: Madonna and two Bishops.
VIA S. LUCIA. Frescoes
Antonio. 1429-1498. Pupil of Donatello and Andrea
del Castagno; strongly
influenced by Baldovinetti.
Sculptor as well as painter.
Piero. 1443-1496. Pupil of Baldovinetti; worked
mainly on his brother’s
designs. (Where the execution
can be clearly distinguished as of
either of the brothers separately,
the fact is indicated).
Berlin.
73. Annunciation (Piero).
73A. David (Antonio).
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. J. L. GARDNER. Profile
of Lady (Antonio).
Florence.
UFFIZI, 30. Portrait
of Galeazzo Sforza.
69. Hope.
70. Justice.
71. Temperance. (The
execution of these three was perhaps largely
the
work of pupils.)
72. Faith (Piero).
73. Cartoon for “Charity”
(on back of picture, the execution of
which
is studio work). (Antonio). 1469.
1153. Hercules and the
Hydra; Hercules and Antaeus (Antonio).
1301. SS. Eustace,
James, and Vincent (Piero). 1467.
1306. Prudence (Piero).
1470.
3358. Miniature Profile
of Lady (Piero).
TORRE DI GALLO (ARCETRI).
Fresco (discovered in 1897 and since then
entirely
repainted): Dance of Nudes (Antonio).
S. MINIATO, PORTUGUESE CHAPEL.
Fresco (around Window): Flying
Angels
(executed probably 1466). (Antonio).
S. NICCOLO. Fresco:
Assumption of Virgin (Piero). E.
London.
292. St. Sebastian (Antonio).
1475.
928. Apollo and Daphne
(Antonio).
New Haven (U. S. A.).
JARVES COLLECTION, 64.
Hercules and Nessus (Antonio).
New York.
METROPOLITAN MUSEUM, 85.
Fresco; St. Christopher (Piero).
Paris.
1367A. Madonna (Piero)
(?).
San Gemignano.
COLLEGIATA, CHOIR. Coronation
of Virgin (Piero). 1483.
Staggia (near Siena).
S. MARIA ASSUNTA, R. TRANSEPT.
St. Mary of Egypt upborne by Angels
(design
Antonio, execution Piero).
Strasburg.
212A. Madonna enthroned
(Piero).
Turin.
117. Tobias and the Angel.
SCULPTURE, ETC.
Assisi.
S. FRANCESCO. Altar-frontal
embroidered probably from designs by
Piero.
Florence.
BARGELLO. Bust of Young
Warrior (Terra-cotta). Hercules and Antaeus
(Bronze).
OPERA DEL DUOMO. Enamels
in Pedestal of Silver Crucifix. Finished
1459.
Birth of Baptist (Relief in Silver). Twenty-seven
Scenes
from
Life of Baptist (embroideries after Antonio’s
designs).
1466-1473.
London.
VICTORIA AND ALBERT MUSEUM.
“Discord” (Relief in Gesso).
Rome.
ST. PETER’S, CHAPEL
OF SACRAMENT. Tomb of Sixtus IV (Bronze).
Finished
1493.
L. AISLE.
Tomb of Innocent VIII (Bronze). Finished 1498.
PONTORMO (Jacopo Carucci).
1494-1556. Pupil of Andrea del Sarto; influenced by Michelangelo.
Bergamo.
MORELLI, 59. Portrait
of Baccio Bandinelli.
Berlin.
Portrait of Andrea del Sarto
(not exhibited).
HERR VON DIRKSEN. Portrait
of a Lady seated.
Borgo San Sepolcro.
MUNICIPIO. St. Quentin
in the Pillory (in part).
Carmignano (near Florence).
PARISH CHURCH. Visitation.
Dzikow (Poland).
1439-1507. Pupil of Neri di Bicci; influenced
by Benozzo Gozzoli and
Alesso Baldovinetti.
Agram (Croatia).
STROSSMAYER COLLECTION.
Madonna and two Angels.
Amsterdam.
DR. OTTO LANZ. Madonna
with St. Joseph and two Angels adoring
Child.
Berlin.
59. Madonna, Saints,
and Angels. L.
59A. Glory of St. Anne.
1471.
(MAGAZINE.) 71. Entombment.
Breslau.
SCHLESISCHES MUSEUM. 171.
Madonna and infant John.
Cambridge.
FITZWILLIAM MUSEUM, 556.
Madonna and four Saints. 1493.
Cologne.
518. Madonna, Saints,
and Innocents. E.
Cortona.
SIGNOR COLONNESI. Madonna
with SS. Jerome and Antony of Padua.
Duesseldorf.
AKADEMIE, 110. Madonna
adoring Child (?).
Eastnor Castle (Ledbury).
LADY HENRY SOMERSET.
Madonna with SS. Sebastian and Michael.
Empoli.
OPERA DEL DUOMO, 32.
Holy Family and infant John.
Fiesole.
DUOMO, SALUTATI CHAPEL.
Frescoes: Various Saints.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 52. SS.
Barbara, John, and Matthew. E.
160. Nativity.
275. Moses and Abraham.
276. David and Noah.
UFFIZI, 50. Coronation
of Virgin.
59. Madonna adored by
two Angels.
65. Adoration of Magi.
E.
65. (From S. M. Nuova).
Madonna in Clouds.
1280 bis. Madonna, Saints,
and Angels. 1492.
VIA RICASOLI. Fresco
in shrine: Madonna enthroned and two Angels.
MR. B. BERENSON. Madonna.
CORSINI GALLERY, 339. Tondo:
Madonna and Angels adoring Child.
MME. FINALI, VILLA LANDAU.
Preaching of St. Bernardino.
SIGNOR ANGELO ORVIETO.
Nativity.
S. AMBROGIO, THIRD ALTAR L.
Assumption and Predella. 1498.
CHAPEL OF SACRAMENT.
Frescoes: Miraculous Chalice, etc. 1486.
SS. ANNUNZIATA, L. CLOISTER.
Fresco: St. Filippo Benizzi taking
Servite
Habit. 1476.
S. CROCE, CAPPELLA MEDICEA,
OVER DOOR. Lunette: God and Cherubim
(?)
S. MARIA MADDALENA DEI PAZZI.
Coronation of Virgin. 1505.
Genoa.
PALAZZO ADORNO. Small
Triumphs.
Lille.
667. St. Mary of Egypt.
Liverpool.
WALKER ART GALLERY, 15.
St. Lawrence.
London.
1196. Combat of Love
and Chastity.
MR. CHARLES BUTLER. St.
Catherine of Siena instituting her Order.
Madonna
and Cherubs.
Lucca.
DUOMO, WALL L. OF ENTRANCE.
Fresco: Story of True Cross.
S FRANCESCO. Frescoes:
1494-1541. Pupil of Andrea del Sarto; influenced
by Pontormo and
Michelangelo.
Arezzo.
SALA II, 6. Christ bearing
Cross.
Borgo San Sepolcro.
ORFANELLE. Deposition.
Citta di Castello.
DUOMO. Transfiguration.
Finished 1528.
Dijon.
68. Bust of Baptist.
Florence.
PITTI, 113. Three Fates.
237. Madonna and Saints.
UFFIZI, 1241. Angel playing
Guitar. Madonna and four Saints with
two
Putti reading, 1517.
BARGELLO, DELLA ROBBIA ROOM.
Fresco: Justice.
SS. ANNUNZIATA, R. CLOISTER.
Fresco: Assumption.
S. LORENZO. Sposalizio.
Frankfort a./M.
STAeDELINSTITUT, 14.
Madonna.
Paris.
1485. Pieta.
1486. Challenge of the
Pierides.
Siena.
Portrait of Young Man.
Turin.
ARMERIA REALE, F. 3.
Designs for Buckler with Wars of Jugurtha and
Marius.
Venice.
ACADEMY, 46. Profile
bust of Man in red Cloak and Hat.
Vienna.
COUNT LANCKORONSKI. Madonna.
E. Two naked Putti.
Volterra.
MUNICIPIO. Deposition.
1521.
SARTO see ANDREA.
1441 or 2-1493. Pupil of Fra Filippo; influenced
slightly by Castagno’s
works; imitated most of his
Florentine contemporaries, especially
Botticelli, Ghirlandajo, and
Amico di Sandro.
Altenburg.
LINDENAU MUSEUM, 99.
Adoration of Magi.
105. Madonna with Tobias
and John.
150. St. Jerome.
Arezzo.
SALA II, 9. Madonna against
Rose-hedge.
Bergamo.
CARRARA, 167. Bust of
Christ holding head of Lance.
Berlin.
94. Meeting of young
Christ and Baptist.
1055. Pieta. 1483.
1132, 1133. Death of
Julius Caesar.
HERR EUGEN SCHWEIZER.
1397-1475. Influenced by Donatello.
Florence.
UFFIZI, 52. Battle of
S. Romano.
DUOMO, WALL ABOVE ENTRANCE.
Fresco; Four Heads of Prophets.
WALL L. OF ENTRANCE.
Fresco: Equestrian portrait of Sir John
Hawkwood.
1437.
WINDOWS IN DRUM
OF CUPOLA (from his designs). Resurrection;
Nativity;
About 1400-1461. Probably acquired his rudiments
at Venice; formed under
the influence of Donatello,
Masaccio, and Fra Angelico.
Berlin.
64. Martyrdom of St.
Lucy.
Florence.
UFFIZI, 1305. Madonna
and four Saints.
S. CROCE, R. WALL. Fresco:
The Baptist and St. Francis. L.
London.
766, 767. Frescoes:
Heads of Monks.
1215. Fresco transferred
to canvas: Madonna enthroned.
1435-1488. Pupil of Donatello and Alesso Baldovinetti,
influenced by
Pesellino.
Berlin.
104A. Madonna and Angel.
E.
Florence.
ACADEMY, 71. Baptism
(in great part).
UFFIZI, 1204. Profile
of Lady (?).
3450. Annunciation (possibly
with assistance of Credi).
London.
296. Madonna and two
Angels (designed and superintended by
Verrocchio).
E.
Milan.
POLDI-PEZZOLI, 157. Profile
of Young Woman (?). E.
Paris.
BARON ARTHUR SCHICKLER.
Madonna (designed and superintended by
Verrocchio).
Sheffield.
RUSKIN MUSEUM. Madonna
adoring Child (designed by Verrocchio).
Vienna.
PRINCE LIECHTENSTEIN, 32.
Portrait of Lady.
SCULPTURES.
Berlin.
93. Sleeping Youth (terra-cotta).
97A. Entombment (terra-cotta).
Florence.
BARGELLO. David (bronze).
Bust of Woman (marble).
OPERA DEL DUOMO. Decapitation
of Baptist (silver relief). 1480.
UFFIZI. Madonna and Child
(terra-cotta).
PALAZZO VECCHIO, COURTYARD.
Boy with Dolphin (bronze).
S. LORENZO, SACRISTY.
Tomb of Cosimo de’ Medici (bronze). 1472.
INNER SACRISTY.
Lavabo (marble) (in part).
OR SAN MICHELE, OUTSIDE:
Christ and St. Thomas (bronze). Finished
1483.
Paris.
M. GUSTAVE DREYFUS. Bust
of Lady (marble).
Venice.
PIAZZA SS. GIOVANNI E
PAOLO. Equestrian Monument of Bartolommeo
Colleoni
(bronze). Left unfinished at death.
Agram (Croatia).
STROSSMAYER COLLECTION:
Albertinelli, Fra Angelico, Bugiardini,
Cosimo
Rosselli.
Aix-en-Provence.
MUSEE: Alunno di Domenico.
Altenburg.
LINDENAU MUSEUM: Amico
di Sandro, Fra Angelico, Lorenzo Monaco,
Mainardi,
Pesellino, Pier Francesco Fiorentino, Sellajo.
Amsterdam.
DR. OTTO LANZ: Cosimo
Rosselli.
Arezzo.
Alunno di Domenico, Rosso,
Sellajo.
Ashridge Park (Berkhampstead).
EARL BROWNLOW: Fra Bartolommeo,
Fra Filippo.
Asolo.
CANONICA DELLA PARROCCHIA:
Bacchiacca.
Assisi.
S. FRANCESCO: Cimabue,
Giotto and Assistants, Pollajuolo.
Barnard Castle.
BOWES MUSEUM: Franciabigio.
Bergamo.
CARRARA: Sellajo.
LOCHIS: Albertinelli.
MORELLI: Albertinelli,
Amico di Sandro, Bacchiacca, Baldovinetti,
Botticelli,
Botticini, Bronzino, Ridolfo Ghirlandajo, Lorenzo
Monaco,
Pesellino, Pier Francesco Fiorentino, Pontormo.
Berlin.
Amico di Sandro, Andrea del
Sarto, Fra Angelico, Bacchiacca,
Baldovinetti,
Fra Bartolommeo, Benozzo, Botticelli, Botticini,
Bronzino,
Bugiardini, Carli, Credi, Franciabigio, Garbo, Ridolfo
Ghirlandajo,
Assistant of Giotto, Granacci, Filippino Lippi, Fra
Filippo
Lippi, Lorenzo Monaco, Mainardi, Masaccio, Michelangelo,
Pesellino,
Pier di Cosimo, Pier Francesco Fiorentino, The
Pollajuoli,
Pontormo, Cosimo Rosselli, Sellajo, Domenico
Veneziano,
Verrocchio.
SIMON COLLECTION:
Amico di Sandro, Bronzino, Garbo.
MUSEUM OF INDUSTRIAL ART:
Bugiardini.
PALACE OF EMPEROR WILLIAM
I: Bugiardini.
HERR VON DIRKSEN: Pontormo.
VON KAUFMANN COLLECTION:
Botticelli, Carli, Lorenzo Monaco,
Orcagna,
Pier di Cosimo.
HERR EUGEN SCHWEIZER:
Bacchiacca, Franciabigio, Sellajo.
HERR EDWARD SIMON: Amico
di Sandro.
Besancon.
MUSEE: Bronzino.
CATHEDRAL: Fra Bartolommeo.
Beziers.
MUSEE: Benozzo.
Bologna.
Bugiardini, Franciabigio,
Assistant of Giotto.
S. DOMENICO: Filippino
Lippi, Michelangelo.
Bonn.
UNIVERSITY GALLERY: Bugiardini,
Sellajo.
Bordeaux.
MUSEE: Sellajo.
Borgo San Lorenzo (Mugello).
CHIESA DEL CROCIFISSO:
Pier di Cosimo.
Borgo San Sepolcro.
MUNICIPIO: Pontormo.
ORFANELLE: Rosso.
Boston (U. S. A.).
MRS. J. L. GARDNER: Fra
Angelico, Bacchiacca, Botticelli,
Botticini,
Bronzino, Giotto, Masaccio, Pesellino, Antonio
Pollajuolo.
MRS. QUINCY A. SHAW:
Mainardi.
Bowood Park (Calne).
MARQUESS OF LANSDOWNE:
Bugiardini.
Brandenburg a./H.