Inessential Colors: Architecture on Paper in Early Modern Europe 9780691233154

Citation preview

Inessential Colors

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Inessential Colors architecture on paper in early modern europe Basile Baudez

princeton university press princeton and oxford

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Copyright © 2021 by Princeton University Press

All Rights Reserved

Princeton University Press is committed to the protection of copyright and the intellectual property our authors entrust to us. Copyright promotes the progress and integrity of knowledge. Thank you for supporting free speech and the global exchange of ideas by purchasing an authorized edition of this book. If you wish to reproduce or distribute any part of it in any form, please obtain permission.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Baudez, Basile, 1974- author. Title: Inessential colors : architecture on paper in early modern Europe / Basile Baudez. Description: Princeton : Princeton University Press, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020049897 | ISBN 9780691213569 (hardback) Subjects: LCSH: Color in art. | Architectural drawing— Europe—History. Classification: LCC NA2705 .B38 2021 | DDC 720.28/4—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020049897 British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to [email protected] Published by Princeton University Press, 41 William Street, Princeton, New Jersey 08540 In the United Kingdom: Princeton University Press, 6 Oxford Street, Woodstock, Oxfordshire OX20 1TR press.princeton.edu Jacket illustration: Pierre-Adrien Pâris, section of the Château of Colmoulins, ca. 1782. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 25.8 × 36.2 cm. Bibliothèque Municipale, Besançon, Collection Pierre-Adrien Pâris, vol. 484, no. 65. © Bibliothèque Municipale de Besançon. Illustration on p. ii, detail of fig. 33 Frontispiece (p. x): Eustache Le Sueur, Saint Bruno Examining a Drawing of the Baths of Diocletian, Site of the Future Charterhouse of Rome, 1645–1648. Oil on canvas, 162 x 114 cm. Musée du Louvre, Paris. © RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY

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ISBN (e-book) 9780691233154 This publication is made possible in part from the Barr Ferree Foundation Fund for Publications, Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University Design by Yve Ludwig This book has been composed in Janson Text Printed on acid-free paper. ∞ Printed in Italy 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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For David

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Introduction prologue

chapter one

1

Architectures in Black and White

13 Painters’ Colors, Architects’ Black and White 13 Monochromy and Italian Europe 21

Imitative Colors

31

Painting Elevations 32 Architectural Plans and Mapmaking 52

chapter two

chapter three

Conventional Colors

79 Military Engineers as Cartographers and Builders 80 The Architects’ Conventional Colors 100 The Convention of Pink for Masonry 118

Affective Colors

147

A World in Color 149 Architectural Paintings 165 From Triumphant Polychromy to Sublime Monochromy 190

conclusion

appendix

The Anxiety of the Architect

207

The Draftsman’s Tools

219 Whiteness and the Nature of Drawing Paper 221 Colored Chalks 224 Tools and Mechanical Aids 226 Drawing Curved Lines 229 Quills, Pens, and Brushes 231 Writing Inks: Brown, Black, and Red 232 Artists’ Pigments 234

Acknowledgments 237 Notes 241 Bibliography 256 Index 271 Image Credits 278

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Inessential Colors

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Introduction

A large drawing links an angelic figure draped in brilliant blue all’antica and Saint Bruno (frontispiece).1 The sheet of paper that dominates the painting—which re-presents the picture plane as an alternative representational space—is not Étienne Dupérac’s print of the Roman Baths of Diocletian—on which site Saint Bruno’s order would build a convent—but a drawn copy of it.2 The painter, Eustache Le Sueur, has carefully conveyed in oils the flat tints of the ink washes that are typical of drawings. This represented drawing borrows the black-and-white bichromy of its engraved model but sets it against a colored sky of blue and yellow; the values of black—considered a noncolor by the painter’s contemporaries—contrast with the colors of the two figures; and its gray architecture is distinct from Castel Sant’Angelo’s, painted in ocher, red, and blue. The absence of color performs a discriminative and deictic function, playing on the contrast between polychromy and bichromy in order to indicate the drawing’s strictly architectural nature, within a tradition that limited architecture to black and white. How then do we explain that a century later the painter Louis Tessier boldly depicted a drawing of fortifications in brightly colored washes, resting on a box of watercolors (fig. 1)? Why show a variety of colors when they are not essential to architectural drawings? This study investigates the reasons for and ways in which color was used, exceptionally, in the representation of architecture. An examination of these two paintings suggests paths toward an understanding of the roles assigned to pigments. The reds of Castel Sant’Angelo’s roof tiles and of the roses in Tessier’s painting recreate the colors of objects that we perceive visually: they were meant

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1. Louis Tessier, Arts and Sciences. Oil on canvas, 84 × 116.5 cm. Galerie Michel Descours, Paris.

to imitate nature. The gray washes of the baths’ vaults, the pink color in the plan, and the colored outlines of the continents on the globe bear no relation to visible reality: they act as signs, which are legible thanks to a convention understood by artist and spectator. Finally, the pink and blue of the drawing of the fortifications echo the colors of the flowers and of the book leaning against the wall: the painter employed these colors to balance his composition; to produce harmony and beauty in order to create an affective relationship between the spectator and his painting. Imitation, convention, affect: these three ways of using color constitute the reasons for and modalities of the introduction of color into the monochrome world of architectural representation. — Although references to monochromy and the absence of color correspond to no scientific reality, the reader understands them, just as the early modern spectator clearly distinguished between a drawing in gray or brown grisaille and a sheet

2 | introduction

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washed in blue, green, red, or yellow. Black, which today we consider a color, was not thought of as such from the period marking the beginning of this study until the late eighteenth century, with the emergence of Romanticism.3 Draftsmen and printmakers were perfectly aware that they were choosing between two means of expression: with or without colors. To some degree, this set them apart from builders, for whom the boundary between monochrome and polychrome architecture was more elusive, given, among other reasons, the variable nature of their materials and the way these were affected by the changing play of light. I will not be discussing built architecture from this point of view, since I detect no systematic imitative connections between polychromy in drawings and in buildings.4 My focus is on the practices of architectural draftsmen, colorists, and engravers and on the subjects they produced on paper. The definition of the architect was constantly shifting in the early modern period. Beginning in the Renaissance, architects defined themselves no longer by their knowledge of construction, but by their ability to design and to translate that ability into drawings. Titian demonstrated this in his portrait of the architect Giulio Romano: here, the traditional attributes—compass and square—are replaced by a sheet displaying a sketch in brown ink and brown wash of a building with a central plan (fig. 2).5 For Leon Battista Alberti, writing in the mid-fifteenth century, architects did not produce buildings, but drawings of buildings, notations and writing.6 In accepting drawing as their own system of representation, architects determined that the shape of objects, not the process of construction, would be architecture’s essential quality. The fact that the earliest 2. Titian, Portrait of Giulio Romano, ca. 1536. Oil on canvas, 101 × 86 cm. Museo Civico di Palazzo Te, Mantua.

3 | introduction

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3. Giovanni Niccolò Servandoni (attrib.), Self Portrait, ca. 1730. Oil on canvas, 130 × 97 cm. Musée National des Châteaux de Versailles et de Trianon.

surviving treatise on architecture in the West, Vitruvius’s De architectura, from the first century CE, came down to us without its original illustrations made possible many adaptations and modernizations.7 Nevertheless, as Roland Recht and James Ackerman have argued, there is an essential disjunction between the architectural object and its graphic representation: the latter results from the application of stylistic conventions, specific to a period and a milieu, that dictate the manner and style of the representation.8 This is one reason why architectural historians would do well to pay particular attention to architectural drawings as objects in themselves, and not as mere interpretations of the buildings to which they refer. As Nelson Goodman reminds us, architecture is at once an allographic art—that is, the artist’s work is executed by others (like music)—and an autographic art, in that the architectural drawing, like a painter’s, is a work in itself.9 The question of whether the history of architectural drawing should be considered independently of the history of architecture continues to be debated. For Jorge Sainz, it is difficult to tell an Italian Renaissance drawing from an Italian baroque drawing solely on the basis of graphic technique, whereas there is no mistaking the architectural style depicted.10 Luis Moya, on the other hand, maintains that there exists a relationship between every architectural style and the drawing that represents it.11 Yet it seems more interesting to imagine that architectural drawing evolved not only in tandem with the development of architectural styles, but also autonomously, with its own history and in continual dialogue with other, related arts and disciplines. The drawings and engravings discussed in this book are primarily concerned with the figuration of an architectural object that was built, was intended to be built, or could have been built. Following the architect and theorist Jean-Paul Jungmann, I retain a distinction between representational images intended as documentation—vehicles of information—produced, among others, by architects, and “pictorial images,” made expressly to be read and perceived in an aesthetic mode, such as landscape drawings that might include buildings, fantasias and capricci (even when drawn by architects) or paintings of vedute, vistas, landscapes, fêtes, and architecture executed by artists.12 The present volume argues that color is one of the most important outcomes of the dialogue between these two categories of image. I hold that color is the perfect expression of a crucial moment when architects blurred the inherited boundaries between their discipline and others, whether scientific, in the case of engineers, or artistic, in that of painters. I interpret the emergence of color as resulting from the anxiety of architects when faced with the absence of a clearly assigned place for their discipline within the system of arts and sciences as constructed in the early modern era. If we look for examples among the painted portraits of architects—one of the ways in which they presented themselves to the world and to posterity—we note a general absence of depictions of polychrome drawings. The rare exceptions evidence a blurring of disciplines. Let us take two examples dating to the first third of the eighteenth century. The first is a portrait of Giovanni Niccolò Servandoni, the Italian architect famous for the design of the façade of the Paris church of Saint-Sulpice,

4 | introduction

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of which he proudly holds a colored drawing (fig. 3). Beside the architect’s traditional attributes—plumb line, ruler, divider, and square—he placed those of a painter—palette and brushes—to indicate his double expertise as architect and painter. The other example is a portrait of the German architect Balthasar Neumann (fig. 4). The painter, Markus Friedrich Kleinert, portrays him pointing to one of his greatest achievements, the bishop’s residence in Würzburg; however, Neumann is dressed in armor, leans on a cannon, and displays a sheet with a colored plan of fortifications. The two paintings illustrate our central argument, which is that color appeared when architects approached the worlds of painters or military engineers and broke with the traditional monochromy of architecture on paper, which had stood for drawing versus color in the ongoing debate surrounding these in the arts in the early modern period.13 — In the fourth century BCE, Aristotle countered the earlier Platonic bias against the imitation of nature, mimesis, by arguing for its pleasures, while in his Poetics he laid the foundation for a theoretical distinction between drawing and color.14 He privileged form over matter, such that a pictorial work might be regarded as a source of knowledge as well as of pleasure, and compared the elements of tragedy with those of painting, as in the following passage: “A painter who smeared on the most beautiful colors at random would give less pleasure than he would by making a likeness of something in black and white.”15 In Jacqueline Lichtenstein’s felicitous 4. Markus Friedrich Kleinert, Portrait of Balthasar Neumann, 1727. Oil on canvas, 95 × 76 cm. Mainfränkisches Museum, Würzburg.

6 | introduction

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phrase, “Plato condemned painting because of its colors and Aristotle reprieves it for its drawing.”16 At the turn of the eighteenth century, the key moment in the present narrative, the French theorist Roger de Piles redefined mimesis in a way that uncoupled it from any reference to reality, focusing rather on its capacity to create illusion, to render a “naturalness” arising from an analysis in terms of effects, rather than truthfulness.17 This radical transformation was the backdrop for the transition from the imitative color of the seventeenth century to color in the service of affect in the eighteenth. And yet, this shift raises a fundamental question when considered in the context of architectural drawing, the primary purposes of which are not those of painting, and which are intended to transmit measurable data. This tension lies at the heart of the debates of the second half of the eighteenth century. However, between the period when architects adopted imitative color and the moment when affective colors would predominate in their drawings, they had borrowed from engineers a use of color that had been largely absent from painterly practice: that is, the conventional. As Lichtenstein notes, painterly color does not lend itself to a semiotic reading. It is neither a sign nor a system of signs, but a composite effect encompassing the combination of tints and chiaroscuro.18 In that respect, architectural drawings are unlike those of painters; they do integrate color as a sign, as a convention, and not simply as a means of imitation or affect. — The representation of architecture shuttles between two poles, the imitation of visible nature and the use of conventions that can convey the information necessary for the object to be understood in mathematical terms. We should recall, however, that even in painting the doctrine of imitation—mimesis, as formulated by Aristotle, which shaped all Western thought on the nature of artistic activity—is open to question. When the art historian Ernst Gombrich addressed the long mimetic tradition, he proposed a symbolic theory of pictures, according to which the artist does not hold up a mirror to nature, but tries out pictorial arrangements intended to make illusions of reality more effective.19 These arrangements were tested against nature in order to evaluate their effectiveness. On the other hand, for Goodman, a leading proponent of conventionalism, realism in art is neither a matter of imitation nor an attempt at illusion, but a matter of habituation to standardized systems of representation.20 For there to be a convention, a sufficient number of individuals belonging to one social or professional group must agree explicitly or implicitly that a connection between an object or a practice and a value or a meaning be established. Applying this definition to art, a convention is, in the words of Raymond Williams, “an established relationship, or ground of a relationship, through which a specific shared practice—the making of actual works— can be realized.”21 In Europe before the nineteenth century, architects, unlike painters, did not constitute a clearly defined social or professional group. This set them apart from another group of individuals, who actually “made” architecture:

7 | introduction

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military engineers, who were recognized by titles and functions that structured new conventions. As Eugene Ferguson and Hélène Vérin have observed, the type of imagination required of engineers was not as far from the domain of the visual arts as our contemporary societies might perceive it to be.22 A close relationship to the image is the key to understanding what unites engineers, architects, and painters in our history of color and of the transfer of practices between disciplines that appear at first glance radically distinct in terms of their means of projection. As Antoine Picon has convincingly argued, one cannot separate, in the early modern period, engineers, who think in algebraic terms; architects, who employ geometry; and painters, who use figurative drawing.23 In eighteenth-century France, the proximity between engineers and architects increased, allowing the formulation of specific conventional signs in the figuration of architecture. As the military engineer Louis-Charles Dupain de Montesson wrote in 1775, “One could say that a plan is a compound of signs that speak to the eyes and explain themselves without speech” (fig. 5).24 In Les Mots et les choses, Michel Foucault analyzed the emergence, in the mid-seventeenth-century works of philosophers close to the abbey of Port-Royal de Paris, of the theory of conventional signs, which connects a signifier and a signified and dismisses the third term “conjuncture,” which had dominated Renaissance analogical thinking.25 Applying their theory of signs to language, Antoine Arnauld and Pierre Nicole separated sign from similitude, theorizing a rupture between imitation and convention.26 The military engineers of the following generation introduced the traditional practices of cartography and architectural representation into the sphere of convention, in particular by applying different hues. This graphic semiology, which Jacques Bertin analyzed in the twentieth century, allows us to think of the distinction between natural and conventional signs within the realm of color.27 Conventional signs, detached from mimesis, can result only from an agreement; natural signs serve to relieve memory, facilitate spontaneous reading, and preserve the power of immediate evocation. Since its beginnings, traditional mapmaking seems to have privileged natural signs; its purpose was to provide the reader with the spectacle of the world, not the key to it. Such are the signs of one of the oldest maps known in the Western world, the Tabula Peutingeriana, dated to the fourth century CE: a double tower indicates a way-stage city; a square building with a courtyard, a spa city; a simple building, a temple; a building with several roofs, a granary.28 Later, and in parallel with cartographers, military mapmakers established signs that were less and less natural, according to a scale of iconicity determined in 1980 by Abraham Moles, and one that occurs in other spheres, such as technical graphic languages.29 Color belongs to this repertoire of signs, between the imitation of visible nature (the green of a pasture) and abstraction (the red of a road). It also plays a special role in relation to conventional signs, as demonstrated in the 1765 entry “lavis,” in Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond D’Alembert’s Encyclopédie: “To wash a plan is to lay onto the various parts the colors it is agreed to use to distinguish each of its parts.”30 This entry reminds us that color’s first and most important quality is its capacity to

8 | introduction

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5. Louis-Charles Dupain de Montesson, La Science de l’Arpenteur dans toute son étendue augmentée du Spectacle de la campagne exprimé par des couleurs sur les plans et sur les cartes, 4th ed. (Paris: Gœury, 1813), n.p.

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create distinctions, and in that respect it acts like language, according to Ferdinand de Saussure’s statement that “in language there are only differences.”31 For French historian Michel Pastoureau, color’s primary function, in the image—as in society, for that matter—is neither aesthetic nor artistic, but taxonomic.32 It aids in classifying, distinguishing, associating, contrasting, and hierarchizing. We will see that, as regards architecture on paper, this axiom was certainly true for part of its history, when French military engineers were codifying the conventional usage of color, but this interpretation is less convincing with regard to architects in the second half of the eighteenth century, when color’s capacity for affect acquired a new importance. Thus, the reasons for employing color shuttled between taxonomy and aesthetics, depending on whether architects were adopting the graphic language of engineers or that of painters; but color would never fully replace monochrome drawing in its essential function of transmitting measurable information. — In order to retrace the history of the use of color in architecture on paper, I have relied chiefly on objects that serve as means of communication between two worlds that spoke different languages: architectural professionals and laymen, whether the latter were clients or members of the public. I thus chose to focus this study on presentation drawings, prints, and exhibition drawings—rather than working sketches and execution drawings made for workers, for example—although I will touch on certain uses of color that appear in architectural productions on paper as a whole.33 By emphasizing this first kind of drawing it is possible to discuss, in dialogue with its imitative and conventional roles, color’s capacity for affect, something largely absent from work or execution drawings. To the extent that the actors with whom I will be concerned were not mainly preoccupied with investigating the scientific aspect of colors, I will not address advances in that area, nor the numerous efforts to classify colors, even though the Newtonian revolution would foster changes in how they were perceived. It has long been the case that most of the studies related to the history of color have been either histories of reproductive technology and techniques,34 histories of pigments and of pictorial practices,35 or histories of theories of the nature of color, its semantics, and attempts to classify it.36 However, almost nothing has been written on the history of the use of color in the representation of architecture, either by architectural historians or by historians of color.37 The latter operate in a field that has become particularly dynamic in the wake of studies by Michel Pastoureau and John Gage. Nowhere in Gage’s three important publications on color (1993–2006), for example, is there any reference to the connections between architectural drawings and polychromy, and architecture is mentioned only briefly.38 Architectural historians have tended to focus on the use of color in built architecture, either in the context of restoration,39 or as a means of tracing the great nineteenth-century European debates on ancient Greek temples and those of turn-of-the-twentieth-century modernism;40 they have largely neglected works on paper for their own sake, treating them as mere

10 | introduction

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reflections of built structures. One of the most pragmatic reasons for this absence of investigation of color in works on paper is the long tradition of publishing architectural drawings in black and white, for reasons of cost and because of an assumption that color is not necessary to the appreciation of the essential qualities of architectural drawings. By applying art-historical methods to objects hitherto considered primarily in terms of their informational value, we are able not only to rethink the place of artistic and scientific disciplines in the early modern era, but also to delineate cultural geographies throughout Europe. This study will demonstrate that there were a number of national traditions of using color, from the start of our journey, in an Italian Europe faithful to monochromy, to a polychrome French Europe, where we will end, at the turn of the nineteenth century. It was then that the French state codified conventional colors, and the architects of the École des Beaux-Arts aligned themselves with artists, setting themselves apart from engineers by their triple deployment of color—as imitation, convention, and affect—within a graphic architectural pedagogy destined to conquer the globe.

11 | introduction

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PROLOGUE

Architectures in Black and White

In the Middle Ages and in the traditions inspired by the Italian Renaissance, the practitioners of architecture employed color on paper in limited ways. Moreover, they extended the media of writing, namely black and red ink, into the realm of architectural representation. This early trajectory is, therefore, set apart from later intersections with painters, whose palette, media, and methods served other goals. But it is against this monochrome or bichrome background that the subsequent history of architectural representation in Europe must be understood.

Painters’ Colors, Architects’ Black and White Most surviving architectural drawings produced in Europe and dating to before the sixteenth century are line drawings in two colors associated with writing: black (carbon or iron-gall) and red ink.1 The ninth-century Carolingian Plan of Saint Gall for an ideal monastery is in red ink, for example, presumably so that it stands out against the text in black ink and to emphasize its structuring function on the page within the tradition of the monastic scribes of medieval scriptoria.2 The choice of red ink was also inspired by the color of contemporary figurations of the Holy Land and the long tradition of employing red ink for maps of the world, which would extend into the fourteenth century.3 Nevertheless, such bright pigmentation remains very rare, and drawings, such as the mid-thirteenth-century elevations of Strasbourg Cathedral4 or the design for the main door of the Hôtel-Dieu in

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Detail of figure 15

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Amiens (fig. 6), were most often executed in black ink.5 Around 1529, the master mason Guillaume Prévôt, to whom the latter design is attributed, used only irongall writing ink, applied with a pen over a preparatory drawing made with a metal stylus on parchment. Every exception to this exclusive use of writing inks seems to have a connection with the world of painters. As Thomas McGrath notes, artists’ drawings, beginning in the late Trecento, displayed colored washes and gouaches; in the same years, Cennino Cennini provided recipes for washes in his celebrated Libro dell’arte.6 There is textual evidence of the regular application of color in the case of collaborations between architects and painters. In 1349, the overseer of the fabric of the Auvergne abbey of La Chaise-Dieu went to Avignon with the architects Pierre Salciat and Pierre de Cébazat to show their patron, Pope Clement VI, a parchment sheet depicting the abbey’s portal, drawn by the two masters, along with two others, made by a painter.7 In 1360, a drawing of the central bay of the façade of Strasbourg Cathedral was done in black ink, heightened with colors for its sculptural program. Here, the texts refer to a collaboration between the foreman and an illuminator, so that the project would have a primarily pictorial quality.8 The model for the rood screen of Le Mans Cathedral, executed before 1519, was made up of eight parchment skins, which were heightened with gouache and gold over a pen-and-ink-and-wash drawing.9 Archival sources cite architectural drawings commissioned from painters independently of a foreman, as at Amiens between the mid-fifteenth and late sixteenth centuries, when the city was undergoing fortification. Beginning in the 1460s, town pourtraicts (in effect, “portraits”) were commissioned from one of the city’s most important painters, Riquier Haulroye.10 It appears that, most often, when painters were employed, it was to prepare presentation documents for patrons, and no doubt in these cases color was applied lavishly. There is evidence that the same practice was followed for engineering works: in late October 1533, the master mason of Aire (Pas-deCalais), Jehan Lartésien, and the Italian engineer Giacomo Seghizzo, known as the Friar of Modena, made drawings recording the fortifications of the border towns of the formerly Burgundian Low Countries. They were accompanied on their tour of inspection by a painter from the neighboring town of Valenciennes, Jehan Prévost, who drew up on parchment the plans of the cities they visited in order to present them to Duke Philip II de Croÿ in Brussels.11 It appears that when the scale changed (for example, when the object changed from a single building to a group of buildings or even a city), the painter took over from the architect, and the colors of illumination changed from those of writing. The medieval tradition of pourtraicts of cities and buildings persisted into the Renaissance, but in fourteenth-century Italy new ways of representing single constructions, especially by means of plays of color, emerged from painters’ circles. Giotto introduced effects of depth and perspective unprecedented in the representation of architecture since Roman antiquity. In Padua, in the Cappella degli Scrovegni frescoes completed around 1305, he depicted the first coherent architectural spaces, which recur in various scenes.12 To this end, he employed

6. Guillaume Prévôt (attrib.), project for a portal of the hospital of Amiens, ca. 1529. Brown ink on parchment, 61.6 × 45.4 cm. Société des Antiquaires de Picardie, Amiens.

15 | architectures in black and white

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several devices, including oblique views and cast shadows—techniques that would later be adopted by architects.13 In his designs for Florence’s bell tower, now lost, which he began in 1334, Giotto would certainly have used color, chiaroscuro, and the sense of perspective that appears on a parchment of around 1350, bearing an anonymous design for Siena’s bell tower that derives directly from the Florentine projects, especially in its lower section (fig. 7).14 The use of color in Tuscan architectural drawings, while unusual, is not unique. An elevation presumed to be for Siena’s Cappella di Piazza displays brown-red washes for the inlaid colored marbles on the façade.15 In an attempt to render the texture of the surfaces, the draftsman inked in abstract lines. If we accept Christoph Luitpold Frommel’s hypothesis, the earliest wooden models might have represented a response on the part of master builders to the illusionism of the painter-architects, who at the time had a monopoly on presentation drawings.16 And, indeed, these models are most often made of a single kind of wood and, during the Renaissance, were rarely painted.17 Alberti cautioned against “colored and lewdly dressed [models] with the allurement of painting,” which served only to charm and to disguise the facts.18 When architectural drawings entered the early modern age—especially at the Florence Cathedral construction site in the late fifteenth century—they were most often in a single color of ink. This abandonment of the late medieval experiments in polychromy may be explained by several factors, primarily the phenomenon of the architects’ identification as distinct from painters and the appearance on the scene of the first architectural prints. —

7. Elevation of the Campanile of Siena, ca. 1339–50. Brown ink and colored washes on parchment, 222.5 × 31.5 cm. Museo dell’Opera del Duomo di Siena, Siena.

Advances in printing and the earliest architectural woodcuts were crucial to the history of the use of color in architectural drawings. Strikingly, architectural prints employed monochromy within a medium that used color profusely. A significant number of the first woodcuts, around 1400, notably playing cards and devotional images, were hand colored.19 The demand for hand-colored woodcuts declined in the early sixteenth century, because the overall quality of prints improved, as did the aesthetic values of whites and blacks, especially in copperplate engravings. In the late fifteenth century, color prints also evolved, alongside hand-colored examples.20 The difference should be pointed out between hand-colored prints, for which the color was applied to the printed page, either freehand or with stencils, and the mechanically produced color prints that appeared in Europe in the early sixteenth century. There was also a difference between the ink used for typographical works, composed of oil or varnish mixed with soot, and the ink used in copperplate printing, made of charcoal from carbonized vegetable matter. Woodcuts, typographical prints, and copperplate prints each required a different type of printing press, a different ink, and a different set of skills.21 The earliest known polychrome woodcut print displays red and blue initials on a Psalterium published in Mainz by Johann Fust and Peter Schöffer in 1457.22 In the succeeding years, printers would use as many as five color blocks, in addition to the block for

16 | prologue

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8. Albrecht Altdorfer, The Beautiful Virgin of Regensburg, ca. 1519–20. Color woodcut, 33.9 × 24.6 cm. National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, Rosenwald Collection.

the black contour lines.23 Another technique, borrowed from an earlier draftsman’s tradition, consisted of printing on paper previously washed in color.24 Early in the next century, German artists, including Lucas Cranach the Elder and Albrecht Altdorfer, produced complex multicolor prints intended as luxury objects. Not long afterward, the technique was adopted by Italian artists, such as Ugo da Carpi and Parmigianino, under the name of chiaroscuro.25 Altdorfer’s Beautiful Virgin of Regensburg, cut around 1519–20 in six colors, is undoubtedly the finest example of the quality that early Renaissance color prints could achieve (fig. 8). The Virgin and Child are depicted in an architectural frame with Corinthian pilasters, on which the marble elements are differentiated from the stone by their lively colors, an effect that never appears in prints with architecture as

17 | architectures in black and white

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9. (opposite) “Prima [Quarta] musculorum tabula.” In Andreas Vesalius, De humani corporis fabrica (Basel: Johannes Oporinus, 1543). Woodcut, partially hand colored. Universitätsbibliothek Basel. 10. Agostino Veneziano, medal showing old Saint Peter’s in Rome, with Bramante’s additions of 1506, published by Antonio Salamanca, 1517. Engraving, diam. 19.3 cm. British Museum, London.

their principal subject. Hand-colored prints were nevertheless abundantly used by publishers of anatomical books (fig. 9).26 Anatomy and architecture—linked since antiquity through architectural anthropomorphism—were both revived in Renaissance Italy, their paths running parallel in the revival of the study of ancient Roman knowledge and artifacts.27 For example, the engraver and architect Wendel Dietterlin, recently studied by Elizabeth Petcu, produced two-color toned prints in the 1540s that were heavily influenced by anatomical treatises.28 But this case is exceptional enough for us to discount any systematic link between an interest in anatomy and the growing use of color on paper, tempting though the analogy might be. A century later, for example, Claude Perrault, the architect of the Paris Observatory and the Louvre Colonnade in the 1670s, consistently drew in black ink, despite having been trained as a medical doctor and anatomist.29 Thus, while color was virtually ubiquitous in Renaissance prints—whether in popular or scientific stenciled prints, or in painters’ experiments with polychromy—the architectural print, a relative newcomer, remained exceptionally monochrome. The emergence in the Quattrocento of a new conception of drawing, as a tool of exploration and learning as well as a means of recording and communicating information, pushed the artists of Florence and the whole of Italy to learn to make visual reproductions of what they saw and studied. Before prints, the only multiple reproductions of architectural images were medals, whose circulation was limited by their cost.30 Matteo de’ Pasti’s 1450 view of Alberti’s Tempio Malatestiano and Cristoforo Caradosso Foppa’s elevation of Bramante’s project for the basilica of Saint Peter, of 1506, are likely the best known of these. The latter was, in fact, translated into a print by Agostino Veneziano in 1517 (fig. 10). Veneziano engraved

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a copy of a medal after a drawing of a wooden model—four media for representing architecture, all monochrome. In the last decades of the fifteenth century, prints of imaginary architecture were produced before images of existing ancient or modern buildings. In the same years, primarily in the Low Countries, the earliest prints also represented views of ideal cities, but these were made primarily as resources for painters.31 While single prints initially depicted the elements of orders, in the first decades of the sixteenth century they began to represent entire buildings.32 This phenomenon emerged in tandem with the popularization of the writings of Vitruvius, in the first illustrated editions of De architectura, Fra Giocondo’s in 1511 and Cesare Cesariano’s in 1521;33 but not until the 1530s and 1540s would there be a quantitative and qualitative increase in printed images of both architectural details and complete ancient and modern Roman structures, some recorded in orthogonal projection and measured, others depicted pictorially, in perspective. For the architect and theorist Sebastiano Serlio of Bologna, whose first illustrated works appeared in 1537, the image lay at the very heart of the architectural process.34 The woodcuts allowed him to show text and image on the same page. They are treated equally, displaying the same monochromatic quality of the printing ink. Serlio’s was a specifically didactic project, modeled on the studies of contemporary Latinists. He was close to the humanist Giulio Camillo, a specialist in rhetoric and language, and this relationship illuminates Serlio’s particular approach: dismantling models then reassembling the fragments to create new projects. Mario Carpo has shown that Serlio’s graphic, or, rather, typographic architectural representation of buildings was independent of architecture’s materiality or execution.35 Architectural prints were fundamentally unrelated to the painters’ imitation of visible reality, while their consistent use of monochromy set them apart from the colored artists’ prints around them. The multiplication of architectural prints and the diversification of types of representation that began in the 1540s—especially with the appearance of technical engravings, like Jacob Bos’s depiction of the principal vault in Saint Peter’s in Rome, published by Antonio Lafreri in 1561—contributed to the dissemination over the course of the sixteenth century of several representational conventions that gradually became standard across Europe and established a strong connection between monochromatic figuration and accurate architectural representation.36 As we shall see, one could also argue that, initially, color in the representation of architecture served primarily to indicate the materials employed; in the case of treatises and single prints, the intention was to provide models, based on proportions and sculpted ornament, that were adaptable to any local situation.37 I propose that when color was added to an architectural print it diminished the universality of the image’s application, causing it to dwindle into excessive specificity. The pioneering production by Italian printmakers of architectural prints, the characteristic absence of color in these, and the concomitant development of the systematic and varied employment of architectural drawings in the creative process largely explain the persistent attachment of Italian architects to monochromy in their drawing practice.

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Monochromy and Italian Europe Renaissance architects took ancient monuments as their models; these had all but lost their plaster coatings, and with them their colors, such that the absence of color appeared more natural on paper. Belief in the monochromy of ancient architectural ruins lasted throughout the period under investigation here: this tenet would not be questioned until the 1820s. The taste for monochromy was defended in the theories of the earliest architectural treatises. In De re aedificatoria (On the Art of Building), for example, written between 1443 and 1452, Alberti defined the framework within which visual depictions of architecture would be discussed for the next 150 years: verisimilitude, exactitude, and the degree to which the medium chosen communicates information that is correct and appropriate to the project.38 The second generation of theorists of architecture, descended from Serlio, was the first to maintain that drawing was not just a tool to give visual form to the architect’s inventions, but the chief motor, in fact, of the renaissance of classical architecture—the entire process of architectural creation was called disegno. In his project to raise the status of Florentine art, his Vite, published in 1550 and 1568, Giorgio Vasari argued that color corrupted the purity of drawing.39 A generation later, architects energetically endorsed the primacy of drawing over color. For the Venetian Vincenzo Scamozzi, rather than being reproductions of the visible world, drawings were analyses of the geometric structures informing architectural objects: geometric diagrams much more than images.40 For Scamozzi, architectural drawings were scientific by nature: drawing was a way to acquire knowledge, as well as to represent it. He condemned painterly methods such as linear perspective on the grounds that they communicated only the appearance of things and not their essence. In keeping with this tenet, the illustrations of Scamozzi’s book are too abstract to build from; instead, they offer “visualizations,” as Caroline van Eck has characterized them: visual organizations of a body of analytical knowledge.41 In this, Scamozzi differed from Serlio, who had defined the practice of all’antica architecture in terms of a pictorial talent for invention, not learning and science, thereby uniting architectural invention and visual representation. What clearly distinguishes Serlio from Scamozzi, and explains in part their opposing viewpoints, is that the former—as, later, Bramante, Peruzzi, Michelangelo, and Raphael— trained as a painter first, while Scamozzi, Barbaro, and Palladio did not approach architecture from such a background. Architects who came from the worlds of construction or scholarship emphasized a scientific approach to drawing, which entailed a rejection of painterly means. As has been stressed above, polychromy is all but absent from fifteenthcentury Italian architectural drawings, even when color is used in artists’ drawings in regions such as Venice.42 Polychromy made a timid appearance in Florence in three colored drawings of church façades by the Florentine engineer and sculptor Bonaccorso Ghiberti, executed between 1472 and 1483 and gathered in his zibaldone, or notebook of drawings and texts.43 However, beyond indicating the colors of

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marble, the few applications of color in architectural drawings occur for the most part in the case of architects who originally trained as painters.44 In the sixteenth century, northern and central Italian painters regularly applied polychromy to their drawings.45 Simultaneously, as Wolfgang Lotz indicated, architectural drawings evinced the depictions of depth developed in painting, as when Leonardo da Vinci adapted to architectural drawings the technique of multiple layers that he employed to draw the human figure, or when Raphael revolutionized the representation of architecture as a coherent whole while introducing a new way of visualizing space.46 Unlike the use of geometric perspective in elevations, however, the correlation between painting training and color use is not systematic. Raphael, who arrived in Rome in 1508 and who would apply Bramante’s representational techniques the following year in the architectural background of The School of Athens, routinely worked up perspective drawings in order to explore the effects of his projects, particularly for Saint Peter’s, but he never applied diverse colors in his drawings.47 Similarly, Antonio da Sangallo and Michelangelo used only black or red chalk in their drawings.48 Perhaps they intended their graphic methods to create a division between their architectural and painterly practices, thereby acknowledging a differentiation of approach according to the object on which they were working. Giuliano da Sangallo and his circle may have been among the few architects to introduce chromatic variations into their drawings. Giovanni Francesco da Sangallo’s plan of the Villa di Agnano is a significant example, in which green watercolor both indicates vegetation and delineates the boundary between inside and outside spaces (fig. 11).49 Polychromy also appears in the practice of Baldassare Peruzzi, a painter who became an architect, setting him apart from his contemporaries.50 Aside from such early exceptional cases, however, sixteenth-century Italian drawing was associated only with restrained applications of polychromy, and this is what came to be emulated: Italian practice would inspire a taste for graphic monochromy throughout Europe, inaugurating national traditions of architectural draftsmanship that bear witness to cultural transfers in early modern Europe. By far the most important exponents of the Italian tradition of monochromy in architectural representation were to be the English. — The Elizabethan period has left few architectural drawings, and these were executed by precursors to the professionalized architect, namely builders, masons, and sculptors who were active on the construction site. Scattered surviving drawings seem to show attempts to employ imitative, differentiated colors in order to represent materials in the manner of painters or the medieval tradition. A drawing from 1561, attributed to John Revell, for a new tower for London’s Saint Paul’s Cathedral depicts leadwork in blue; in Cornelius Cure’s design for a monument to Edward VI, drawn around 1580, color distinguishes the marble columns and panels in the elevation and for the balustrade in the plan.51 In the latter case, the exceptionally masterful draftsmanship is very likely the result of

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11. Giovanni Francesco da Sangallo, plan of the Villa di Agnano, ca. 1500. Drypoint, brown ink, and brown and green washes on paper, 114.9 × 56.8 cm. Gallerie degli Uffizi, Florence.

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12. Robert Smythson, project for the main façade of Oldcotes, ca. 1590. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 32.5 × 47 cm. Royal Institute of British Architects, London.

Cure’s training among Dutch architects, which would also explain, as we shall see, the application of imitative color. The master mason Robert Smythson also used color washes in his drawings, especially, on an elevation of Oldcotes Manor— green for window panes, blue and red wash for the muntins, columns, balustrades, pediments, and chimney stacks (fig. 12).52 In each instance, the intention was to render the nature of the materials imitatively, no doubt following the example of Netherlandish draftsmen, as we shall see later. Architectural drawings did not become routine instruments in England until the first half of the seventeenth century, notably with Inigo Jones, around whom the professional identity of the architect was defined. Jones came to architectural by way of figurative drawing.53 His style underwent a remarkable transformation between 1608, when he designed lavish entertainments (masques) for the court of James I, and 1630, when he had been first architect to the crown for twenty years: as his practice became more professional and as he turned to architecture, he gradually abandoned color in his drawings. For a time, between 1608 and 1613, Jones drew like a painter. The watercolors he lavishly applied covered vague

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strokes and wobbly straight lines: he seems not to have employed the architectural draftsman’s tools, in particular a ruler and divider. His manner began to change as he acquired drawings by Palladio, first in 1612 from the English ambassador to Venice, Sir Henry Wotton, and then further during his second journey through Italy over the next two years.54 His annotated copy of Palladio’s I quattro libri expresses his new fascination with Italian architectural representation (fig. 13). Palladio’s drawings, orthogonally projected and to scale, were Jones’s models. He began to adopt orthogonal projections, use a ruler for the principal lines, and apply washes in a cautious way, subordinated to the overall effect. More generally, he embraced Palladio’s monochrome manner, using black ink, pen, and gray wash almost exclusively. In time, Jones would gradually give up wash; late in his career, now displaying a very sure pen stroke, he preferred drawing with a great economy of line.55 His legacy in England was the association of the professional practice of architecture with gray monochromy. In the period following his own death in 1652 and that of his pupil and collaborator John Webb twenty years later, distinct, opposing interpretations of monochromy would even emerge in English drawing.

13. I quattro libri dell’architettura di Andrea Palladio (Venice: Bartolomeo Carampello, 1601), copy annotated by Inigo Jones. Worcester College Library, Oxford, bequest of George Clarke.

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14. Christopher Wren, project for Saint Paul’s Cathedral, London, south elevation, ca. 1675. Brown ink over pencil, colored washes on paper, 36.3 × 52.8 cm. All Souls College, Oxford.

This baroque generation represented two conflicting currents, both veering toward pictorial modes of architectural representation. Influenced by the polychromy of Dutch drawing, Christopher Wren used imitative colors (to be discussed in the following chapter). The work of his collaborator Nicholas Hawksmoor remained in monochrome black and white, but with a painterly use of washes not found in Jones’s more linear technique.56 This generation’s divergent modes of baroque architectural representation is well summarized in Wren’s presentation drawing for Saint Paul’s (around 1675, All Souls College, Oxford), in gray, brown, blue, and yellow washes, contrasted with Hawksmoor’s drawing of the same cathedral’s south elevation, entirely in gray wash, executed around a decade later, and employing largely pictorial techniques to achieve dramatic effects (figs. 14 and 15).57 In the 1720s, however, Inigo Jones’s late manner was resoundingly adopted by a new generation that took over the Office of Works and employed the Palladian gray monochromy that would prevail in England until mid-century.58 In the absence of an academy of architecture, the Office of Works, responsible for furnishing the architects assigned to the royal residences, and the Board of Ordnance, which

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oversaw primarily military engineers, exerted considerable influence over the types of drawing employed. Color washes vanished, leaving only gray and bister; there was less shading, and even the exuberant perspectives and styles of the drawings of Hawksmoor, Sir John Vanbrugh, and William Talman were no more.59 As often happens, it is the exceptions that reveal how the application of color spread. For example, Talman’s son John included colored effects in some of his drawings, no doubt influenced by his long stay in the United Provinces, where he studied law and made a number of topographical drawings (fig. 16).60 He spent the next twenty years moving between Italy and England. In 1724–25, a member of the Spalding Gentlemen’s Society described his drawings thus: “The drawings are not black and white but every thing in proper colours and beautyfully Limned by himself, Seignior Grisoni a Florentine and other Eminent and accurate hands.”61 The reference to Giuseppe Grisoni, a Florentine painter whom Talman employed from 1709 to copy architectural drawings, reveals the close connection between painting and architectural drawing that characterizes Talman’s use of color.62 This same connection explains the other exception within the British world of

15. Nicholas Hawksmoor, project for Saint Paul’s Cathedral, London, south elevation, ca. 1685–87. Black ink and gray wash on paper, 48.6 × 68.3 cm. All Souls College, Oxford.

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16. John Talman, preliminary design for a villa near Hampton Court Palace, London, 1694. Brown ink and colored washes on paper, 22 × 33.5 cm. Royal Institute of British Architects, London.

monochrome drawing in the first half of the eighteenth century, James Gibbs. Gibbs trained as a painter in Rome before taking up architecture and joining Carlo Fontana’s workshop. He specialized in drawings of vedute for British tourists, which accounts for his exceptional use of color, especially pink for masonry in section.63 Gibbs, who was Catholic and Tory, unlike the Protestant and Whig Palladians, passed on this taste for color to one of the leading members of the Jacobite party, John Erskine, earl of Mar, a Scottish amateur architect of the first third of the eighteenth century.64 In her brilliant monograph on Mar, Margaret Stewart points out that during his stays in Paris and Rome, he employed local draftsmen, which explains the introduction of extensive color in his drawings, including his design for the remodeling of a house for his compatriot James Johnston, drawn in Paris in 1721 (fig. 17).65 Thus, while Palladian monochromy dominated architectural drawing in Britain in the first half of the eighteenth century, there are exceptions, explained in large part by strong ties with cultural zones other than Italy—namely the Low Countries and France—and close relationships with painting. In all such cases, the tints applied to paper allowed for a more or less realistic representation of the color of the materials employed. Indeed, the most common, widespread, and earliest

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17. John Erskine, earl of Mar, house for James Johnston, Paris, 1721. Brown and black ink and colored washes on paper, 27 × 31.2 cm. National Records of Scotland, Edinburgh.

application of color in the depiction of architecture derives from mimesis, the imitation of the visible and, especially, building materials. Color allowed draftsmen to avoid ambiguity in the depiction of materials in a straightforward, time-saving way, eliminating the tedious task of representing each element of construction with multiple strokes. The following chapter broaches the use of color by architects that derived from the practice of painters.

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CHAPTER ONE

Imitative Colors

Italian architects preferred limited palettes that emphasized the architectural nature of the representation and concentrated on proportions and sculpted ornaments, rather than local contingencies. Draftsmen from other traditions, particularly in France and the United Provinces, introduced color in order to imitate the appearance of materials that they wished to employ (in the case of project drawings) or recall (in the case of record drawings). How these alternative modes of architectural representation might intersect and compete with monochromy has already been made evident in the British case. Architects who took on color in more elaborate ways were, on the whole, less committed to setting themselves apart from painters; indeed, they were quick to borrow painters’ already well established mimetic means without necessarily adopting a painters’ primary goal of seducing the eye of the beholder. In the first section of this chapter, the obvious impact of pictorial colors on architectural elevations is addressed by pointing to the myriad professional overlaps between painting, sculpture, and the nascent category of architectural draftsmanship. In the second, more extensive, section, mapmaking—a far more abstract means of visualizing the built environment—is considered with regard to its influence on the coloring of architectural plans.

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Painting Elevations The imitative use of color, keyed to the choice of materials, was a tradition derived from medieval illuminations and characterized illustrated treatises on machines.1 It was a feature of French drawing in particular, from the late sixteenth century, and was prominent in the practice of Jacques I Androuet du Cerceau, the first French architect a significant number of whose finished drawings survive. Du Cerceau, who has been studied by Peter Fuhring and Claude Mignot, employed the same graphic method on both vellum and paper. First, he laid out the composition by pricking, then traced the main lines of the composition with a metal stylus or black chalk. He then went over the outlines in pen and ink, and finally applied colored washes with a brush. Du Cerceau’s straight lines were laid down with a ruler, the curved lines with a compass. In a single instance, found in a collection of models of triumphal arches at the Vatican Library, du Cerceau drew and washed the architectural elements in black and the sculpture in brown.2 Generally, however, he used little color, since most of his drawings were intended to be engraved. When color washes do appear—notably on works made for royal patrons—they align deliberately with the intended construction materials.3 For his drawings on vellum, du Cerceau accentuated distinctions in two areas: the roofing material, either slate or tiles—using blue-gray wash for the former, red wash for the latter— and the material of the exterior walls, either brick or stone—using red for brick and leaving areas in paper reserve for stone. We can see this treatment on the elevations of the Louis XII and François I wings of the Château de Blois (fig. 18).4 The blue-gray tint du Cerceau used to wash his roofs came to be called “slate blue” in the following centuries, because of its almost exclusive use by architectural draftsmen.5 The custom of identifying roof colors with blue and red derived, as we shall see, from early mapmaking practices, which gave us details as precise as thatched roofs being depicted in yellow.6 However, while painter-cartographers applied color merely to imitate reality or else to enliven their drawings, architects provided their viewers with information essential to understanding the project. This practice of differentiating roofing materials occurs in the Recueil de Lyon, drawn in du Cerceau’s circle and published by Sylvie Deswarte-Rosa and Daniel RégnierRoux.7 It contains naturalistic notations such as bricks drawn in red ink and some roofs washed in red or blue-gray. As in du Cerceau’s drawings, flowerbeds are very rarely washed in green or yellow, but are inked in brown or black. The use of color is limited to the dual distinction slate/tile and brick/stone, and to buildings; it is thus instrumental in conveying information about the project, unlike a painterly mimetic practice, which would extend to everything visible. And yet, du Cerceau’s application of color cannot be analyzed as merely informational, since the vellums on which he laid his color washes were not intended for builders or even other architects, but for potential clients. His use of polychromy was not systematic, but infrequent and restrained. Furthermore, he readily looked to painters for unusual plastic effects, particularly in his etchings of

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the 1540s, which are heightened with wash and often catalogued as drawings, with titles handwritten in ink.8 This evidence of a singular approach toward publishing reveals an imitative impulse that went well beyond the figurative requirements of the world of construction, and that followed more closely the strategies painters implemented to please powerful patrons. Du Cerceau’s predilection for color had a lasting impact on the French tradition. However modestly, it reflects an attraction to painterly methods that is mostly absent in the Italian drawing tradition and its offshoots. For example, the anonymous draftsman of a section of the Palais Royal in Paris, dated around 1650, employed a third color, yellow, in addition to the red of the bricks of the chimney stacks and the blue of the slate roof (fig. 19). The yellow wash indicates the wood of the frame, as du Cerceau had earlier used it occasionally in certain drawings for the woodwork on windows and door panels;9 however, this anonymous draftsman employed the same yellow tint for the gilded lead of the roof ridges. Unlike the blue and red, the yellow here indicates two different types of material; rather than distinguishing two construction alternatives—slate or tile, brick or stone—it served to embellish the drawing, since the Mansart-style frame

18. Jacques I Androuet du Cerceau, Château de Blois, two studies, ca. 1570. Drypoint, black ink, and colored washes on vellum, 51 × 74.4 cm. British Museum, London.

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19. Section of the Palais Royal, ca. 1650. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 37 × 134 cm. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm. 20. Office of Jules HardouinMansart, plan of a stop and pile of the bridge in Moulins, ca. 1704–5. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 78 × 136 cm. Archives Nationales, Paris.

was clearly identifiable by the drawn shape, and its material—wood—remained consistent until the appearance of wrought iron in the nineteenth century. The color’s purpose on this presentation drawing was not to eliminate any ambiguity; its use has more to do with painterly imitation than with any conveying of functional information about the nature of architectural materials. At the same time, some architects resisted such gratuitous mimetic applications. Philibert de l’Orme, an architect patronized by Catherine de Médicis, in his Premier tome de l’architecture (First volume of architecture) of 1567— the first architectural treatise by a Frenchman—condemned the practice of some of his colleagues who employed painters to prepare their presentation drawings, a tradition that we have seen goes back to the late Middle Ages. De l’Orme was moved to write, “So every day we see a number of portraitists & draftsmen, most

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of whom would not know how to draw or depict anything well, were it not for the aid & means of painters, who are more skilled at cosmeticizing, washing, shading & coloring them, than at executing them well & properly organizing them with all their measurements.”10 De l’Orme was rehearsing the ancient Aristotelian bias that pitted drawing against color, accusing the latter of blurring perception of the geometric depiction of proportions, an argument taken from the Italian tradition of the architectural treatises that served as models to de l’Orme’s own work. Nevertheless, the practice of representing the materials of roofs and walls with tinted washes remained so consistent in French presentation drawings across the century that it rendered captions superfluous. Only when the variety of materials required too great a range of colors would legends become necessary, as on an early eighteenth-century plan for the project of the bridge at Moulins, prepared in the office of the first (that is, chief) architect to the king of France, Jules Hardouin-Mansart (fig. 20).11 Here, gray represents the earthen banks; blue, the river (but only the edges); pink, the masonry of the embankments; red, the masonry of the pier and abutment; brown, the foundation wooden stakes; yellow, the wooden pieces of the horizontal raft; and, finally, gray is used for the rubble work. The multiplicity of colors to indicate materials created more confusion than clarity, and indeed this particular draftsman’s approach was an exception in seventeenth-century France. Beyond their use for the slate/tile and brick/ stone pairs (almost completely abandoned in the 1630s, when brick façades began to go out of fashion), colored washes were employed only to identify specific materials or the juxtaposition of differently colored materials. This was especially true when colored marbles, which enjoyed tremendous popularity during this period and brought built architecture close to painting in its chromatic range and compositional complexity, were indicated. The draftsmen of the Bâtiments du Roi (“the King’s Buildings,” a department of the French royal household) used green, yellow, red, pink, brown, and blue in a drawing of around 1700 of the floor of the royal chapel at Versailles (fig. 21). In this case, an architectural presentation drawing resembles an artist’s drawing. This similarity was even more pronounced across the Rhine, where an intersection with painters’ means characterized the development of the first city views. — If seventeenth-century French architects employed polychromy in their drawings primarily as a means of distinguishing between materials, particularly on the surfaces of the buildings represented, their counterparts in the Low Countries and the German regions adopted more wholeheartedly a rich chromatic range that seems to have had roots in the much earlier practice of manuscript illumination. The link between seventeenth-century draftsmen and manuscript illumination seems evident in a particularly northern tradition of city views. This tradition eschews Italian models that show the city at a distance, seen from outside its walls, in favor of “zooming in,” as it were, to address individual buildings. With this

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21. Office of Jules-HardouinMansart, drawing of the marble floor of the chapel of the Palace of Versailles, ca. 1700. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 107 × 72 cm. Archives Nationales, Paris.

shift, color’s mimetic role vis-à-vis a given building assumes a greater importance. In the Middle Ages, representations of cities were chiefly symbolic. Since legally and spatially a city was defined by its walls, the principal features were the walls and towers, as in Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s famous early fourteenth-century fresco The Effects of Good Government, painted on the walls of Siena’s Palazzo Pubblico. In the Renaissance, topographical elements began to appear within ideal and symbolic views, especially those by Gentile Bellini and Vittorio Carpaccio. Employing what Patricia Fortini Brown has termed an “eyewitness style,” late fifteenth-century Venetian painters focused attention on both the narrative and decorative details, responding to the “documentary” requirements of the scuole that commissioned them to embellish the walls of their new council rooms.12 In Gentile Bellini’s Procession of the True Cross in Piazza San Marco, painted around 1496, the architecture as much as the procession is the subject of the canvas (fig. 22). The gold of the shrine containing the relics carried by the participants echoes that on the façade of the basilica of Saint Mark, in the background; the use of the same hues creates a dialogue between miniature and monumental architecture. This civic interest in urban architecture in Venetian painting occurred simultaneously

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with the earliest topographical views of the Serenissima, such as the bird’s-eye view engraved by Erhard Reuwich and inserted into Bernhard von Breydenbach’s Peregrinatio in Terram Sanctam, published in Mainz in 1486.13 This was a successor to the so-called “assembly-line” view of Florence, itself a contemporary copy, executed in the Tuscan capital around 1480 by Francesco Rosselli, of a lost original, and considered the first early modern view of a European city.14 Direct observation allowed the print to depict the entire city as a microcosm. In 1500, Jacopo de’ Barbari published his bird’s-eye view of Venice in six sheets, and it would remain a model of Italian topographical representation for the rest of the century.15 However, while cities were still perceived as walled entities, the viewpoint tended to grow closer, enabling the increasing number of buildings composing their skylines to be presented in a clearer, less jumbled manner. This is evident in Abraham Ortelius’s engravings for his Theatrum orbis terrarum, published in 1570 in Antwerp: the cities are shown as enclosed agglomerations drawn from an angle of between thirty and sixty degrees, with the most important religious and civic buildings detailed and recognizable by the spectator.16 A viewpoint located within the walls, which allowed for representations more akin to those of architectural projects, emerged in the last third of the sixteenth century. Dupérac, in I vestigi dell’antichità di Roma, of 1575, portrayed certain buildings within their urban spaces, but his views focus on monuments, not on the living city,17 unlike the approach of engravers and draftsmen such as Israël Silvestre and Lievin Cruyl in the next century. In the German areas, regions whose cities had long traditions of autonomy and urban iconography, Stadtbilder, or “city images,” were popular from the mid-fifteenth century.18 Shortly thereafter, cities started themselves to become iconographic subjects, independently of any religious or historiographic context.19 This development occurred later in the Low Countries, with Flemish painters beginning to insert identifying urban features only in the sixteenth century.20 Some of the earliest views are drawings that Antonie Jacobus van Wijngaerdt made at mid-century for King Philip II of Spain, which show cities enclosed by their protective walls, after the Italian model.21 Concurrently, we witness the blossoming of a way of depicting the city that derived from navigation: skylines seen at a distance, more or less at eye level, recalling the views published in the Rhenish regions of cities along the pilgrimage routes to Jerusalem.22 After 1585, with Amsterdam having become the principal center of production of cityscapes, engravers such as Claes Jansz. Visscher developed the practice of combining map and city skyline on a single sheet, as on an extraordinary map made between 1611 and 1621, which shows the Low Countries and United Provinces joined at the moment of the Twelve Years’ Truce, in the image of Leo belgicus (fig. 23).23 At the turn of the seventeenth century, in fact, this type of graphic production was emerging in tandem with a new literary genre, which described and exalted urban landscapes not by focusing on their defenses from an exterior, military viewpoint, but by adopting that of a city dweller or a visitor inside the walls. The first such literary work to be widely distributed was certainly Historische beschrijvinghe der

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22. Gentile Bellini, Procession of the True Cross in Piazza San Marco, ca. 1496. Tempera on canvas, 347 × 770 cm. Galleria dell’Accademia, Venice.

seer wijt beroemde coop-stadt Amsterdam (Historical description of the famous capital of Amsterdam), published in 1614 by Johannes Isaac Pontanus; it contains a folding map of the city along with its skyline, as well as elevations of the five most important local institutions.24 Printers began issuing series of cityscapes for the market, including those engraved by Reinier Nooms, known as Zeeman, in the early 1650s.25 Whilst Johannes Vermeer was painting his celebrated View of Delft, in 1659–60, books describing Amsterdam proliferated. The best known is Historische Beschryving der Stadt Amsterdam (Historical description of the city of Amsterdam), by Olfert Dapper, published in 1663 (fig. 24).26 Here, sixtytwo urban views comprise a panorama of the city’s most important monuments and institutions, thereby extolling good government and the public and private efforts of Dutch citizens. The tradition persisted over the course of the century, for example in the view of Delft executed 1675–78 by a team of artists under the direction of Dirck Evertsz. van Bleyswyck.27 This “Kaart Figuratief,” as it was known, made up of twenty-nine plates that can be configured as desired, represents a large plan of the city, with a generalized skyline above and bordered on three sides by a series of vignettes depicting skylines, elevations of specific buildings, and plans. It freely mixes traditions from mapmaking, painting, and literature—this last represented by a lengthy caption and a poem by Constantijn Huygens. The print tradition of city views directly influenced painters working in oil on canvas, inaugurating a genre of painted city views specific to the United Provinces. The school forming around Gerrit Adriaensz. Berckheyde and Jan van der Heyden celebrated the monuments and urban culture of the United Provinces

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23. Claes Jansz. Visscher, Leo belgicus, between 1611 and 1621. Hand-colored engraving, 47 × 57.5 cm. Wikipedia Commons.

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through modes of viewing already being rehearsed in print culture (fig. 25). In a context in which architects were trained as painters, the impact of this polychromatic world was long lasting, and manifests itself in their works on paper. This context illuminates the unique connection between the use of color and the depiction of architecture that developed in the United Provinces during the country’s so-called golden age. Dutch architectural drawing was largely the result of the emergence of the cityscape genre, which used pictorial means to emphasize the urban fabric and its monuments. Its practitioners were artists whom the Dutch towns employed as municipal architects from the 1630s. — In the United Provinces, in the seventeenth century, a group of architects developed a specific type of drawing that was characterized by strict orthogonality and a significant application of colored washes, a combination contrasting with the rest of Europe’s architectural drawings.28 The practice of using the former representational technique was inspired by Palladio’s and Scamozzi’s treatises and the accelerating advances in surveying: the science of assessing and measuring works to be built.29 The appearance of the latter may be explained in large part by the specific nature of the architectural profession in the Low Countries and United Provinces. As Merlijn Hurx explains in a recent study, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, city councils in the Low Countries worked with companies of builders, usually overseen by a master mason and a master carpenter, whose drawings often used different colors to show the different materials to be employed, particularly in designs for canal locks.30 Superimposed on this tradition in the late sixteenth century was a 24. Olfert Dapper, Historische Beschryving der Stadt Amsterdam (Amsterdam: Jacob van Meurs, 1663), 433–34.

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new, independent professional identity, which absorbed the role of the municipal mason: that of the sculptor. The reason for sculptors’ new prominence lay in a new architectural criterion: a building’s architectural quality was now judged primarily on the basis of the sculpted ornamentation of its façades. This development occurred also in the southern Low Countries, as studies by Oliver Kik have shown.31 It is therefore difficult to distinguish between masons, kleinstekers (sculptors of small pieces), and artist-sculptors in this period,32 the last of whom routinely applied color to their presentation drawings, as with Lieven de Key’s sheets of the 1590s or those of Hendrick de Keyser, appointed Amsterdam’s architect, a decade later.33 Beginning in 1521, the cleensteker (sculptor-stonecutter) Domien de Waghemakere produced drawings of several important monuments, including the Antwerp Stock Exchange and the Ghent town hall.34 In 1631, when Salomon de Bray published his Architectura moderna, ofte Bouwinge van onsen tyt (Architectura moderna, or, Building in our age) in Amsterdam, he displayed a collection of forty-four engravings of the most important buildings constructed in the preceding years, based on drawings by

25. Gerrit Adriaensz. Berckheyde, View of the Golden Bend in the Herengracht, ca. 1671–72. Oil on panel, 42.5 × 57.9 cm. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

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26. Salomon de Bray, Architectura moderna, ofte Bouwinge van onsen tyt (Amsterdam: Cornelis Danckerts, 1631), frontispiece. 27. Salomon de Bray, The Pentecost, ca. 1600–1650. Red and black chalk, graphite, gouache, and gold paint in spandrels of first support, 29.3 × 23.7 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Harry G. Sperling Fund and Frits and Rita Markus Fund.

de Keyser, “sculptor and master builder of the city of Amsterdam,” and Cornelis Danckerts, “master mason and master builder of the same city” (fig. 26).35 The frontispiece depicts busts of de Keyser and Danckerts, the former flanked by a personification of the arts, the latter by that of the trades, underlining once more the ambiguity of the definition of the building arts in seventeenth-century Europe. Salomon de Bray himself perfectly illustrates yet another new professional type: the painter-architect, who would in time replace the sculptor-architect. De Bray carried on a dual career, as simultaneously painter and architect, and his drawings often display a variety of colors, as we can see in the example of his rendition of the Pentecost (fig. 27).36 The phenomenon represented by such professional models was pervasive. In 1601, Utrecht abolished the office of municipal master mason; in 1621, when a new gate was to be built, the city called on the painter Paulus Moreelse, a member of the town council.37 Moreelse had earlier produced architectural drawings and made the journey to Rome, but his inspiration for the Catharijnepoort (Saint Catherine’s gate)—the construction of which he supervised with some difficulty from 1621 to 1625—derived more from Serlio’s Regole generali di architettura, published in Dutch as early as 1539 by Peter Coecke, than from buildings he had seen on his travels.38 He was succeeded by a group of painters from Haarlem, Jacob van Campen, de Bray, and, later, Pieter Post, who went into

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construction but were increasingly concerned more with the correct application of the classical orders of architecture than with the invention of new decorative motifs. They thus represent a break from the generation of sculptor-foremen. A member of the group, the painter Pieter Jansz. Saenredam, owned an important collection of sixteenth-century architectural drawings, in particular of Roman ruins, in keeping with a traditional Haarlem interest in antiquity, evinced a generation earlier by Hendrick Goltzius and Karel van Mander.39 Saenredam used watercolor for interiors but also for single buildings, such as the palace of the elector palatine Frederick V and the church of Saint Cunera in Rhenen (fig. 28). The slate roofs are washed in blue (the same blue as the sky and the tower clockfaces), the bricks are in red wash, and the shutters in green. The same repertoire of colors moves naturally from the figuration of religious and civic monuments into the realm of portraits of cities and architectural projects. What French architectural draftsmen would keep distinct here bleeds freely into the surrounding pictorial space. Jacob van Campen is a characteristic example of a painter who took up architecture.40 Born in Haarlem in 1596, into one of Amsterdam’s wealthiest and most powerful families, he began building only in 1625, after a lucrative career as a painter (fig. 29). His first clients were from the circle of rich merchants around his uncle Cornelis van Campen. In 1632, he met his principal patron, Constantijn Huygens, Stadtholder Frederik Hendrik’s powerful secretary, for whom he constructed a house on the Plein in Amsterdam, before building the palace of Prince Johan Maurits van Nassau-Siegen in The Hague, the so-called Mauritshuis (fig. 30).41 The 1640s witnessed the height of his architectural activity, with several worksites operating simultaneously, including for Amsterdam’s new town hall, whose construction, based on van Campen’s drawings, began in 1648. As a member of a patrician family, van Campen was not seeking a position that would label him as a builder.42 In addition to being considered the earliest proponent of classicism in the United Provinces, he is considered by historians of Dutch architecture such as Koen Ottenheym to be the first to rely primarily on a graphic idiom to convey his ideas. However, because architectural drawings had not yet acquired the status they would hold in the next generation, communication between van Campen and the builders was difficult. He usually provided only sketches, rarely finished drawings or drawings of details. Huygens complained of this in September 1649, when he wrote, “van Campen, who demands that his orders be followed exactly, sketches them in so obscure a manner that those who must execute them have to make new models from them.”43 Clearly, the mastery of drawing he had gained from his training as a painter was limited to presentation drawings intended for clients, rather than execution drawings meant for workers. His application of pictorial techniques such as perspective and color washes was useless once drawings needed to become technical in the construction phase. His workers were obliged to make wooden models to translate sketches into technical directions. An evolution, however, is apparent in the work of van Campen’s assistants Pieter Post and Philips Vingboons. Like van Campen, Post began his career in

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28. (opposite) Pieter Jansz. Saenredam, The Palace of Frederik V, Elector Palatine, and the SintCunerakerk, Rhenen, 1644. Black and brown ink and colored washes on paper, 51.5 × 39.5 cm. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

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29. Jacob van Campen, Argus, Mercury and Io, ca. 1630–40. Oil on canvas, 204 × 193 cm. Mauritshuis, The Hague.

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30. Bartholomeus Johannes van Hove, The Mauritshuis in The Hague, 1825. Oil on panel, 62 × 72 cm. Rijskmuseum, Amsterdam.

Haarlem as a painter. He began his architectural training when van Campen hired him as a draftsman for the Mauritshuis worksite in the mid-1630s, and then as project manager for Noordeinde Palace. In 1645, Frederik Hendrick, stadtholder and prince of Orange, named him court “architect and painter,” and it was Post who finished the Mauritshuis begun by his former employer (fig. 31). During the First Stadtholderless Period (1650–72), Post worked for various states, built for the great Dutch families, and created public buildings in Leiden, Gouda, and Maastricht. From 1659 to 1666, he provided the overall design for the Maastricht town hall. He had commissioned a wooden model in The Hague beforehand and did not arrive in Maastricht until the laying of the cornerstone, only returning for the delivery in 1666. Meanwhile the necessary detailed drawings were made by the builder of the hall, the local master mason.44 Like van Campen, Post did not supervise the construction site and worked exclusively from overall drawings and wooden models. His colleague Philips Vingboons worked in the same manner. Trained as a painter, and later a draftsman for van Campen, Vingboons began his own career in Amsterdam in 1637.45 As a Catholic, he was ineligible for public commissions, building instead for clients such as the rich merchant and six-time Amsterdam mayor Joan Huydecoper van Maarsseveen, for whom he designed, first, a house on Singel Canal in 1638, and then the Villa Vredenburg in 1642 (fig. 32).

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His drawings, like those of his colleagues, including Post, are washed in colors in an imitative vein, betraying his training as a painter. The slate of the villa’s roof is bluegray, the various hues of brick range from red to orange, and the wooden shutters are yellow-green. The modeled application of the washes allows for effects of wear and plays of light, accentuated by shadows cast by the chimney stacks, dormer windows, pilasters, and balcony, none of which have any relation to architectural information. The examples of van Campen, Post, and Vingboons prove that, given the significant demand for architectural drawings, a talented painter could specialize in the field and become a private architect in a civic society—a position that, in Europe, had hitherto existed only in court circles—without being required to master the basics of construction and the details of its execution.46 Their drawings reveal their practice as painters, and they employed the same colors on their presentation sheets as they did on their artists’ drawings, for the same effects, thereby encouraging the use of pictorial, imitative colors in architectural drawings. In 1672, the Republic of the United Provinces underwent a major crisis when it was attacked by a coalition of England, France, and the bishop of Münster. The economy collapsed, and all construction simply stopped. As a consequence, it seems, some patrons were confronted by demands to pay for drawings of projects that were not to be realized. In January 1676, a group of Amsterdam architects and builders, including Philips Vingboons and his brother Justus, filed a suit to be paid for their drawings, even though they were not the builders, and the project had been canceled.47 Their action reflected the specific situation of this generation of painter-architects, who were at arm’s length from the world of construction. The crisis of 1672 marked the end of the peak period of the autonomous architect, whose contribution was limited to plans in the form of drawings and wooden models. The political and economic crisis drove architects to other occupations, as sculptors, stucco workers, or contractors in what was still a remarkably fluid

31. Pieter Post, elevation of the Mauritshuis, 1652. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 42 × 28 cm. Koninklijke Bibliotheek, The Hague. 32. Philips Vingboons, rear elevation of Huis Vredenburg, Zeist, 1642. Black and brown ink and colored washes on paper. Rijksdienst voor het Cultureel Erfgoed, Amersfoort.

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professional environment. Professional architects, as we might call them, survived only at court; they included Jacob Roman under William III and, in the mideighteenth century, Pieter de Swart under William IV. The circumstances of this period forged a type of architectural drawing that was unique in Europe, however, because of its central role in negotiations between patron and builders and its application of polychromy, based on the dual tradition of the late medieval imitation of materials and the training, as painters, of the new architects of the 1630s and 1640s. These two factors account for the use of polychromy in the United Provinces. Different causes underlay the contemporaneous use of color in architectural drawings in the German nations. — As elsewhere in Europe, the imitative polychrome effects found in German architectural drawings descended from medieval illumination, thus well before the early modern period.48 Here, too, drawings followed the logic of materials and a distinction between the colors of roofs and walls. It should also be recalled that in the many German drawings that appear especially colorful, the draftsman was rendering the Lüftlmalerei, the painted façades typical of the noble houses of southern Germany. This is the case, for example, on an anonymous drawing of around 1530, now in the Albertina in Vienna (fig. 33).49 Unlike in Italy, however, the use of polychromy does not always represent an extension of illuminators’ practices uninterrupted by an awareness of the specificity of the architectural idiom. Wilhelm Dilich serves as an example:50 born around 1571, the son of a pastor, Dilich met Maurice, future landgrave of Hesse-Cassel, at the University of Marburg and entered his service as a self-taught Abreißer, or draftsman.51 The landgrave employed Dilich to organize Hesse-Cassel’s court celebrations, in particular one held in August 1596 in honor of the baptism of the electoral couple’s second daughter.52 Like Inigo Jones a generation later, Dilich passed from ephemeral to durable architecture, designing the reconstruction of several of Maurice’s residences, among them Rheinfels and Reichenberg castles. Cassel’s library has an extensive series of Dilich’s annotated drawings for his projects, which demonstrate his preference for color and his adaptation of his talents as a designer of celebrations to the representation of architectural designs. These drawings are composed as paintings, sometimes even including a drawn trompel’œil frame (figs. 34 and 35). After 1625, Dilich further developed his graphic practice when he was engaged by Johann-Georg, elector of Saxony, as a military engineer, draftsman, architect, and cartographer. Dilich had earlier made maps of the electorate of Hesse. Not by chance was he also a mapmaker, and his use of polychromy derived from this activity as much as from his part in organizing celebrations for the elector. Thus, Dilich was channeling several traditions of the application of color: that of painters of sets for spectacles and that of artists who depicted space as an identifiable and measurable territory. Cartography would

33. Elevation of the east facade of the Stark von Röckenhof townhouse in Nuremberg, ca. 1530. Black ink, colored washes, and gouache on paper, 55.8 × 44.3 cm. Albertina, Vienna.

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34. Wilhelm Dilich, castle of Rheinfels (Hesse), ca. 1609. Black and brown ink and colored washes on paper, 41.1 × 53.8 cm. Universitätsbibliothek Kassel-Landesbibliothek und Murhardsche Bibliothek der Stadt Kassel.

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35. Wilhelm Dilich, castle of Reichenberg (Hesse), ca. 1609. Black and brown ink and colored washes on paper, 41.7 × 54.1 cm. Universitätsbibliothek KasselLandesbibliothek und Murhardsche Bibliothek der Stadt Kassel.

become the primary source of a repertoire of colors to be adapted specifically to a type of figuration unexplored by painters, and which lies at the heart of the architectural practice: the making of horizontal sections.

Architectural Plans and Mapmaking What follows demonstrates the importance of cartographic practice in the development of the colors used in architectural drawings, especially the range of colored washes employed in plans. We have seen that architects drew upon pictorial practices in drawings and on canvas in order to imitate the various materials on façades shown in elevation, but for plans they had to turn to a different type of object and another tradition: the small-scale, two-dimensional depiction of a territory characteristic of maps (the larger the scale, the smaller the amount of land drawn on paper). Having addressed the straightforward imitation of the visible, we will now tackle a different imitative set: the natural signs of cartography. In their natural signs, cartographers offered a model to draftsmen having to deal with the forms of architectural representation that lean toward abstraction—essentially, horizontal sections. Natural signs serve to lighten memory’s burden, facilitate spontaneous reading, and enhance the power of instant evocation. They function by analogy: for example, a drawing of a tower conjures a fortified city.53 This

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36. Matthew Paris, map of the British Isles, ca. 1250. Brown ink and colored washes on parchment, 33.5 × 24.5 cm. British Library, London.

vocabulary appears at different scales of territorial representation: on geographical maps, city plans, surveyors’ maps, and garden designs. On a map of the British Isles, Matthew Paris, a mid-thirteenth-century monk of Saint Albans Abbey, employed analogical signs, such as the continuous crenelations symbolizing Hadrian’s and the Antonine Walls and the simplified drawing of a tower marking an important castle, but he also depicted the sea in green and the rivers in blue (fig. 36).54 The artist chose colors that are certainly imitative—water is not crimson as on certain very early maps of the Red Sea55—but his chromatic differentiation between saltwater and freshwater reveals a taxonomic intention that goes beyond pictorial mimesis to function as a sign. Far more than in elevations, imitative color is here a natural sign, and its use provided, as we will see, a model for draftsmen working at a larger scale, especially architects. Maps, like architectural drawings and prints, employed natural, imitative signs, as well as conventional signs, which will be

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discussed in the following chapter. The investigation of color in mapmaking allows a reconsideration of its appearance in architecture on paper in the seventeenth century, a moment when maps were prominent in the daily space of elite society and served as a reference for many architectural draftsmen. — If we take the French language as an example, the term carte (paper) for map appeared quite late. In Lorraine, as noted by Jacques Guillaume and Francis Roussel, the term was not in common use until the late seventeenth century.56 The emphasis in the titles of cartographic documents is upon the specific placename alone: Les Duchés de Lorraine et de Bar, for instance, of 1685. The term carte was associated with an adjective such as géometrique or géographique; today’s distinction between map and plan—the former generally at a scale beyond 1 to 50,000, the latter smaller than 1 to 20,000—did not exist in early modern Europe. Writers, however, clearly distinguished between cosmography and chorography. In his Plantz, pourtraits et descriptions de plusieurs villes et forteresses (Plans, portraits, and descriptions of various towns and fortresses) of 1564, Antoine du Pinet specifies, “Chorography is used to represent particular places in a lifelike way without the distraction of measurements, proportions, longitudes, latitudes, or any other cosmographic distances. Chorography limits itself to showing to the eye, as vividly as possible, the shape, the situation, and the environs of the place being portrayed. . . . No one can be a good chorographer who is not a painter.”57 Pinet was echoing the difference established by Ptolemy in his Cosmographia, or Geographia (depending on the edition), between the geographer, who should be a good mathematician, and the chorographer, who should be a good painter. The latter sought to achieve a visual resemblance to the object represented. Since the Renaissance, the specific term for this process had been descriptio. When Apianus published Ptolemy’s Cosmographia in Antwerp in 1545, he translated the Greek as “Cosmographia (ut ex etymo vocabuli patet) est mundi . . . descriptio.”58 The term descriptio is used to refer to the written text but also, more broadly, to a method of pictorial representation in which images were drawn or inscribed as if they were writing.59 Like texts and like paintings, maps were made to convey information, but equally intended to please and to convince. Color contributed to all three functions. In the 1960s, however, historians of cartography such as Raleigh Skelton attempted to differentiate between decorative and informative colors in ancient maps.60 The oldest manuscript maps we have, Egyptian papyri dating to the thirteenth century BCE, are in color, and mapmakers continued until the sixteenth century to employ tools used by illuminators. There are, however, certain specifically cartographic approaches to color. Given a paper surface on which the number and variety of ways of rendering information surpassed the usual capacities of text and illuminated imagery, one of the draftsman-mapmaker’s goals was to clarify, hierarchize, and distinguish the data reproduced. This is evident in Matthew Paris’s map. Thus, color played first and foremost a taxonomic

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role. Draftsmen used strong values to create contrast and bright hues like red and gold for the most important elements and for legends, and they exploited the significant difference between matte and shiny surfaces in applying pigments. We also see early applications of gradations of color values in order to produce the illusion of depth. The choice of colors on maps drew as well upon a symbolic system originating in late antique mapmaking.61 For example, medieval mapmakers used red for the Red Sea, but green and blue for other seas. The same symbolic tradition features the use of red for human construction, a correlation that, as we shall see, architects would later borrow from cartographers.62 Nevertheless, certain maps display mimetic approaches. For example, on some illustrations in the Corpus agrimensorum romanorum, a body of texts compiled over the course of the sixth century CE and held in the Herzog-August Bibliothek in Wolfenbüttel, the mountains were painted gray-violet; shaded with ultramarine in the west, on the side of the setting sun; and heightened in the east with pale pink. The early builders and mapmakers, however, worked in different scales; as contrasted with a map, in an architectural drawing, the size of the territory must be reduced, the scale increased, and the viewpoint placed at ground level. Judicial maps, drawn up to resolve conflicts over property boundaries, make up the oldest and most widespread category of large-scale maps in the West. A “figured” view or inspection was the term used when features were depicted in order to stand in for the judges’ visits, when the judges were far from the disputed sites—as was usually the case in appeal processes.63 Courts and plaintiffs routinely called on painters or miniaturists, just as rulers commissioned portraits of cities for strategic ends. As Camille Serchuk recalls, in Amiens in the 1540s, for example, the painter Zacharie de Celers depicted the city for the cathedral chapter and executed in 1560 a map of the border of Picardy to be produced as court evidence against the Spanish pretensions similarly represented on a painted map produced by another artist, Hugues Lefebvre.64 The custom continued until the early seventeenth century. In 1619, the painter Georges Lallemant, one of the most famous artists of the reign of Louis XIII, created a panoramic drawing of Longchamp and the village of Suresnes, near Paris, for a suit concerning the sharing of water from a spring between the local abbey and the village’s inhabitants.65 The relationship between cartography and painting remained close until the early seventeenth century, if only in the use of maps in court.66 This pictorial origin explains the introduction of modes of representation such as elevations and high viewpoints where abstract plans (that is, using only points, lines, and circles) would be more logical. On a judicial map of around 1540 showing the lands between the Bièvre river and the convent of the Franciscan nuns of the Faubourg Saint-Marcel in Paris, houses, single trees, walls, and bridges are drawn in perspective (fig. 37).67 There is a remarkably abundant application of a variety of colors, another consequence of the pictorial origin of this kind of mapmaking: the ditches and ponds are washed in blue; the trees, in yellow; the tile roofs, in red; and the slate roofs in blue-gray. The shadows cast on the walls are washed with pink or blue mixed with gray.

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37. Judicial map of the Gobelins territory, Paris, ca. 1540. Brown ink and colored washes on parchment, 69 × 77 cm. Archives Nationales, Paris.

The wood of the bridges, enclosures, and doors and half timbering on the houses are in dark brown, but the windows are washed in blue, unlike the practice that would later predominate of applying a dark-gray wash. The washes reproduce the colors of the materials, as they do those of other elements in the landscape, following an imitative impulse, since the map’s primary purpose was to resolve a dispute concerning the use of the ditch separating two properties. The imitative rendering of the materials composing the properties serves to individualize them, so they may serve as reference points in space. Architecture is not the drawing’s primary subject. The other type of large-scale map pertains to land surveying (arpentage, a term reserved for maps of rural areas), imported into the West by Roman agrimensores and by Arab mathematicians at the universities of southern Spain. The purpose of

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38. Map of Chertsey Abbey (detail), fifteenth century. Black ink and colored washes on parchment. Public Record Office, Richmond, London.

surveyors’ maps was to measure the areas of pieces of land in order to determine property boundaries, thus going beyond the judicial into the realm of the economic and political. No longer was architecture merely a topographic reference point; now it illustrated the owner’s wealth and taste. Of this type are the Landtafeln used in the German regions since the late medieval period; these bird’s-eye views displayed to their noble proprietors the extent of their lands, but with neither orientation nor scale.68 In the 1520s and 1530s, these documents would routinely bear indications of scale, no doubt owing to the influence of Italian engineers.69 Land-use plans emerged routinely in northwestern Europe, more specifically in England in the 1570s and 1580s.70 The earliest surviving land-use plan, of Chertsey Abbey and estate, produced a century earlier, displays few abstract signs (fig. 38): the houses’ tile roofs are washed in red, with blue indicating the slate of the church; the same blue indicates river water; green, the clusters of trees bearing red fruit; and brown, a bridge drawn in elevation; all the colors are imitative. The draftsman even reproduced the church’s stained glass and the panels of its portal, all in the same yellow hue. The land-use plan served to identify types of crop, sometimes for fiscal and judicial reasons, but most often for administrative purposes, in order to improve agricultural management methods and techniques, in particular those resulting from a better understanding of soil quality and property boundaries.71 Its

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development in England can be explained by the Puritan movement’s emphasis on the medieval ideology of improvement.72 In Reformed England, land became private, individual property, absolutely and alienable at will, the commodity at the heart of an expanding market economy, with the estate map its representation and image.73 Land surveyors emerged as a professional group in the second half of the sixteenth century, and it was partly for them that Henry Billingsley translated into English Euclid’s Elements in 1570, with an introduction by John Dee, a member of the circle of the famous Flemish cartographers Abraham Ortelius and Gerardus Mercator.74 Estate maps, however, became common only in the seventeenth century. Contemporary manuals encouraged surveyors to embellish their maps, to please their patrons, who would display them in their cabinets.75 In his Feudigraphia, a popular surveyors’ manual, published in 1610, William Folkingham provided very specific recipes for preparing his map’s colors. He indicated the colors as follows: The Colours would bee appropriated and suited to the seuerall modulets of the plot to distinguish their natures, tenures, owners, or such like: as arable for corne may be dashed with a pale strawcolour compounded of yellow oker, and white leade, or of pincke and verdigreece. Meddowes may be washed with a light gréene by taking more verdigreece and lesse pincke. Pasture would be put into a déeper gréene made of the mixture of azure and smalts with pincke; heathes and fennes may be distinguisht with deader gréene deriued from yellow and indico. Trées may haue a sadder gréene composed of white leade and verdigreece. Barke, blocks, timber, stone, &c. may bee fitted with vmber and white. Waies and mudwals, may haue white-leade with rust of iron, or with oker and browne of spaine. Water, siluer, glasse, crystal, &c. may be represented with indico and azure or blacke leade. Seas may haue their gréenish skie-colour expressed with indico (smalts or azure) white leade and verdigreece. And thus, both these and diuers other colours with their due proportion, may with small practise be easily produced and multiplyed.76 This text—one of the earliest known attempts to codify the hues on maps— clearly recommends that colors be used imitatively, but also as natural signs. The explicit enunciation of the connection between signifier and signified makes possible the establishment of a common language that moves toward convention. This movement articulated by Folkingham is also evident in contemporary continental publications, heirs to a long tradition of codifying the science of measuring and representing a territory. And, indeed, at the turn of the sixteenth century, southern Germany was the world center of the production of scientific instruments and of printers specializing in the publication of maps. The first globe was undoubtedly made in Nuremberg in 1492. The use of a theodolite was described there in 1603, and that of a plane table was explicated in Geometriae practicae, published by Daniel Schwenter in 1617.

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39. Johan Sems and Jan Pietersz. Dou, Practijck des Lantmetens: Leerende alle rechte ende cromsijdige Landen, Bosschen, Boomgaerden, ende ander velden meten, soo wel met behulp des Quadrans, als sonder het selve (Leiden: Jan Bouwensz, 1600).

The trajectory ends with the early appearance of cartographers’ manuals. Albrecht Dürer, for example, published Underweysung der Messung in 1525, followed by Jacob Köbel’s Geometrei of 1531, reprinted eight times by 1616.77 Geometrei was intended primarily for small landowners wishing to avoid disputes with their neighbors over property. In France, the first mention of a scientific application of cartography occurs in a book on land surveying by Élie Vinet, Michel de Montaigne’s teacher, published in 1577.78 In the Low Countries, although the profession was already organized as such, the first manuals did not appear until early in the following century: for example, Practijck des Lantmetens, of 1600, by the surveyor Johan Sems and Jan Pietersz. Dou (fig. 39). Surveyors were employed as correspondents and spies in military campaigns and at sieges of fortified cities temporarily occupied by the Spanish, as illustrated by Balthasar Florisz. van Berckenrode, whose campaign notebook displays numerous sketches of military camps and fortifications.79 The connections between surveying, architecture, and painting remained close. Beginning in the fifteenth century, Italian architects further developed surveyors’ techniques, using dividers in order to determine distances.80 Alberti documented these methods in his Descriptio urbis Romae, written around 1450,81 and their first real application appears in Leonardo da Vinci’s plan of Imola, dated 1502 (fig. 40). But it was Raphael, in the second decade of the sixteenth century, who achieved

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40. Leonardo da Vinci, map of Imola, 1502. Black chalk, stylus lines, brown ink, colored washes on paper, 44 × 60.2 cm. Royal Collection Trust, London.

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the synthesis of these techniques in the context of architectural drawings, in his famous letter to Leo X on the preservation of Roman monuments.82 In this, Raphael described in detail the bussola della calamita, a magnetic compass that enabled both the measuring of distances and the determination of orientation in space. Peruzzi applied this method in many drawings documenting Roman antiquities, as well as at the construction site of Saint Peter’s in Rome.83 In the early modern era, the tools for surveying, painting, and architecture circulated widely among these disciplines. As late as the seventeenth century, painters drew up survey maps: in 1609, Monnerye, a painter from Crépy-en-Valois, produced a map of the forests of Nanteuil-le-Haudouin, in which he synthesized pictorial means and architectural modes of representation.84 It took longer for architects to assimilate surveyors’ methods of representing a territory. One outstanding example is a drawing from around 1620 of the park and château of Montjeu, attributed by Alexandre Gady to Jacques Lemercier and discussed recently by Anthony Gerbino (fig. 41).85 It is a presentation drawing prepared by Cardinal Richelieu’s architect in order to show Pierre Jeannin, the domain’s owner and Queen Marie de Médicis’s former superintendent of finances, a new service courtyard, with its buildings, that the architect proposed to construct. The drawing is one of the earliest known seventeenth-century French garden designs. Gerbino suggests that it was executed from a gridded document measured in perches, or rods (1 rod = 6.5 m), a surveyors’ unit of measurement, one almost never employed by architects, who preferred the toise (1.95 m). The sheet constitutes one of the very first examples of the narrowing gap between two kinds of drawing, the surveyor’s map and the architect’s drawing. The colors applied here are the same as those used by French architects in these years—the blue of the slate roofs, the red of the tiles—and they exhibit the same indifference toward rendering imitatively the colors of the territory and the various kinds of vegetation. What makes the sheet so unusual, however, besides the quality of the representation of the entire estate from a high viewpoint, is the scale. Architectural drawings require a much larger scale (to cover a much smaller space) and architects had not yet adopted scales on the order of those of surveyors. Much later, architects, not gardeners, would provide overall garden designs (or at least, we have no examples of drawings of parks from this period in France).86 Lemercier’s drawing combines the codes of surveying, printing, and mapmaking. Not until a generation later, with the design for the park of Vauxle-Vicomte by André Le Nôtre’s workshop, would this type of scale reappear in a project drawing, one contemporary with the great cartographic inventory of the royal forests commissioned by Louis XIV’s minister Jean-Baptiste Colbert and compiled from 1669 to 1671.87 All these maps were still in manuscript; however, once maps were printed, natural signs would be fixed by the engravers and widely disseminated. I hold that the general adoption of chromatic signs in architectural drawings could have occurred only as a result of the broad distribution of printed maps. The transition to chromatic signs in architectural representation required a public accustomed

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to maps and a repetitive effect possible solely by means of a proto-industrial process. Although printing launched the diffusion of black and white maps, maps in color remained the ideal of printers and their clients.88 We should, however, differentiate between maps printed in color and hand-colored examples. The former are extremely rare—the earliest known example is Martin Waldseemüller’s woodcut map of Lorraine, printed in three colors—red, black, and brown or green, depending on the impression—in Claudii Ptolemei viri Alexandrini . . . opus novissima, published in Strasbourg by J. Schott in 1513. Hand-colored maps, which appeared simultaneously with the beginning of printing in the last quarter of the fifteenth century, made up most of the production of polychrome maps by far, until the adoption of chromolithography around 1840.89 The primary criterion was, obviously, price, which determined whether or not to color a map: a hand-colored map usually cost two-thirds more than one that was not colored.90 Sometimes the decision to color a map was dependent on the quality of the print. Most sixteenth-century Italian maps, finely engraved with a burin, kept their black-and-white bichromy, reinforcing the choice of monochromy typical of Italian architectural drawings. The choice might also be guided by a concern for resemblance: the two editions of Ptolemy’s Geographia published in Ulm in 1482 and 1486 are mostly colored in such a way as to make them look like illuminated manuscripts. It is revealing that while French texts speak of “washing”

41. Jacques Lemercier, view of the castle and park of Montjeu, ca. 1620. Brown ink and colored washes on paper, 61 × 47 cm. Archives Nationales, Paris.

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a drawing, they speak of “illuminating” a print,91 expressing the same idea as the Netherlandish verlichtery kunst and deriving from the Latin illuminare (to illuminate, to give light to). The same distinction appears in the writing of Henri Gautier de Nîmes, author of the first manual on architectural drawing, published in 1687: “Although it may appear that there is no great difference between washing and illuminating a drawing, yet we will see that when we wash, we join the colors in order to mark the shadows in the places in the drawing where there are none. On the contrary, when we illuminate a drawing, the shadows must already be marked in it. That is why we say to illuminate a print that is a perfect drawing, in which all the shadows are finished.”92 Here we see the essential role played by prints in establishing the rules and vocabulary of the coloring of architectural drawings, as well as the model provided by colored examples, primarily geographical maps. When Gautier was writing in the late seventeenth century, Amsterdam was the European capital for maps. The quantity of publishing in the United Provinces in the seventeenth century and the number of colorists employed led to a standardization of natural signs, in particular the colors used to represent the features of a territory. However, this situation dated only from the late sixteenth century. Although the Spanish rulers had commissioned military maps of the territory, especially from Jacob van Deventer and Christian Sgrooten, there was no significant tradition of mapping large territories in the northern provinces before the 1580s.93 The extraordinary development of commercial cartography in Amsterdam resulted from the convergence of several factors: the United Provinces’ part in international maritime trade; the war against Spain, which constantly changed the national borders; a taste for depictions of cities; and the powerful attraction the cities exerted on the Protestant elite.94 All this created a strong market for maps in the United Provinces. The most active Amsterdam map dealers in the first half of the seventeenth century were Claes Jansz. Visscher and, to an even greater extent, Willem Jansz. Blaeu and his son Joan. A good example of the Blaeus’ production is Theatrum orbis terrarum, sive Atlas novus in quo tabulæ et descriptiones omnium regionum (Theater of the whole world, or, New atlas in which are tables and descriptions of every region), one of the most widely distributed and most sought-after works following its publication in 1645 (fig. 42); it would supplant Georg Braun and Frans Hogenberg’s Civitates orbis terrarum (Cities of the whole world), published two generations earlier.95 The prices at which each of these two popular atlases were sold illustrate a drop over the seventeenth century: rather than doubling the cost of maps, coloring in 1670 resulted in an increase on the order price of only thirty percent, owing to the abundant supply.96 According to Erlend de Groot, at least three quarters of the four hundred surviving copies of Theatrum orbis terrarum are hand tinted.97 Well-off citizens had maps and atlases in their libraries, and collections of them multiplied alongside artists’ drawings.98 An example of a collector’s atlas is the fifty-volume Atlas Blaeu-van der Hem, assembled by an Amsterdam lawyer, Laurens van der Hem at some time between 1640 and 1678. A copy of Joan Blaeu’s Atlas maior, tinted and

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heightened with gold by Dirk Janzs. van Santen constitutes its core.99 In addition to printed and tinted pages, van der Hem included in the atlas topographical drawings and colored artists’ drawings, such as an anonymous view of a Vereenigde Nederlandsche Oost Indische Compagnie (Dutch East India Company) fort on Formosa (today Taiwan) (fig. 43). With its coloring and its drawings inserted between the printed pages, the atlas became a unicum, which high-ranking visitors, like Cosimo III de’ Medici in 1662, came to admire.100 The fifty volumes would appear to demonstrate that hand-colored maps had attained a status comparable to that of artists’ and topographical drawings, thereby facilitating the migration of the uses of color between them. Hand-colored geographical globes inspired the same fascination, with production centered in Amsterdam in the first half of the seventeenth century, and often by the same publishers, especially the Blaeus.101 42. Willem and Joan Blaeu, eds., Theatrum orbis terrarum, sive Atlas novus in quo tabulæ et descriptiones omnium regionum (Amsterdam, 1645). Hand-colored frontispiece.

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43. Taioan, the Dutch East India Company’s Fort Zeelandia on the island of Formosa, before 1624. Black and brown ink and colored washes on paper. Part of the Atlas Blaeu-van der Hem. Österreichiste Nationalbibliothek, Vienna.

Beyond the atlases and globes made for a select and limited public, single maps also formed part of the visual culture of the citizens of the United Provinces and of visiting foreigners. These prints were employed as wall decorations, thus rendering colored maps even more similar to paintings, strengthening the visual link as regards the use of color across media. The phenomenon was nothing new: maps painted on walls had adorned the palaces of rulers since the Middle Ages. Henry III of England commissioned a great mappa mundi for Winchester Castle’s great hall in 1239,102 and examples abound in Italy,103 from the antechamber in Doge Francesco Dandolo’s apartments in his Venice palace around 1330 to the Sala del Mappamondo that Lorenzetti painted in 1435 in Siena’s Palazzo Pubblico.104 In the latter work, Lorenzetti passed easily from a fresco of the city, in The Effects of Good Government, to a map of the territory, establishing a further close connection between cartography and painting. His mappamondo, painted on canvas, was mounted onto a wooden disk attached to the wall in such a way as to allow it to be turned; this meant that the cities, duchies, or realms of guests and ambassadors received at the palazzo could be at the top of the image. The practice of exhibiting maps continued through the sixteenth century, in the decoration of the antechambers and galleries of rulers. Among the most famous of these are the

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Vatican’s Galleria delle Carte Geografiche and Terza Loggia. Here, the political intention was to deliver a spiritual and political message illustrating Christianity’s reach in the world and Italy’s role as a second Holy Land—a discourse that recurs in Villa Caprarola, where a map of Italy adjoins one of Palestine. At Fontainebleau, in the Galerie des Cerfs, built in the early seventeenth century under Henri IV and decorated with paintings by Louis Poisson, the aim was to imitate Italian examples, while displaying the wealth of the royal residences and forests. Later, Cardinal Richelieu hung a series of paintings figuring victories won during his tenure as minister in the main gallery of his château in Poitou. The canvases mix landscapes and representations in plan of fortresses and other defensive works, blurring the boundaries between cartography, painting, and the depiction of military architecture. In those same years, Pedro Texeira’s famous map of Madrid, printed in twenty folios in Amsterdam, performed a similar political function on the walls of the Alcazar.105 As Jesús Escobar emphasizes in his study of this extraordinary object, in this case the map acted as a tapestry, for the uses of both could be combined in a single item. And a few examples of actual tapestry maps survive, proving their regular use, especially in northern Europe; one such is The Relief of Leiden, which celebrates the raising in 1574 of the Spanish siege of that city of the United Provinces (fig. 44).106 Maps thus became material symbols of political dominance of the territory, as the Landtafeln displayed to their lord the 44. Joost Jansz. Lanckaert, The Relief of Leiden, ca. 1587. Linen and wool, 297 × 366 cm. Museum De Lakenhal, Leiden.

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45. Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger, Queen Elizabeth I (The Ditchley Portrait), ca. 1592. Oil on canvas, 241.3 × 152.4 cm. National Portrait Gallery, London.

extent and wealth of his or her lands—spectacularly demonstrated in the “Ditchley Portrait,” painted for Sir Henry Lee around 1592 by Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger (fig. 45), in which Queen Elizabeth I stands on a map of Oxfordshire, its colors taken from an original by Christopher Saxton.107 In the following century, maps, for information and as decoration, entered the homes of Dutch merchants, shipowners, and bourgeois to such an extent that Svetlana Alpers writes of the “mapping impulse” in Dutch art.108 An example by Berckenrode and Blaeu, Nova et accurata totius Hollandiae, appears in three of Vermeer’s paintings, including Officer and Laughing Girl of around 1657 (fig. 46).109 As Alpers notes, the descriptive colors appear reversed here, at first glance a veritable rupture in the use of imitative color: the sea is brown, the land, blue. According to conservators, however, this effect is owed to a degradation of the transparent varnish tinted with yellow lake that originally covered the ultramarine applied by the painter in layers on the areas of land, which would have given them a greenish hue.110 This technique of layering yellow varnish over blue was common among Dutch painters, in particular for foliage. Vermeer employed it for the Rijksmuseum’s Little Street, and today the leaves on the left-hand vine look blue, like those in the laurel wreath worn by the muse in the Kunsthistorisches Museum’s Art of Painting.111 Nevertheless, as far as I know, the notion of painting land masses green on this scale appears in no contemporary tinted Dutch map. This was Vermeer taking mimesis to the limit, and simultaneously unmasking the arbitrariness of the map colorists’ choices, thereby signaling the difference between painting’s imitative colors and cartography’s natural chromatic signs. Even if, as it appears, most maps attached to walls were smaller than the representations produced by painters, they joined the company of painted pictures in elite bourgeois interiors, revealing their owners’ interest in geographical knowledge and their attachment to the republic.112 They served as models of the territory in color, especially when the owners themselves applied the colors to the maps—evidence of the diffusion and integration of natural chromatic signs among the maps’ users, often the same people as were the clients of architects. Indeed, professionals in printing shops were not the only people to hand tint maps in the seventeenth century.113 Contemporary texts describe it as an educational pastime, and many treatises on tinting were published in the United Provinces and England, to avoid the peril reflected in the cautionary Netherlandish proverb “Prenten beverven is prenten bederven” (To paint prints is to corrupt prints).114 The phenomenon emerged forcefully in the United Provinces with the earliest manuals on painting with water washes. In Amsterdam in 1616, under the name Gerard ter Brugghen, Marcus Gheeraerts published a first treatise on hand tinting, Verlichtery kunst-boeck (Illuminating art-book), which was reissued in 1634 and 1667. A close friend of Abraham Ortelius, Gheeraerts executed paintings and engravings, including prints of city views.115 In 1668, Willem Goeree reworked Gheeraerts’s treatise and added an introduction on the art of painting, “Inleydinge tot de practijk de al-ghemeene teycken-konst” (Introduction to the practice of

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the general art of painting).116 His text, translated into English in 1674 under the title The Art of Limning and reprinted frequently until 1705, is in two parts: the first concerns tools, supports, and pigments; the second, the application of washes when painting specific motifs, including, among others, skies, walls, the ceilings of rooms, buildings, ruins, and animals. These treatises, which detail how to color maps, connect the coloring of prints with color in architectural drawings, as similar techniques and color coding are used in both contexts. In reconstructing early practices, historians of cartography rely on these manuals, and especially on the chapter on coloring maps added to the fourth edition (1705) of John Smith’s The Art of Painting, originally published in 1676.117 There are three ways to color a map: full tinting, which covers the entire surface of the map with transparent colors so as to leave the print’s details visible, the most common practice in Dutch maps; tinting with blended hues, full saturation on one side and diluted on the other; and line tinting. In this last technique, thin lines of color are applied along printed points indicating the different jurisdictions, a process observable on a map of Lancashire dated circa 1620 designed by Christopher Saxon, engraved by William Hole, and printed, colored, and sold by George Bishop and John Norton in London (fig. 47), and that we saw too on Tessier’s painted globe (see fig. 1).118 On the former, the engraver employed natural signs, together with a complex system of abstract symbols—dotted lines, circles, points—that recall the conventional signs of architectural drawings. The coexistence of symbols and naturalistic reproduction on the map creates a heterogeneous, hybrid image that tends to distance it from the site “portraits” of painters. Architectural codes interpenetrated those of mapmaking, with its natural signs. From the mid-seventeenth century, cities were represented in plan, no longer by symbols. But signs remained mixed, resulting in a continuous, graduated, hierarchical range, rather than an abrupt break. The passage from village to borough to city took place in successive transitions, with color enabling the clarification and distinction of spaces on a map far more visibly than written signs, and introducing a binary visual opposition between inhabited and uninhabited places. Color in cartography primarily establishes distinctions, allowing the indication of the boundaries of countries, the contours of shorelines, and the most important features of a landscape—that is, mountains, forests, rivers, roads, and cities. On political maps, colors define possessions, though in certain cases not sufficiently. For example, a tutor of George II’s youngest son William Augustus, duke of Cumberland, set out to color the map Empire d’Allemagne (German Empire), engraved in Amsterdam by Covens and Mortier in 1734, to identify the territories according to their political affiliations. However, “it being near impossible to express every thing by colouring only (there being hardly a sufficient variety of colours for that purpose),” he decided to annotate the map with a long explanatory legend.119 And, indeed, the colorist, unlike the artist-painter, had to use unmixed, contrasting hues to achieve effective demarcations, and this limited their number. The first manuals to establish the list of colors to be added in maps were published in the seventeenth century: Goeree cited white lead, blue, yellow, green,

46. Johannes Vermeer, Officer and Laughing Girl, ca. 1657. Oil on canvas, 50.5 × 46 cm. The Frick Collection, New York.

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47. Christopher Saxton (designer), William Hole (engraver), “Lancastriæ comitatus palatinus olim pars Brigantum.” In William Campbell, Britain, or, A chorographicall description of the most flourishing kingdomes (London: A. Crooke, 1637).

red, brown, and black;120 William Salmon in 1672, in Polygraphice, recommended “red and white lead, and for variety yellow oker; shadow it with burnt umber.”121 Some applications were very old: François de Dainville notes that on fifteenthcentury topographical maps, stone bridges are red, while wooden ones are gray or black, a distinction we still commonly find two centuries later.122 Naturalistic signs, such as yellow for earth and green for water, replaced a system of symbolic hues for each of the four elements, such as white for earth, crimson for water, blue for air, and red for fire. As we saw with Matthew Paris’s map, however, the cartographer transformed two imitative colors into signs (see fig. 36). In the medieval tradition, because blue was reserved for celestial things, green was firmly established as the color of water and would remain so in the majority of cases until challenged in the eighteenth century with the wide availability of Prussian blue. This new color was much less expensive and easier to obtain than ultramarine, which is made from lapis lazuli, as well as clearer and more stable than indigo, which tends to turn purple. Except for the color of water, natural colors largely predominated in cartography: umber or sienna for mountains, dark green for scrub- or heather-covered slopes. Yet the choice of colors, like the architectural plans that derive from these practices, was never driven entirely by the imitative impulse. Based on analyses of the colors in Dutch maps and paintings, Lisa DavisAllen has proposed that there was a “national palette” in the Republic of the United Provinces. Discussing Vermeer’s Geographer and a colored print of Petrus Plancius’s Orbis terrarum, she writes that “the observer is immediately struck by the Dutchness of both works,” which results from the use of similar colors.123 The tints she identifies—dark blues and greens, intense yellows, and rich reds—occur in the painted maps of which Amsterdam was the European center of production, and Davis-Allen explains their use in terms of guild regulations. This hypothesis might appear convincing, were it not that map colorists did not belong to a guild, as painters belonged to the Guild of Saint Luke, and in any case, even if they had, this would not explain why Dutch artists chose certain colors since, with regard to color, the guilds were mostly concerned that the quality of the materials employed be as advertised, to maintain clients’ trust. Davis-Allen relates the “national palette” to the colors adopted by the elite who rebelled against the king of Spain after 1566, in the so-called Beggars’ Revolt.124 She even speculates about possible Dutch sympathies on the part of Ortelius, who worked in Antwerp, a Spanish city, because he uses similar colors in his maps.125 However, as we have seen, the colors in Amsterdam’s painted maps reflect, not a specific political situation, but rather the integration of hues that had acted as natural signs, developed since the beginnings of cartography. In the case of red, the color most commonly found on architectural drawings besides black and brown, its high status in the hierarchy of colors is a legacy of antiquity and the Middle Ages, rather than an innovation introduced by the colorists of the United Provinces.126 Carmine is the color of cities, employed continuously since the Middle Ages to designate towns and homes on small-scale maps.127 All masonry is washed

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48. A Map of the Road from London to Harwich, measur’d from the Royal Exchange; From London to St. Edmunds Bury, commencing at Chelmsford; From London to Yarmouth, commencing at Colchester, 1766. Hand-colored print, 21 × 31.5 cm. Private collection, New York.

in red—houses, bridges, and dams; roads are presented as two red lines. Red, associated with fire since the myth of Prometheus, signifies what is made by human beings.128 In the Middle Ages, red was certainly associated with the products of kilns—bricks—but even more with the human imprint on the landscape—the built. Red once indicated any built place; then, eventually, only cities. Eighteenthcentury road maps, such as an example printed and tinted in London in 1766, show cities in red and thoroughfares in yellow (fig. 48). This was made possible by the gradual integration of the figuration of roads into regional cartography.129 In the late eighteenth century, however, we see a reversal of the colors in road maps.130 Cities turn gray, and roads red, signaling an inversion of the hierarchy of the information provided: maps were now made to show roads rather than the locations of cities. The city had become a crossroads, and the color red made this transition visible. Red thus fulfilled a crucial function amongst the colors of maps and plans, often opposed to black, as illustrated by the manuscript tradition, from the rubrics of illuminated manuscripts to the red pens of those correcting schoolchildren’s notebooks. The color red allows us to track the important change that took place in mapmaking, from the imitative colors of painters to conventional ones. Let us

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consider Johannes Johanson’s album of plans and views of German cities, Theatrum exhibens illustriores principesque Germaniae superioris civitates (Theater showing the famous and principal cities of Upper Germany), published in Amsterdam in 1597 (fig. 49). The cartographer clearly differentiated the slate-covered public buildings, their roofs washed in blue, from the private homes with their red-tiled roofs, two natural chromatic signs. Because slate was much more expensive than tile, it was largely limited to covering the roofs of high-status buildings, but what was an imitative color in representations of the cities of the United Provinces became mere convention in the plans of foreign cities, as colorists transformed local situations into generalities. The roofs’ color became a hierarchical sign: on the map of Wrocław, in a tinted copy of Braun and Frans Hogenberg’s Liber quartus urbium praecipuarum totius mundi (The fourth book of the principal cities of the whole world), published in 1588, the church of Saint Adalbert is depicted with its roofs colored blue (item no. 51 on the map), whereas it had been roofed with copper (fig. 50).131 Although this graphic method was not always applied to the differentiation between churches and municipal buildings, often the color blue brings legibility to a city view or makes it possible to locate, within a sea of red, the buildings cited in a legend, as in Braun’s view of Vienna, published in the 1625 edition of Civitates orbis terrarum: the tinted versions show the Arsenal’s roofing in the same blue as that of Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, while other tinted views, like the print of the same city by Jacob Hoefnagel published by Claes Jansz. Visscher in 1640, do not differentiate roofs with different pigments (figs. 51 and 52). Thus, color in cartography played a taxonomic more than an imitative role, even when borrowing its hues imitatively from the real world; here, the signs remain natural— red for tiles, blue for slate—even when they do not reproduce the actual nature of the material depicted. By developing a coherent and widespread use of natural signs, cartographers offered architectural draftsmen a way to convey information through color where the painters’ mimesis was inefficient, notably in plans, the most abstract forms of representation. But maps contained another set of graphic signs found in later architectural representation. These conventional signs have no intuitive link to the signified; rather they rely on a prior consensus. — The line between imitation and convention can be subtle, and the one often derives from the other; cartography’s natural signs allow us to follow the transition between the two. Of course, the blue that draftsmen selected for slate roofs is never as dark as the material itself; and naturally, the yellow employed for wood is not the color of the oak of the construction framework; but a person encountering these applications of color for the first time understands them intuitively and requires no key explicitly or implicitly transforming what may be understood by them into a conventional sign. What we call conventional color, however, following the drawing manuals of the turn of the eighteenth century, required prior consensus on the use of a color to establish a signifier, the connection no longer being either

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49. Johannes Johanson, “Breslaw [Wrocław].” In Theatrum exhibens illustriores principesque Germaniae superioris civitates (Amsterdam, 1597). Hand-colored print. L. Brown Collection, Dublin. 50. Georg Braun and Frans Hogenberg, “Wratislavia [Wrocław].” In Liber quartus urbium praecipuarum totius mundi (Cologne, 1588). Handcolored print. Historisches Museum, Frankfurt-am-Rhein.

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51. Georg Braun, “Vienna Austriae.” In Civitates orbis terrarum (Amsterdam, 1625). 52. Jacob Hoefnagel, Vienna Austriae (bird’s-eye view from the north). Second, unmodified edition of 1640, based on the first edition of 1609 published in Amsterdam by Claes Jansz. Visscher. Copperplate print and etching, 79.5 × 159.5 cm. Historisches Museum der Stadt Wien.

intuitive or natural. It is at this point that drawing comes closest to language. The signification of a color had to be learned in order to be understood; it was a sign, but one detached from reality. In the following chapter, we leave behind the world of imitation, for one of pure convention; a transition facilitated by a group whose work united cartography with architecture: namely, military engineers.

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C H A P T E R T WO

Conventional Colors

While color codes were first developed on a wide scale in mapmaking to represent buildings, the shift from an imitative system to a conventional one in the application of color in architecture on paper is owed to military engineers, particularly those involved in both the production of maps and construction. The military was already familiar with one way of using color washes conventionally in cartography: the practice of identifying different army corps by color was common in seventeenth-century Europe. A map showing the positions of the various imperial army corps during the attack on the Ottoman Serbian city of Jagodina on August 28, 1690, is typical of the kind of image that was commonplace (fig. 53). But it is in France under Louis XIV that we find conventional systems employed in architectural drawings, a phenomenon deriving from the early organization of a corps of engineers that adopted common rules and a common graphic language at the direction of a centralizing royal power pursuing efficiency and rationality. A lack of consensus concerning a codified application of colors remained the norm in certain areas of Europe, such as Italy, where this can clearly be related to the late establishment—often not until the second half of the eighteenth century—of constituted corps of engineers.1 The adoption of conventional colors in architectural drawings in these regions likewise was a later development, often imported from France. In what follows, it will be helpful to retrace the history of military cartography before analyzing the establishment of color conventions in late seventeenth-century French military-engineering drawings and exploring how these conventions spread throughout Europe.

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53. Map of the Battle of Jagodina, August 28, 1690. Graphite, black ink, colored washes on paper, 17.3 × 23.8 cm. Generallandesarchiv Karlsruhe.

Military Engineers as Cartographers and Builders Allain Manesson Mallet, author of Les Travaux de Mars (The works of Mars), one of the seventeenth century’s most popular treatises on fortifications, asserted in 1671 that the military engineer must be a “draftsman, architect, miner, designer of machines, and bombardier.”2 Manesson Mallet presented the engineer as a draftsman first, thereby placing the discipline directly on a par with the then current self-definition of the contemporary architectural elite, organized by the crown into an academy that same year.3 One of the engineer’s primary roles was to produce topographical maps so that familiarity with the terrain could assist in the defense of his own territory or an attack on an enemy’s. As we saw in Chapter 1, in the Renaissance period, maps acquired real-world strategic value. In the last decades of the seventeenth century, Filippo Baldinucci recounted how, a century earlier, the painter Andrea Boscoli, discovered while sketching a city’s walls during a trip to the area around Macerata, was immediately arrested and condemned to death.4 The incident evidences the passage from a symbolic view of the city to a practical one, as something to be defended. It was also during this period, in an overall context of the imitative use of color, that conventional color emerged as the thread of a system that gained in importance until it came to dominate the context of military engineering in particular and, eventually, architectural drawing. The first city map that historians consider modern, in the sense that geometry was applied to it, is a military map of the walled city of Imola, near Bologna, drawn

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by Leonardo da Vinci (see fig. 40).5 In this document, dated 1502, Leonardo’s use of color combines natural signs—water in blue, unbuilt lands within the plan in greenish yellow—and conventional signs—buildings in red, the rest of the territory contained within the perfect circle defined by a straw-yellow, open spaces left in paper reserve. Over the sixteenth century, military engineers began employing other conventional applications of color. The Milanese Gianmaria Olgiati, working for the dukes of Savoy, tinted existing buildings red and outlined his designs in brown ink during his mission to the Low Countries in 1553–54.6 Tiburzio Spannocchi, who built a number of fortifications in Italy on behalf of the Spanish crown in the late sixteenth century, used brown for what existed, and red and yellow for proposed designs.7 On his project for the extension of the fortress of Campfranc, red (designating what he approved) and yellow (indicating unnecessary construction) are unrelated to the nature of the materials employed, which were earth, brick, and stone (fig. 54). The same yellow occurs in the practice of Italian military engineers, in their designs for the fortifications of the city of Thionville, on the Netherlandish border, in the 1560s.8 Other approaches appear in these same areas: Jean Boulengier, director of fortifications for the Spanish Low Countries, used green wash in his designs for a wall protecting the churches of Plassendale, near Ostend, in 1669.9 However, European military engineers most frequently used red and black, the former for works of masonry, the latter for those of rammed earth.10 The reasons for this prevalence were both practical (these two writing inks were the most available on site) and customary (the two colors had been used for contrast since antiquity). But for chromatic signs to become 54. Tiburzio Spannocchi, plan and elevation of the fortress of Campfranc, 1592. Brown ink and colored washes on paper, 22.6 × 22.4 cm. Archivio Estatal de España, Simancas.

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genuine conventions, not merely personal signs, consensus and institutional acknowledgment were necessary, and neither would emerge before the end of the century. The consensus imposed from above in Louis XIV’s centralizing France was the conclusion of a long march toward the establishment of a homogeneous, coherent body of administrators and practitioners of military architecture. The administration of fortifications, as David Buisseret has rightly noted, evolved gradually in France within the growing army administration of the first half of the sixteenth century.11 The “Grand Règlement” of 1604, composed by the duc de Sully, Henry IV’s chief minister, required a cartographer to be always present, supporting the military engineer in the kingdom’s more important provinces.12 There were few such specialists, some ten in all. Initially, the position was filled by Italians, then by engineers from the Low Countries and the United Provinces.13 This shift helps to explain the move among French military engineers in the seventeenth century from a monochrome to a polychrome tradition of draftsmanship. The imitative colors of the Dutch entered French military drawings in the first decades of the seventeenth century, but each engineer still employed entirely personal colors. In his atlas of Picardy, for example, Pierre Le Muet, a military engineer who would later pursue a successful career as an architect in Paris, used a narrow range of colors: chiefly gray, red, and green.14 He was completely inconsistent in his application of conventional codes. On the map of Amiens (fol. 21), he provided the following legend: “The red line represents what is made of masonry. The green what is made of earth. The blue what is to be made” (fig. 55). For the map of Corbie, on the other hand, the legend indicates that masonry is figured by a double line, a single line stands for what is made of earth, and green, for what remains to be built (fol. 23), while for Saint-Quentin (fol. 31), the red line shows what is made of masonry; green, what is made of earth; and yellow, what remains to be done. The use of the same green as that representing rivers in the cartographic tradition makes it more difficult to read the image spontaneously. The image’s use of chromatic signs was not yet clear enough to render inscriptions such as “water,” “meadow,” “mountains,” “ploughland,” and “marsh” unnecessary; despite the establishment of a corps of military draftsmen, there was not yet a consensus regarding the use of topographical signs, especially color washes. That would only come about with the reorganization of the service during the reign of Louis XIV. In its drive to centralize, the Sun King’s administration clearly identified how color could be used to remove ambiguities from graphic documents. In 1676, the finance and interior minister Colbert sent an engineer to assess Picardy’s forts “in order to draw up new plans, more exact than those hitherto made, and to mark with different colors the works done and those still to be done.”15 The next year, his colleague and rival in the government the marquis de Louvois, minister of war, ordered the director of the defensive works of the fortified northern towns to “mark in red the revetted works to distinguish them from those that are not.”16 The task of synchronizing the color codes would fall to the new commissioner-general of fortifications, appointed two years later, Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban. A

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military engineer, Vauban had served in this capacity semi-officially since 1668, when Louvois had assigned him responsibility for the fortified cities under his purview. He arrived during a period of complete overhaul of the corps of engineers, which had been characterized until then by an absence of common criteria for recruitment.17 Upon his appointment, he immediately composed a memorandum reorganizing the fortifications services and construction-site management practices. His manuscript, written around 1678–80 and entitled Mémoires . . . concernant les fonctions des différents officiers employés dans les fortifications (Essay . . . about the functions of the various officers employed in the fortification services), or Le Directeur général des fortifications (The general director of fortifications), was published in a pirated edition in The Hague in 1685.18 Taking his cue from contemporary architectural methods, Vauban consistently preferred drawings to the wooden models still commonly used by his military engineers. Vauban himself was not an exceptional draftsman, but he employed a team to work for him, first in Lille then, after 1680, in his château in Bazoches (fig. 56).19

55. Pierre Le Muet, “Plan de la ville et citadelle d’Amiens.” In Plans des places fortes de la province de Picardie ensemble la carte généralle des principaux lieux par Le Muet, 1631, MS 4517, fol. 21. Black and brown ink and colored washes on paper, 40.2 × 28 cm. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal, Paris.

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56. Bezançon, signed by Vauban and dated from Bazoches on April 19, 1687. Pencil, brown and black ink, gray and red washes on paper, 37.5 × 51.8 cm. Service Historique de la Défense, Vincennes. 57. (opposite) Jean-Pierre Traverse, Plan et profil de la redoute et batterie de Camaret, 27 January 1696. Black and red inks, colored washes on paper, 59.8 × 45 cm. Service Historique de la Défense, Vincennes.

As Isabelle Warmoes and Émilie d’Orgeix have convincingly demonstrated, Vauban was the first to set down guidelines for the execution of the envoi, or dispatch, consisting of a memorandum describing the fortified city, with a presentation of the works planned to improve its defenses and complete the military engineering.20 These memoranda, which were to be systematically illustrated, required the director’s approval, as on a design dated 1696 for the tower and battery at Camaret, at the tip of Brittany, which Vauban annotated and signed (fig. 57). In order to avoid any ambiguity in the representation of the works and reduce the amount of writing, Vauban adopted several graphic codes, beginning with the specific colors to be used: here, red for completed works, yellow for planned ones.21 The colors are neither imitative nor natural signs; at first glance they seem arbitrary, and the institutionalization of their significance tips them toward the conventional. Seeking to avoid ambiguity and confusion, Vauban continuously perfected this graphic language. Because engineers had to be able to wash their drawings on site, limited palettes meant that the same color had to be applied to several different objects, potentially resulting in confusion. In military maps of the time, for example, yellow indicates not only works to be built but also attacking lines, in the case of sieges.22 In Instruction pour les ingénieurs et dessineurs qui lèvent les plans des places du roy ou des cartes (Instruction for the engineers and draftsmen who draw the king’s fortress plans or maps), printed in 1714, after Vauban’s death, and distributed to all the fortified places in the realm, Vauban or someone in his circle reviewed every item of necessary information on large- and small-scale

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58. Plan of Phalsbourg, signed by Vauban, Metz, September 23, 1698. Black, brown, and red inks, colored washes on paper, 42.9 × 57.3 cm. Service Historique de la Défense, Vincennes.

plans, thereby institutionalizing the migration of cartographic conventions into the architectural sphere.23 The military engineers’ great accomplishment, and Vauban’s in particular, was to have effected this transfer from the world of natural signs to that of conventional signs; from cartography to architecture. Thus, on the plan of the Lorraine city of Phalsbourg, for instance, signed by Vauban in Metz on September 23, 1698, the pink wash indicates both the masonry buildings already erected and the existing wall; the new bastions to be raised are in yellow, and the existing earth bastions are washed in gray (fig. 58). As Catherine Bousquet-Bressolier has argued, Vauban believed drawings to be absolutely indispensable to the engineers’ task—the maps and plans they drew were the tools of their reasoning, their way to apprehend a site’s constraints and assess the work to be done.24 Beginning in the early seventeenth century, the training of young future military officers of the king of France included drawing. At the Clermont military school, the notes taken from 1636 to 1638 by Paul

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Lemercier, a student of Father Pierre Bourdin, include many drawings in red chalk, along with illustrations printed by his professor.25 The association between image and geometric demonstration was familiar to military engineers: it recurred regularly in publications on applied geometry and on fortifications in the second half of the seventeenth century. The prototype was La Pratique de la géométrie sur le papier et sur le terrain (Practice of geometry on paper and in the field) by Sébastien Le Clerc, published in 1669, which presents propositions in geometry side by side with scenes of daily life unrelated to the subject under discussion.26 This formula reappears felicitously everywhere in Manesson Mallet’s oeuvre, which dramatizes its subjects with maps, landscapes, lively little scenes, and views of cities and monuments (fig. 59). The result of Vauban’s codification is clearly visible in the work of the engineer Claude Masse, who, between 1690 and 1720, composed some fifteen manuscript atlases of fortified cities, French and foreign. His detailed map of the Île de Ré, among his finest productions and dated 1702, uses a single shade of red for the buildings. Masse washed the Atlantic Ocean in light blue, adding darker values in order to demarcate the deeper sea, while rivers and shores are represented in 59. Allain Manesson Mallet, Les Travaux de Mars, ou l’Art de la guerre (Paris: Denys Thierry, 1684–85), 1:13.

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60. Claude Masse, map of Île-de-Ré, 1702. Black and brown inks, colored washes on paper, 98 × 66 cm. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris.

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green, thereby arbitrarily merging freshwater and seawater in a single hue (fig. 60). The establishment of this new graphic rhetoric rendered the corps of military engineers more cohesive, and their cohesiveness, visibly expressed on such maps, asserted, by extension, that of the state: Louis XIV’s power was thus confirmed in the very representation of the territory and its means of defense. Once they were incorporated into the official training of engineers and architects, these codifications became true conventional norms. In 1697, Vauban introduced professional competency examinations not only in mathematics, but also in architecture and drawing.27 The principal manuscripts that served as the future military engineers’ textbooks were washed in color. An example is provided by the manuscript copies of Traité de fortifications (Treatise on fortifications) by Joseph Sauveur, professor of mathematics at the Collège de France, military engineer, close collaborator of Vauban, and, after 1703, chief examiner of future fortifications engineers.28 The plates in Princeton University Library, dating to 1737, are washed in accordance with Vauban’s recommendations (fig. 61). This visual rhetoric, initially limited to the field of military engineering and the manuscript maps, became a model for all architectural draftsmen once it appeared in printed manuals. — These manuals differ from the earlier treatises on fortifications in their emphasis on draftsmanship, in its most material aspect, rather than design. The titles and contents of these manuals—the first publications to be dedicated chiefly to the depiction of architecture—show that their principal subjects are the fabrication, application, and use of colors. They prove that, in the world of turn-of-thecentury French military engineers, a primary instrumental feature of architectural drawings was color. For example, the earliest of these manuals, by Henri Gautier de Nîmes, published in Lyons in 1687, is entitled L’Art de laver, ou La Nouvelle Manière de peindre sur le papier suivant le coloris des desseins qu’on envoie à la Cour (The art of limning, or, New method of painting on paper according to the colors of drawings sent to court). It synthesizes the tradition of the treatises on geometry and fortifications with the far older one of books of “secrets” or “mysteries,” which reveal technological and scientific processes.29 Among the latter is the famous twelfth-century Mappae clavicula (a Latin mistranslation of the lost Greek manuscript Kleidion cheirokmeton [Little key to the tricks of the trade]), originally a fourth-century alchemical text, translated into Latin in the fifth century, with fragments of an Arabic treatise on alchemical techniques and formulas added later. The volume contains an entire chapter dedicated to the preparation of color pigments. Cennini’s famous Libro dell’arte of the turn of the fourteenth century belongs to this tradition, from which descended the manuals on coloring maps discussed above.30 The work of Henri Gautier was in this vein. Recently studied by Michèle Virol, Gautier was better known for his publications than his constructions. He was, however, certified as an engineer by the Ponts et Chaussées (the French bureau of civil engineering) in 1714.31

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61. Joseph Sauveur, Traité de fortifications (1737), vol. 2, plate 20. Hand-colored print, 49 cm × 38.5 cm. Princeton University Library.

Born into Nîmes’s Protestant milieu in 1660, he first studied medicine, earning a doctorate in 1679 from the University of Orange, a Protestant principality that was independent until 1703. What led him to the profession of military engineering remains uncertain, but his writings evince his love of mathematics. His first publication, in 1684, was an instructional volume, Traité des fortifications (Treatise on fortifications). Three years later, he published L’Art de laver, the first known work to present a more or less coherent codification of the colors used in architectural drawing and in mapmaking. There are two subjects: on the one hand, a precise description of how to fabricate colors, in the tradition of recipe books; on the other, equally specifically, how to use them to achieve the most legible plans and maps. The work’s novelty made it extremely successful, as indicated by reprintings such as that of François Foppens in Brussels in 1708. Gautier continued to publish, make maps, and pursue his career as a civil engineer; in 1697 in Paris, Christophe Ballard issued a new edition of Gautier’s treatise on drawing, entitled L’Art de dessiner proprement les plans, porfils [sic], élévations géométrales, & perspectives (The art of properly drawing plans, sections and geometric elevations, and perspectives). This time, Gautier followed a dictionary organization, with entries in alphabetical order, modeled after the second volume of Augustin-Charles d’Aviler’s Cours d’architecture of six years before.32 In the preface of L’Art de dessiner, Gautier referred to the need for color codes in graphic representations in order to avoid ambiguities in the indication of materials

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to be employed.33 In military architecture, he stated, lines of existing masonry were to be drawn in carmine ink, while yellow wash was to represent what was planned; in civil architecture, however, carmine was for what was planned, while black ink was to be used for what existed. This is the first mention of different conventions in military and in civil architecture, something Vauban had not written about. Most likely, this was because Gautier was addressing not only military engineers, but also architects, which led him, moreover, to publish his text as a manual. When the Ponts et Chaussées administration was created in 1714, Gautier was appointed office inspector; two years later he published a Traité sur les ponts (Treatise on bridges), the first compendium on bridge construction published in France and the last before Émiland-Marie Gauthey’s Traité de la construction des ponts, which appeared posthumously between 1809 and 1813. In the same year that Gautier published L’Art de dessiner (1697), the mathematician Jacques Ozanam produced his Méthode de lever les plans et les cartes de terre et de mer (Method for drawing plans and maps of land and sea), which recommends following Gautier’s advice; Ozanam’s Méthode and Gautier’s books were soon eclipsed, however, by another manual on architectural drawings, which would remain the primary reference on the subject for two centuries to come. In 1722, Nicolas Buchotte, a career military engineer, issued Les Règles du dessein et du lavis pour les plans particuliers des ouvrages & des bâtimens, & pour leurs coupes, profils, élévations & façades, tant de l’architecture militaire que civile (The rules for drawing and washes for detailed plans of fortifications and buildings, and for their sections, profiles, elevations and façades, for both military and civil architecture), published by Claude Jombert (fig. 62).34 Like Gautier, Buchotte was writing for architects as well as engineers and surveyors, dealing with the complete range of scales, from the plan of a province to a single building. The author stated that he had learned the rules he was setting out for his readers from “M. de Laury, engineer and first draftsman of the King’s Drawings Office,” thus linking his knowledge directly to Vauban and his circle.35 The manual was reissued in 1743 and 1754, and its definitions of the various elements of color drawings would endure for two hundred years: “We call ‘tint’ a color as liquid as water, and whose body is transparent, and not opaque, so that being spread over a few lines, it does not prevent us from seeing them. We say to ‘wash’ [laver] a plan or a profile . . . because with colors as liquid as water, when we use them, it seems that we are washing the paper, and that is where the word lavis comes from, meaning the use of colors in military & civil architecture. Plans, profiles, elevations & façades are usually called drawings.”36 The text is remarkable for its accessibility and for taking a consistently practical, economical approach toward the draftsman’s work. Buchotte began his manual by establishing the various correspondences between colors and objects, his systematic correlations between signifier and signified deriving from the theory of signs that entered French thought through the work of the philosophers close to the abbey of Port-Royal des Champs. He followed this with paragraphs describing the source of each pigment he suggested employing and how to make or procure

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these, before proceeding to the various tools useful to the draftsman—pencils, pens, and brushes—and the qualities of different papers. In the second part, he detailed different types of projection, ways to shade bodies, copying techniques, and the relevant scales. Part Three applies these drawing and washing methods to a series of practical cases, from executing a plan for a fortress to drawing up a regional map. Buchotte ended his text with a classification in alphabetical order of objects to be depicted, an organizational scheme taken from the second edition of Gautier’s manual. He appears to have been the first author to introduce a list of colors enabling distinctions between countries in maps of the continent. Sometimes the colors correspond to heraldic hues: blue for France, that is, the background color for the kingdom’s arms since the thirteenth century;37 orange-yellow for Holland, a reference to the House of Orange-Nassau; a reddish purple for Great Britain, possibly intended to relate to the arms of England; and others, more random, such as bister for Savoy and green for Italy.38 The determinedly arbitrary, conventional character of the hues that Buchotte laid out set him apart from his predecessor. Indeed, an attentive study of Gautier’s and Buchotte’s manuals (as noted above, the first published in 1687, the second in 1722) reveals that a revolution took place between the former and the latter. Gautier was clearly writing from a painter’s 62. Nicolas Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein et du lavis (Paris: Claude Jombert, 1722).

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63. Giovanni Jacopo de Marinoni, De re ichnographica, cujus hodierna praxis exponitur, et propriis exemplis pluribus illustratur (Vienna: Leopold Kaliwoda, 1751).

point of view regarding the imitation of reality, reclaiming the word naturel used by Roger de Piles and mapmakers: “For, once the drawing has been traced on paper with black ruled lines, the spaces must be colored in a way that comes closest to the work seen in nature [my emphasis].” The goal was to render the objects on the sheet “like the originals” (semblables aux originaux).39 Buchotte, a generation later, was the first to make a distinction between “natural” and “conventional” colors.40 His manual thus made it possible to integrate the rules for the conventional use of colors that Vauban had described only implicitly. Gautier and Buchotte took conventional graphic signs beyond the sphere of military engineers, not only to their French readers, but to a foreign public, since their manuals were soon translated. Gautier’s work was published in German by Peter Conrad Monath in 1716, 1745, and 1746, then in Italian in 1760.41 Buchotte would be paraphrased in all later manuals, such as that of the military engineer Louis-Charles Dupain de Montesson in 1750, which noted that the choice of colors in architectural drawings and maps arose from familiarity with the conventions, and not simply from the imitation of nature.42 Further, he specified that this convention derives from “custom”—that is, consensus. Outside France, many foreign libraries contained Buchotte’s manual, including those of the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando (Royal Academy of Fine Arts) in Madrid, and the Imperial Academy of the Arts in Saint Petersburg.43 In 1751, Giovanni Jacopo Marinoni, director of the Technische Militärakademie (Academy of Military Engineering) in Vienna and creator of the cadastral survey of the Duchy of Milan, recapitulated Buchotte’s

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principal themes in his own manual, published by the Austrian imperial printing office (fig. 63).44 Dupain de Montesson’s 1803 version of Buchotte’s text, entitled L’Art de lever les plans (The art of drawing plans), was part of the library of West Point Military Academy, founded in 1802, whose pedagogy was modeled closely on the French system.45 As this last example demonstrates, to an even greater extent than the manuals themselves, the propagation of color conventions was propelled by the international successes of the French school of fortification descended from Vauban. The export of this French model to Spanish territories was particularly pronounced and exerted a lasting influence on the Iberian peninsula. — Military engineers had been part of the Spanish monarchy’s armies since the sixteenth century.46 More than three hundred engineers have been identified by name for the period 1501–1699, but there was no institutional structure, analogous to the French administration of fortifications, that unified them.47 In addition, the secrecy that, for obvious strategic reasons, surrounded Spanish engineers’ graphic production partially explains the delay in their attempts to create uniform graphic codes of representation. In 1711, with Bourbon control of the Spanish crown assured, Philip V established the Corps of Military Engineers, assisted by the Fleming Jorge Próspero Verboom, son of Cornelis Verboom, chief engineer of the Spanish army in Flanders.48 Verboom, dissatisfied with the lack of system in the existing recruitment efforts, proposed organizing a military academy dedicated to training engineers, whom he wished to instruct in Vauban’s methods. His Real ordenanza e instrucción de 22 de julio de 1739 (Royal ordnance and instruction of 22 July 1739), which has been studied by Horacio Capel, stipulates that “the manner of drawing accurately and applying colors will be taught, as it is practiced, to show the parts, arrangement, and decoration, along with the ornaments proper to all military buildings, demonstrating plans, sections, and elevations for each of them.”49 For the first time, a Spanish text addressed the question of the conventional application of colors in architectural drawings. Gradually, the rules entered common use, along with a more precise draftsmanship. We observe the introduction of shading; the scale is more exact, rendering unnecessary the notation of measurements in the graphic part; and the conventional colors, especially red for plans and pink for sections, are applied more consistently. A comparison between the plan for the Barcelona citadel of 1715 by Jorge Próspero Verboom and the plan for the same project by Fermín de Loyola in 1724 demonstrates a remarkable evolution (figs. 64 and 65). Not only has pink replaced black in the wash for the masonry, now identifying the subject as an existing building, but Loyola introduced shadows to indicate the orientation of the stairs leading to the terreplein, thereby rendering superfluous Verboom’s explanatory legend of 1715. The adoption of the French military’s drawing conventions made possible a more specific graphic language, which eliminated text from the image. Nevertheless, the Spanish engineers did not embrace a chromatic standardization in drawings until very late in the eighteenth century, despite the

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64. Jorge Próspero Verboom, plan of the citadel of Barcelona, 1715. Black ink, gray and brown washes on paper, 42.6 × 57.3 cm. Archivo Estatal de España, Simancas.

efforts of the academies of mathematics. Not until a manual by Manuel Centurión, published in Cádiz in 1757, would colors be explicated as in Buchotte’s treatise.50 Over the course of the eighteenth century, as color codes came to form a language commonly understood by a document’s users, they disappeared from legends. The shift occurred gradually, after the French example, with the establishment of a unified corps of engineers, a centralized teaching method, and the publication of manuals including the French treatises and their many translations. A similar development took place simultaneously in regions of Italy. In the Kingdom of Sardinia in 1724, under the aegis of the Savoy dynasty, regulations were drawn up that included a series of examinations open to military and civil engineers and surveyors.51 For the lowest certification, that of land surveyor, the examination consisted of an oral test on a real-life case. Engineers, meanwhile, were assessed on their mastery of architectural draftsmanship and a basic knowledge of arithmetic, applied geometry, and the measurement of terrain and buildings. The University of Turin administered the examination and evaluated the results, a role reaffirmed by a royal edict of 1733. The centralizing policies of the Savoy monarchs extended to the way in which maps were drawn: in November 1740, the military engineer Gian Tommaso Monte provided the secretary of state with a template for maps; the proliferation of royal edicts and ordinances until the end of the century seems to indicate that management of the graphic language functioned poorly, however.52 In 1756, the mathematics professor at the Regie Scuole di Artiglieria e Fortificazioni

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(Royal Artillery School) in Turin, Carlo Andrea Rana, included a description of conventional color codes in his course for military engineers, arguing that colors in maps, like the thickness of lines, contributed “not only to their legibility, but also to the clear differentiation of the parts that comprise them.”53 Rana followed Buchotte closely: pink for existing walls and black for what was made of earth, while yellow designated what was planned, with dotted lines signifying what could not be seen. To complete the manuscript, he had three plates drawn in order to illustrate his thesis (fig. 66). The adoption of conventions of colored washes, these documents indicate, depended on the establishment of a centralized corps of engineers and of dedicated educational structures. That this was the case is further proved by the fact that throughout the eighteenth century, in the absence of these factors, another realm under Bourbon rule—the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies—lacked any common usage of colors in architectural plans and plans for fortifications.54 —

65. Fermín de Loyola, plan of the citadel of Barcelona, 1724. Black ink, gray, brown, and red washes on paper, 43.5 × 62.5 cm. Archivo Estatal de España, Simancas.

Engineers were thus pivotal in the codification and systematization of colored washes, in that they were the agents of the transition between painters and architects, transforming painters’ and cartographers’ natural signs into conventional ones. The spread of conventional signs was effected by manuals and their dissemination within the context of a standardized teaching of military architecture. These conventions then passed into how drawing was taught to architects, usually in private schools.

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66. “Della fortificazione regolare esposto dal professore Carlo Andrea Rana.” In Dell’architettura militare per le Regie Scuole d’Artigliera, e Fortificazione, libro primo, anno 1756. Black ink, colored washes on paper. Biblioteca Reale di Torino.

This is evident in the case of the architect Pierre Panseron. In the second half of the eighteenth century in Paris, Panseron ran a popular private school where many young men learned the rudiments of architecture and drawing.55 In 1772, he published the first of the three volumes of a small, clear, and concise manual for future architects, Les Élémens d’architecture, in which there was a paragraph on colors that largely paraphrased Buchotte. Four years later, Panseron was appointed professor of landscape drawing at the Military College in Paris.56 Around 1781, he published a plate that summarizes the conventions he taught his students: L’Étude pour le lavis où il est fait mention du mélange & de l’emploi des couleurs dans les plans de fortifications & les cartes topographiques (Study for washes in which is explained the mixture and use of colors in fortification plans and topographical maps), engraved by JeanCharles Le Vasseur, in whose Parisian home Panseron lived and taught.57 The print was hand colored, and a legend succinctly laid out not only the colors to use and how to make and apply them, but also the topographical signs used in cartography (fig. 67). Panseron’s lessons, the caption specifies, were “for architects, civil and military engineers, and surveyors”: proof that, in the representation of territory and the use of color, the three professions, which were beginning to be individuated, had acquired a similar language over the course of the eighteenth century. In keeping with cartographic tradition, the print mixes plans and elevations, in particular in the case of single trees and certain secondary buildings, like a mill, whose sign is explicated in the legend. Panseron gave equal weight to natural signs (the mill is a good example) and conventional signs (such as the pound sign, which refers to a tile

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67. Pierre Panseron, Jean-Charles Le Vasseur (engraver), template for the study of color washes, 1781. Hand-colored print. University of Michigan William L. Clements Library, Ann Arbor, MI.

kiln), just as he employed both natural colors (green for meadows, for instance), and conventional colors (such as red for a stone cross, which he distinguished from the black of an iron cross). We can see that conventional colors did not systematically replace natural, imitative ones; their adoption depended partly on intrinsic factors— effectiveness and ease of use—but also on cultural ones, such as the choice between following the French example and respecting a local tradition. I will next explore the conventions of plans, first, and then of sections; the most popular and enduring of these being the use of pink for masonry in section.

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The Architect’s Conventional Colors Military engineers established a clear set of conventions that would be adopted by civil architects in the representation of both buildings and their surrounding estates. For the latter, the conventional use of color has important implications for how the plans of buildings would be represented, and the chromatic conventions adopted by architects from military engineers will be addressed here first in the context of the representation of estates, including gardens. We will then move to the use of conventional colors in order to distinguish features of building plans, including temporal development from already completed to projected construction. As we will see, attempts were made to apply such conventions in elevations, though such images as were closest to painting and other modes of representation were particularly resistant to this means of abstracting information—serving to emphasise by contrast the use of conventional colors in representing buildings in section. For large-scale plans, including general and ground plans and plans of estates and gardens, architects applied the chromatic signs standardized by surveyors and disseminated by mapmakers and engineers. We have seen that the use of red wash for buildings goes back to medieval maps. Since the Renaissance, engravers such as du Cerceau had attempted to fix a certain number of graphic signs that would permit the distinction between various natural elements, including types of vegetation and the borders between garden and park, cultivated and fallow spaces, and meadow and lawn, for example. In his plan of the domain of the royal castle at Blois, in the Loire valley, du Cerceau used different kinds of informal lines, from more abstract for cut thickets to more naturalistic for meadows left uncultivated 68. Jacques I Androuet du Cerceau, “Blois.” In Le Second Volume des plus excellents bastiments de France (Paris: l’auteur, 1579), 2.

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69. Maraine, plan of the castle and gardens of Clagny, ca. 1679. Pen and black ink, colored washes on paper, 115 × 101 cm. Archives Départementales des Yvelines, Montigny-leBretonneux.

(fig. 68). This mode of representation, taken from cartography, launched a tradition that the manuals by military engineers from Gautier to Dupain de Montesson attempted to synthesize and integrate. In the late seventeenth century, the administration of the Bâtiments du Roi in France considered drawings of gardens as a genre in itself.58 Although parts of the history of the drawn representation of gardens remain to be written, we may yet note that color fulfilled a significant distinguishing function in estate plans and the indication of natural elements. Colors served to distinguish densities, effects, types of plantings, and so on, with a gradation of values from meadows to thick copses. Looking at the plan of the château and gardens of Clagny, drawn around 1679, we observe other kinds of natural sign, derived from mapmaking, that became true conventions (fig. 69). One approach was to darken the density of the trees edging the copses, thereby emphasizing the value of the green. This recalls the cartographers’ and surveyors’ practice of outlining a space with thin lines of color. Another convention was the depiction of single trees in isometric perspective, with a cast shadow in order to differentiate them from columns, a figuration publicized by d’Aviler in his Cours d’architecture of 1691 and one that shares the sheet with all other elements rendered in plan, as in the architect Gabriel-Pierre-Martin

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70. Gabriel-Pierre-Martin Dumont, garden design following the ground plan of Saint Peter’s, Rome, 1769. Graphite, black ink, and colored washes on paper, 71 × 40.2 cm. Drawing Matter Collection, Shatwell.

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71. Gottfried Heinrich Krohne, project for the gardens of the Orangerie of Gotha, 1747–48. Black and red inks and colored washes on paper, 73 × 50 cm. Thüringisches Staatsarchiv, Gotha.

Dumont’s extraordinary garden design on the plan of the basilica and piazza of Saint Peter’s in Rome (fig. 70).59 Only rarely do hues distinguish the tree species,60 but on the plans that the Weimar architect Gottfried Heinrich Krohne presented to Duke Frederick III of Saxe-Gotha for the orangery at Gotha around 1747, the orange trees, represented as a series of disks washed in orange without cast shadows, are combined with topiaries washed in green and drawn isometrically, natural colors and conventional forms thus being used in concert (fig. 71).61 This reflects a growing tendency toward abstraction in architectural landscape drawing. Early in the following century, Dupain de Montesson suggested using different values to distinguish “private homes in the city and in the country,” in light carmine, from public and other important buildings, in a darker carmine.62 This approach recalls cartographic attempts at hierarchization, perfected by the

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72. Pio Giulio Bertola (attrib.), plan of the Cappella della Sacra Sindone in Turin, ca. 1700. Brown ink and colored washes on paper, 33 × 22.8 cm. Archivio Arcivescovile, Turin.

colorists of the Amsterdam publishers, who washed the roofs of public buildings in blue to set them apart from the red tiles of private homes. Some color codes applied by surveyors did not migrate into architectural drawings. Yellow, for example, common in large-scale maps made for the French royal provincial administration, does not occur in garden or park designs drawn by architects. It is true that, in the eighteenth century, the yellow in French surveyors’ drawings increasingly designated land under cultivation, a feature all but absent from most architects’ drawings, which generally focused on ornamental garden designs. Nor does it seem that geologists—just then beginning rigorously to define their new science, and using different colors to distinguish different types of rock—influenced architectural draftsmen, even in the representation of the various kinds of soil on which they would set their buildings’ foundations.63 But architectural draftsmen did borrow from survey plans and from mapmaking the use of color to identify jurisdictions and the extent of properties. In surveying, color was employed in judicial contexts to emphasize specific aspects addressed by the proceedings, such as the boundaries of a parcel of land, the size of a fief, or any other characteristic that involved demarcating different portions of territory; and such an application of washes also occurs in architectural drawings. On a sheet dated to the turn of the eighteenth century and displaying the plan of Guarino Guarini’s Cappella della Sacra Sindone (Chapel of the holy shroud) in Turin, the hues demarcate the various jurisdictions: red for the cathedral’s, yellow for the royal palace’s (fig. 72). Architects went further than surveyors, however. A design for the Paris Mint, produced in 1765 in the studio of Jacques-Denis Antoine, displays two

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73. Jacques-Denis Antoine (or studio of ), project for the Paris Mint, 1765. Black and red inks, gray and red washes on paper, 97 × 61 cm. Drawing Matter Collection, Shatwell.

values of red, distinguishing reception from production facilities, with gray for the service areas (fig. 73), the colors thus classifying the spaces by function. Colors could furthermore serve to identify on paper a spatial breakdown by zone of responsibility. In 1750, the general plan of the château of the counts of Namur, in the Low Countries, for example, is washed half in yellow, half in red—not to identify planned works, but to mark, on the one hand, the buildings whose maintenance was assigned under the Barrier Treaty to Dutch troops, and, on the other, those assigned to the Austrian government in Brussels.64 Such plans require legends, because the choice of colored washes was necessarily specific to the case; they could never have exploited the conventional, dependent as that was upon diffusion through printing and teaching. Similarly, the identification of different floor or construction levels by means of varying colors never became

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74. Louis Le Vau and François d’Orbay, third project for the chapel of the Collège Mazarin in Paris, 1668. Graphite, black ink, gray and red washes on paper, 51 × 68 cm. Archives Nationales, Paris. 75. Louis Le Vau and François d’Orbay, plan of the foundations and ground floor of the central pavilion of the Tuileries Palace, execution drawing given to the contractors on November 15, 1664. Graphite, sanguine, brown ink, gray and red washes on paper, 41 × 46 cm. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

standardized, because architects preferred the device of two attached sheets, the moveable flaps of which allowed the user to consider a second solution or lower level. Examples showing color being employed to depict levels, such as the third design for the chapel at the Collège Mazarin in Paris, prepared in 1668 by the studio of Louis Le Vau, are in fact extremely rare (fig. 74).65 In that case, each color of ink corresponds to a different construction level: gray for the ground floor, pink for the masonry masses above the vaults, red for the drum. In another drawing from the same studio, the draftsman played with hues and values to combine the depictions of temporality and levels. The plan for the foundations and ground floor of the Tuileries Palace’s central pavilion, dated 1664, represents in black ink what it was practical to keep and in red what it was proposed should be built, but it differentiated with two values between the foundation level (gray and pink) and the level above (black and red) (fig. 75). A design involving this degree of complexity—unprecedented, to my knowledge, in a drawing made for contractors—presents features of execution drawings and would have required verbal explanation. Such annotation would subsequently prove superfluous in the presence of graphic conventions, however, when temporality alone, and not spatial levels in addition, was being represented. — Some of these temporal distinctions were limited to working drawings; they recorded on the sheet the various moments of intervention, a much older practice. The use of different-colored inks and pencils allowed the identification of a later

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76. François Mansart, project for the façade of the Visitandine convent church of Sainte-Marie in Paris, ca. 1632. Black chalk, sanguine, black and brown inks, 42 × 57 cm. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris.

intervention, by either the same hand or another. The architect François Mansart, who worked in Paris in the first half of the seventeenth century, routinely used red chalk to correct drawings in pen, brush, and ink, as on an elevation of the façade of the Visitandine convent church of Sainte-Marie (now Temple du Marais) in Paris (fig. 76).66 Such a practice, however, was merely pragmatic, intended solely for internal communication; there was no resort to convention, in clear contrast to the practice with regard to the temporal distinction of building phases. We find the application of colors to distinguish the existing portions of a project from the various proposed phases of work in architectural drawings throughout Europe, from the Renaissance period onward. For example, on a plan drafted around 1520 for a new church on the site of Santa Maria Antiqua in the Roman forum, Peruzzi differentiated between the proposed construction, in red wash, and the existing fabric, in gray;67 on the plan and elevation of the chancellery

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77. Francesco da Volterra, church of San Giacomo degli Incurabili, Rome, plan of the earlier/old church with alterations, ca. 1590. Brown ink, red and brown washes on paper, 42.9 × 58.2 cm. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm. 78. Francesco Borromini, plan of the south tower of Saint Peter’s in Rome, 1645. Graphite, brown ink, and brown, yellow and red washes, 56.8 × 76.8 cm. Albertina, Vienna.

in Cassel, attributed to Christoph Müller of 1580, the interventions are indicated in red ink over a drawing in black ink.68 In the collections of the Nationalmuseum, Stockholm, there are drawings dated to 1590 for Francesco da Volterra’s design for the church of San Giacomo degli Incurabili, on Rome’s Corso: the plan of the church to be built is in bright red, the projected hospital buildings are in pale yellow, and the existing constructions to be retained are in brown (fig. 77).69 These three examples already picture the tendency to privilege brighter, more unusual tints, such as red and yellow, for future works, over ones more commonly employed for existing states, such as brown and black, which dominate the draftsman’s palette, as we have already noted. The insertion of the names of architects who worked successively on a project might enhance the temporal differentiation a plan displayed: one example is Francesco Borromini’s famous plan of the south tower of Saint Peter’s in Rome (fig. 78). On this drawing of 1645, Borromini applied bright red for the existing façade and yellow wash to indicate Carlo Maderno’s design, while leaving Bernini’s project in paper reserve. However, because the idea of conventional colors had not yet been absorbed into the draftsman’s practice, Borromini had to annotate his drawing, inscribing in graphite along the applications of wash “questa parte e del marderni” (this part is Maderno’s) and “questa e del bernin” (this is Bernini’s). A few years later, in 1658, Bernini used yellow wash in his presentation plan for the church of Sant’Andrea al Quirinale in order to designate the parts to be built, in contrast with brown for the existing masonry.70 As we have seen, this practice appeared early on in the drawings of military engineers, most notably in the works of Spannocchi’s, but did not become routine until the late seventeenth century. These examples were produced by architects and engineers working in isolation, whereas a consensus on the application of colors requires draftsmen to belong to

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a single, hierarchical body. How would this have affected architects working for a structure such as that of the Society of Jesus? The Recueil de plans d’édifices de la Compagnie de Jésus (Compendium of the building plans of the Society of Jesus), in the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, a collection of proposed plans for churches, which would have required approval by the Jesuits’ central authority in Rome, displays the use of colored washes in order to distinguish between original and built masonry, on the one hand, and structures still to be erected, on the other.71 Each architect priest or brother had, however, his own semantic code. Where one would expect to find a common, aligned graphic practice, there is an individual use of color codes. On a plan of 1625 for the expansion of the Jesuit school in Vienne, in southeast France, Étienne Martellange, the best known of the French Jesuit architects, washed existing structures in blue and those at the design stage in yellow, but here, too, the interpretation had to be given in a legend (fig. 79).72 As a rule in these drawings, blue indicated the original or already renovated buildings, and yellow those to be built. More infrequently, red wash or red chalk designated corrections to be made to the designs but indicated also the immediate surroundings of Jesuit houses, neighboring properties, and streets. Martellange never wrote about his use of these colors; it is by comparing the drawings and restoring them to their context that we may discern a meaning that in actuality remained entirely personal. As we saw earlier, these uses of color evolved into the conventional only once the corps of military engineers was reorganized in France; as Vauban wrote, standardization was put into practice “to avoid the confusion that the color of 79. Étienne Martellange, project for the Jesuit college of Vienne, France, 1625. In Recueil [ . . . ] contenant tous les plans originaux des maisons, églises qui appartenoient à la Société des Jésuites avant leur abolition [Assistance de France], 8:9. Brown and red inks, brown and blue washes on paper, 34.5 × 46.5 cm. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris.

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80. Vincent Houel, plan for a courthouse and prisons in FortRoyal de la Martinique, April 17, 1726. Brown and black inks, gray, red and yellow washes on paper, 70.5 × 49.5 cm. Archives d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-Provence.

plans, randomly varied in all sorts of colors, could cause when the meaning of one was taken for that of the other.”73 What distinguishes military from civil drawings is that the former had to account for the difference between natural materials such as earth and grass and artificial materials such as brick and stones, which civil architecture did not have to be concerned with, as it used earth in a limited way only. This, I argue, is why red, the color of paving stones and buildings in cartography and surveying, replaced black for brick and stone, and so another color—yellow—had to be introduced by military draftsmen for projected works, as illustrated in the designs of 1726 by the military engineer Vincent Houel for a courthouse and prisons on Martinique (fig. 80). Because of the clarity with which the colors were applied, the client could take in at a glance the architect’s proposal: the conversion of a one-story building with two wings into an ambitious two-story complex on a square plan with two interior courtyards. — The first civil architects to adopt the conventional system of the engineers trained by Vauban were those closest to him, that is, those working with the official first 110 | chapter two

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architect to the king of France. Starting at mid-century, Louis Le Vau, among others, had begun using red and black on some plans in order to distinguish additions from existing portions. Following Le Vau, Pierre Breau, a royal contractor who has been studied by Alexandre Cojannot, employed the same colors.74 D’Aviler, a draftsman in the office of the first architect to the king of France in the 1690s, designated existing masonry in black ink, what was to be demolished in dotted lines in India ink, and what was to be built in carmine ink. This system of differentiation would become systematized in French draftsmanship in the first half of the eighteenth century, and the rigor with which it was applied precluded any misinterpretation when it coincided with an imitative use of color. This is readily apparent in plans for the pavilion on the Bidasoa river that were drawn up in the office of Louis XV’s first architect for the ceremony of the handover of the Spanish infanta Maria Teresa Rafaela to France following her marriage to the dauphin (the heir to the French throne) in 1745 (fig. 81). The hues employed on the plan are black, yellow, and red. The use of yellow might suggest that the architect was differentiating the parts to be built from the existing ones, but because the drawing’s context is civil

81. Ange-Jacques Gabriel (office of ), pavilion for the handover of the new dauphine on the Bidasoa river, 1745. Black ink, gray, red, and yellow washes on paper, 56 × 76 cm. Drawing Matter Collection, Shatwell.

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rather than military architecture, yellow cannot refer to a temporal convention. These are, in fact, natural chromatic signs, imitating the various materials to be used: yellow for the wood of the walls, steps, and table; red for the masonry of the chimneys and the columns of the entry porticoes. The systematic and precise application of these chromatic conventions facilitated the reading of these graphic documents and avoided any ambiguity. While the distinction between existing and proposed became a true convention in architectural plans, this was much less the case for elevations, because imitative colors were sufficient to the task. More than other types of architectural representation, elevations also presumably evoked—for both the draftsmen and patrons who might view a presentation drawing—the work of view painters. Certain usages remained limited to a group or region, such as the distinction between façade sculpture and architecture that we find on the Sickinger Bauriss, Hans Niederländer’s construction drawing of about 1513 for the Fribourg Cathedral tabernacle.75 It is not a question here of imitating a material’s color— the sculpted elements are washed in brown to set them apart from the black ink drawing—but of using colors in an arbitrary manner to identify the decorative elements. Similarly, in early seventeenth-century Spanish drawings for altarpieces, such as those by Alonso Carbonel or Juan Gómez de Mora, for example, tones of red chalk and red wash cause the sculpted figures to stand out from the brown ink drawing.76 But such cases remain extremely rare. Another isolated convention, this one limited to the milieu of Dutch draftsmen, was the practice of depicting external window shutters and the wooden doors of houses in green, as we can see on a drawing of a house by Danckerts (fig. 82) and that we found on painters’ drawings, like those of Saenredam (see fig. 28). This custom emerged in the first quarter of the seventeenth century and continued through the eighteenth, but never outside the United Provinces.77 It allowed for a clear distinction between wooden frames and panes of glass. The representation of glass was often a challenge for draftsmen, and a source of visual confusion; various solutions were devised in European drawings of the early modern period, with varying degrees of success. How might bays be depicted and set off from the walls in which they were lodged? Architectural drawings differ from those of painters in that the former, for the most part, followed a convention dating back to the Renaissance period. In presentation drawings, the finishing work—door panels and wooden window mullions (as distinct from the stone mullions belonging to the structural work)—was generally omitted from draftsmen’s representations of façades.78 In such cases the bays might be left empty, in paper reserve, or, more usually, treated in a dark wash, as on Danckerts’s drawing. Draftsmen rarely depicted a view through a window; those who did were almost always painters.79 If the windowpanes were not left in reserve, the second most common solution was to employ a color close to that of water, often verdigris, sometimes mixed with yellow. This convention seems to appear first in Italian drawings, then in most eighteenth-century French drawings of interiors,

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82. Cornelis Danckerts, façade of a house, 1678. Pencil, black and brown ink, colored washes on paper, 55.2 × 21.5 cm. Gemeente Amsterdam Stadsarchief.

competing with the Prussian blue mixed with gray that served also to produce the color of water. Balthasar Neumann in Bavaria seems to have preferred a hue with a great deal of yellow, while a few outlier draftsmen explored other solutions: as the Frenchman Juste-Aurèle Meissonnier did, for example, in his presentation drawing of 1726 for the façade of the church of Saint-Sulpice in Paris (fig. 83).80 In this drawing, Meissonnier, who trained as a goldsmith before taking up painting and architecture, diluted his pigment with either lacquer in solution or a large proportion of gum arabic. For one window, he appears even to have polished the colored surface of the sheet with agate, perhaps to evoke the sheen

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83. (opposite) Juste-Aurèle Meissonnier, design for the façade of Saint-Sulpice, Paris, 1726. Graphite, gray ink with gray, yellow, and green wash and touches of white heightening on paper; glazed areas possibly green gum-arabic mix or polished with agate stone, 33.7 × 26 cm. Rothschild Collection, Waddesdon Manor. 84. Office of Robert de Cotte, section of the library of the Hôtel Le Blanc, ca. 1720. Graphite, black ink, and colored washes on paper, 26.4 × 47.6 cm. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris.

of glass. But windows are not the only glazed elements in elevations. In the late seventeenth century in France, the draftsmen of the Bâtiments du Roi were faced with a new decorative motif: the fireplace à la royale, in which a large mirror—the new technique of casting glass on a table had caused prices to fall—was placed over the mantel.81 This arrangement introduced a new potential for ambiguity that had to be eliminated. Instead of leaving mirrors in reserve, draftsmen now washed them either with verdigris, as the French royal draftsmen started doing in the early eighteenth century, or with blue mixed with gray wash, when it was desirable to distinguish them from windows (fig. 84). This use of blue occurred in British drawings as well, particularly under continental influence, whether in the work of William Chambers or the Adam brothers’ studio (fig. 85). In the latter case, the convention disrupted an intuitive, imitative use of color: the mirrors appear to reflect the blue of the sky of the exterior world, which instinct supposes should also be seen through the glass of the windows; which are left in paper reserve, however. There is noticeable inconsistency in the application of these hues. For example, in the preparatory drawings for the plates to be engraved for Architecture françoise, a vast compendium of contemporary architecture issued in 1727 by the publisher Pierre-Jean Mariette, the mirrors are sometimes in gray wash, sometimes in green watercolor, or even in blue watercolor.82 There was no consensus over practice, even within a single publishing project. The same was true of another use of color in an interior elevation by the draftsmen of the collection: the use of red wash to indicate paintings placed within paneling. This convention derived from a custom, peculiar to the circle of draftsmen of the office of the Bâtiments du Roi, which emerged at the turn of the eighteenth century. It addressed the problem of how to differentiate mirrors not only from windows, but also from paintings, whose wooden frames often resembled those of mirrors. The ambiguity of paper reserve, which

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85. Studio of Robert and James Adam, design for the library of Kenwood House, London, 1767. Graphite, black ink, and colored washes on paper, 61.1 × 43 cm. Sir John Soane’s Museum, London.

required the nature of the framed space to be identified either by a legend within the drawing or by a light sketch, as was done in Le Vau’s studio for example, was removed by the addition of colored washes.83 Red, the color traditionally associated with human execution, distinguished paintings from mirrors and windows, as we see in a drawing by the architect Jean-Baptiste Bullet de Chamblain for the Hôtel de Bourvalais, Paris, built in 1709–20 (fig. 86). The window panes are green; the mirrors, blue; and the painting, red: three elements in similar wooden frames, between which the draftsman had to differentiate. This practice, characteristic of French draftsmen and their closest followers, such as Swedish architects, seems to have died out after the mid-eighteenth century, no doubt owing to the return in full force, as we shall see, of painterly imitative drawing, in which canvases are figured within frames by representations of their subjects. By far the greatest number of the drawings that the present volume has studied were made to be shown to clients, but there remains to be noted one last approach to the use of conventional color in elevations, which appears only in execution drawings, made for the builders: that is, the distinction between the

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86. Jean-Baptiste Bullet de Chamblain, wall decoration for the Hôtel de Bourvalais, Paris, ca. 1709–20. Pencil, sanguine, black and brown ink, colored washes on paper, 42.4 × 43 cm. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

qualities of bricks and stones used in construction.These execution drawings certainly employed color to convey distinctions, but not according to any system validated by an institution, which would thereby turn the colors conventional. In the drawing by Danckerts mentioned above, for example, a different value of red was used to evoke a distinction in the way the bricks were laid for the foundation beds (see fig. 82). Although this could correspond to a difference in the nature of the materials, most often it was graphic information that indicated a disruption in the placement of the bricks in horizontal courses.84 The Paris contractor Pierre Breau, who worked regularly for the crown, used color to differentiate between types of stone.85 His three large drawings of stonework—probably documentation made to accompany an estimate for masonry—of the left wing and main block of the Château de Clagny, built in 1675–76, detail in red ink the horizontal joints of the courses of stones for the walls and the vertical ones in the lintels, and he employs a play of colored washes to distinguish the kinds of stone to be used (fig. 87). Guillaume Fonkenell notes that a few years later, in the first studies for the royal chapel at Versailles, several elevations with washes also drew on a chromatic

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87. Pierre Breau, section of the Château de Clagny, 1675–76. Black and brown ink, gray, brown, and colored washes on paper, 52.6 × 167.7 cm. Archives Nationales, Paris.

system that seems to correspond to different qualities of stone: gray for hard stone, yellow for soft stone, and pink, no doubt, for facing stones.86 This practice remained the exception, however. Furthermore, the fact that more than a century later the Paris Académie des Beaux-Arts (Academy of the Fine Arts) was advising its fellows in Rome to use different shades of color to differentiate between types of construction in their drawings of ancient monuments shows that this practice never passed into the realm of convention.87 As we can see, no application of color wash in elevations seems to have achieved the status of true conventional sign anywhere in Europe; unlike the century’s most significant convention, the use of pink for masonry in section.

The Convention of Pink for Masonry What might at first look like a detail illuminates both the conversion of natural chromatic signs into conventional signs and the paths by which architectural drawing codes were propagated across Europe. Even when, at the end of the eighteenth century, polychromy in architecture would be repressed, one key conventional color would remain: the pink of masonry, standing out in drawings against gray wash. This convention’s exceptional resilience is evident in an otherwise monochrome section, dated 1785, for a competition to build a mausoleum (fig. 88). As was often the case, the introduction of such a specific color resulted from the desire to remove a graphic ambiguity, in this case peculiar to vertical sections: how might the interior masonry walls depicted in elevation, often left in paper reserve, be distinguished? Several solutions had been advanced since the Renaissance.88 In the Munich manuscript of the Sesto libro, Serlio left sections in reserve, but in the printed Terzo libro they are either in reserve or hatched, as is the section in Bramante’s design for the dome of Saint Peter’s in Rome (fig. 89). Palladio, in his Quattro libri, employed several techniques: reserve, horizontal and diagonal hatching, and even an indication of the material by means of short lines

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88. Jean-Charles-Alexandre Moreau, a sepulchral monument, second Grand Prix, detail of section, 1785. Black ink, gray and pink washes, 64.3 × 144.3 cm. Beaux-Arts de Paris. Photo: Basile Baudez. 89. Sebastiano Serlio, Il terzo libro (Venice: Francesco Marcolini, 1540), 40.

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90. Giovanni Battista Piranesi, longitudinal section of the choir, transept, and nave of San Giovanni in Laterano, ca. 1764. Brown ink on paper, 91 × 60 cm. Columbia University Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library, New York.

meeting at right angles, meant to evoke the wall’s rubble stone. The engravers of Claude Perrault’s popular edition of Vitruvius’s De architectura, published in Paris in 1673, left the masonry in paper reserve, but they also used stippling, an engraving technique that would continue through to the nineteenth century. These approaches, specific to engravers, could have served as models for draftsmen, had they become shared conventions (like the use of stippling for elements outside the scope of a horizontal section); but, because no consensus ever formed, the door remained open to all possible interpretations, most notably in Italian drawings. The earliest drawn sections in the Renaissance period made no distinction between masonry in section and walls in elevation, which are often rendered as two simple lines in order to show the thickness of the wall, with the space between left in paper reserve, as on, for example, Giuliano da Sangallo’s section of the basilica of Hagia Sophia.89 The most talented eighteenth-century Italian draftsmen employed this technique, including Giovanni Battista Piranesi, in his section of the basilica of San Giovanni in Laterano dated circa 1764 (fig. 90). In the late sixteenth century, some architects represented masonry in section with graphic signs that alluded to the material, whether brick or rubble work, at times even in red chalk, in imitation

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of the natural color; but such cases were few and far between until the eighteenth century.90 In Italian, and especially Roman, drawings, the application of color remained occasional over the course of the century, as evidenced by the architectural competition drawings of the Accademia di San Luca in Rome.91 This situation was radically different from the state of affairs across the Alps in France, where, after 1727, virtually all sections by candidates for the Académie Royale d’Architecture were washed with pink. What explains this profound difference? The answer lies once more in the late seventeenth-century milieu of the French king’s engineers. Unless draftsmen were imitating engravings, until the very end of the seventeenth century, depictions of rubble stone or ashlar identified masonry in section in French drawings.92 In a drawing for the Tuileries by François d’Orbay, the beam is represented naturalistically in brush and light brown wash, while the masonry in section, located on the sheet on either side of the beam, was drawn with the joints indicated in pen and brown ink on the paper reserve with wavy lines, a common practice in drawings of the 1660s (fig. 91). In the following years, we find all kinds of techniques; not until the last decade of the century would a consensual solution appear. In Buchotte’s Règles du dessein, the discussion of conventional colors ends as follows: “It would seem that the way in which works of military architecture are washed presents more advantages than that employed in civil architecture, because in the latter there is no use of color to distinguish in profiles between what is cut or broken and what is not.”93 Buchotte was praising the superiority of his corps’s graphic language, following Vauban’s reforms. I would argue that the use of red for masonry in section, one of the most significant codifications Vauban imposed on his engineers, derived directly from Dutch drawings. We have seen how seventeenthcentury Dutch architects tended to use imitative colors lavishly, far more than their counterparts in other countries. They naturally colored paper with red wash to 91. Studio of Louis Le Vau, attributed to François d’Orbay, elevation and section of a lateral wall of the main entrance to the Tuileries Palace, Paris, ca. 1664. Black and brown ink on paper, 44 × 72 cm. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

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92. (opposite) Cornelis Danckerts, plan and section of a house, 1678. Graphite, brown and black ink, colored washes on paper, 53.2 × 37.5 cm. Gemeente Amsterdam Stadsarchief. 93. Gilles-Charles Mariette, project for a lighthouse at Gatteville in the port of Barfleur, ca. 1760. Black and red ink and colored washes on paper. Archives Nationales, Paris.

indicate the brick that composed interior walls. This is evident on the section of a house drawn by Danckerts in 1678, for example (fig. 92). He employed the same shade for all the brick elements—the walls, in section and in plan; the chimney stacks; and the outside steps. Vauban was heavily influenced by Dutch drawings, with which he was very familiar thanks to a trip to the Low Countries in 1665–66 to reconnoiter the Spanish fortifications there, upon the orders of the king,94 but also thanks to his spies, especially those reporting on his counterpart Menno Van Coehoorn, a Swede who had gone over to the service of William of Orange.95 However, while pink indicated the use of brick—a natural sign—in the Low Countries, in Paris and throughout France it no longer designated any particular material, having acquired instead the abstract quality that made it a purely conventional sign. This antiimitative impulse becomes particularly evident when we observe certain military engineers’ use of yellow, the color associated with designs in military plans, as noted above. On a proposal for a lighthouse, yellow replaced pink in the section, further marking the color’s distance from the natural sign (fig. 93). Vauban led the way, applying red to drawings produced by his circle, which were then reproduced in treatises, as in the case of a drawing for the powder magazine in the Alsatian fortress

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of Neuf-Brisach, dated 1698, which then appeared in Sauveur’s Traité de fortification of 1737 (fig. 94). Claude Masse, whom we encountered earlier in the context of mapmaking, adopted the convention systematically; it appears in the manuscript he composed for his sons illustrating fortification techniques, in which he used the same color wash for the section of the stones forming the bastion walls and for that of the bricks of the lime kilns (see fig. 96). As with the conventions operating in plans, the use of pink for sections passed from the military engineers into the practice of the draftsmen of the office of the Bâtiments du Roi, and thence to private practices in Paris, although not seamlessly so.96 Whereas the technique almost never appeared in the office’s production under Jules Hardouin-Mansart, the opposite was true under his successor after 1699, Robert de Cotte, albeit with numerous exceptions until the arrival of Jacques V Gabriel as first architect in 1734. Even as fashionable a Paris draftsman as GillesMarie Oppenord, who used color freely in his architectural drawings, left his sections in paper reserve until the end of his life in 1742 (fig. 95). The preparatory 94. Joseph Sauveur, Traité de fortifications (1737), vol. 1, plate 7. Handcolored print, 49 cm × 38.5 cm (plate). Princeton University Library.

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95. Gilles-Marie Oppenord, preliminary project for the salon d’angle of the Palais Royal, Paris, ca. 1719–20. Black and brown inks and colored washes on paper, 58.1 × 42.9 cm. Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum, New York.

drawings for the engraved plates of Mariette’s Architecture françoise, cited above in relation to color in interior elevations, demonstrate that the application of the convention was still inconsistent at this time. Most of the drawings show slate roofs washed in blue, in the French manner, but only a few surviving examples are washed with the conventional colors that appear in the same period at the Bâtiments du Roi: yellow for floors and frames, blue for mirrors, pink for paintings, and finally a saturated pink for masonry in section.97 Similarly, at the Académie Royale d’Architecture, the extant drawings for a church façade, the competition subject for 1726, are all in gray monochrome with the masonry in section in paper reserve. The following year, the candidates used pink wash in their sections of a city

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96. Claude Masse, “Construction d’une fortification.” In Livre de fortifications, vol. 2 (between 1688 and 1728). Black, brown and red inks, colored washes on paper. Service Historique de la Défense, Vincennes.

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residence, a practice that remained the norm in French academic circles until the late nineteenth century.98 In the provinces, the convention spread slowly among civil architects. The father of the sculptor Edme Bouchardon, Jean-Baptiste, city architect for Chaumont in Champagne from 1718 to 1742, never washed his masonry in section in pink, but by the next generation the practice was universal, demonstrating the convention’s complete acceptance.99 Moving even further from the milieu of the Bâtiments du Roi and Paris, outside France indeed, we find that we can map national traditions of architectural drawing in Europe, based on the adoption or rejection of the convention. — Color conventions were primarily disseminated in Europe by those architects close to the Bâtiments du Roi who built their careers outside France, such as Guillaume d’Hauberat, a pupil of Robert de Cotte who directed the works at Poppelsdorf and Brühl in the Rhineland, became assistant to the city architect of Mannheim, then succeeded him from 1726 until his own death in 1749. His drawings for Brühl present uniform red washes where masonry is sectioned, while his colleague Johann Conrad Schlaum figured the rubble stone in pen.100 Thus did the graphic conventions of Paris reach the courts of German Europe. But diffusion did not imply adoption by osmosis. Antoine Derizet, who arrived at the French Academy in Rome in 1723 and would spend his entire career in the Eternal City, including teaching at the Accademia di San Luca, washed his masonry in section in pink.101 Yet, the practice remained marginal in Roman architectural circles until the last decades of the century, and almost none of Derizet’s pupils embraced it. Spain under Philip V received many French engineers; they washed their sections in pink, but the local architects did not take up the practice. The persistence of deep-rooted monochromatic traditions in architectural draftsmanship in Italy and Spain precluded the use of this conventional color. In what follows, I will map the areas of Europe influenced by Parisian drawings, from enthusiastic northern countries such as Sweden and Russia, to zones of resistance in Italy and Spain, to intermediate areas such as the United Kingdom. In Sweden, the application of color in architectural drawings, and especially pink for sections, may be explained, in the case of the great local architect Nicodemus Tessin the Elder, by his familiarity with Dutch drawings. This was owing in part to his travels—he was in Amsterdam in 1653; in part to the many Dutch architects and artisans in Sweden—Justus Vingboons from 1653 to 1656, Philips Vingboons in 1667, Adriaen Dortsman in 1670, and Cornelis Gijsbertsz. Rietvelt in 1679, to name only the most important;102 and in part to his apprenticeship with Simon de la Vallée, who worked for the House of Orange-Nassau in the United Provinces before becoming architect to Queen Christina of Sweden and the Oxenstierna family.103 However, use of the convention by the generation of the first half of the eighteenth century was apparently a consequence of direct French influence: the reappearance of pink in the generation of the Adelcrantzes, Hårlemans, and

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Cronstedt seems to have been due to their imitation of the contemporary Parisian manner, which was beginning to apply this conventional color systematically. Nicodemus Tessin the Younger, who visited Paris many times and became the Swedish king’s superintendent of buildings, assembled an important collection of architectural drawings by studios closely associated with the Bâtiments du Roi, to serve as models for the new royal palace in Stockholm.104 His collaborators then reflected this influence. If Carl Fredrik Adelcrantz’s father, Göran Josuae, apparently used only brown ink and gray wash, his son, who was employed by Tessin the Younger, prepared drawings with masonry in section washed in pink.105 When Carl Hårleman, a young draftsman in Tessin’s studio, who would be appointed superintendent in 1741, copied a drawing by Libéral Bruand for the chapel of the Hôtel des Invalides in Paris around 1721–26, he naturally added pink to distinguish the parts in section from the elevations, an emphasis that certainly did not exist in the original (figs. 97 and 98). Some of Hårleman’s drawings display the convention of washing the placement of paintings in red, a treatment restricted, as we have seen, to drawings made in Paris early in the century. On a section for the Uppsala University library, both the masonry and the locations for paintings are washed in red, with mirrors washed in green (fig. 99). Other collections joined Tessin’s, such as that of Count Carl Johan Cronstedt, who succeeded Hårleman as superintendent in 1753; these reinforced the influence of Parisian models in Sweden. The use of French colors was practiced in the highest court circles, as

97. Libéral Bruand (attrib.), proposal for the church of the Invalides, ca. 1670–76. Graphite and black ink on paper, 54 × 47.1 cm. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm. 98. Carl Hårleman, proposal for the church of the Invalides, after Libéral Bruand, ca. 1721–26. Black ink, gray and red washes on paper, 60.8 × 46.1 cm. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

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99. Carl Hårleman, Uppsala University Library at Gustavianium, ca. 1741–53. Black ink, colored washes on paper, 36 × 53 cm. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm. 100. King Adolf-Frederik of Sweden (attrib.), section of a pavilion (“The Confidence”) at Drottningholm, ca. 1752–53. Black ink, gray, red and yellow washes on paper, 65 × 42 cm. Nationalmuseum, Stockholm.

illustrated by a series of drawings of 1752–53, attributed to King Adolf-Frederick, for La Confidence, a pavilion at Drottningholm (fig. 100). While the French manner was absorbed in Sweden primarily through the copying of drawings, in Russia, Sweden’s great political rival, the French themselves introduced the graphic conventions then in vogue in Paris, in the course of training future Russian architects. The architects Alexandre Le Blond, under Peter the Great; Parisian-trained Francesco Bartolomeo Rastrelli, under Elizabeth Petrovna; and Jean-Baptiste Vallin de la Mothe, the first professor of architecture at the newly founded Russian Imperial Academy of the Arts, all taught their colleagues and students the Parisian graphic style. The Venetian Nicola Michetti, trained by Carlo Fontana in Rome, introduced pink for sections into his graphic practice only after arriving in Saint Petersburg and working under Le Blond.106 Some architects at the Russian court applied this pink to the sheet with a rather heavy brush, as we note in a design for the baths at the Hermitage Palace by Yuri Fel’ten, dated 1765, where the hue acts as a framing device (fig. 101). Sweden and Russia were early adopters of the French fashion, but countries under Italian influence took longer to assimilate the French draftsmen’s pink for sections. The first to surrender to the French manner after an earlier fidelity to Italy was the United Kingdom. In England in the 1720s, as we have seen, the architects of the Palladian movement, with Lord Burlington at their head, took over the Office of Works,

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the entity responsible for all royal buildings, and imposed gray wash on drawings, in the manner of Inigo Jones. William Kent, for example, drew almost exclusively with gray and brown washes. Even painters, including James Thornhill, cleaved to monochromy when dealing with architectural or furnishing matters: in a drawing for the Speaker’s Chair at Westminster Palace, Thornhill indicated its colors in a legend, rather than applying wash or watercolor.107 Kent’s successor at the Office of Works until 1765, John Vardy, the architect of Spencer House, employed only gray wash.108 The tradition continued with James “Athenian” Stuart, who, often assisted by his draftsman John Newman, never in his life used pink wash; he died in 1788.109 The real break in this monochrome lineage came with William Chambers, who introduced polychromy into Great Britain upon returning from his Grand Tour in 1752. The self-taught Chambers, whose earlier career was in maritime trade, came from outside the Palladian tradition and looked to a different literature, especially that of the Low Countries, such as Gerard de Lairesse’s Foundations of Drawing, translated into English in 1719, and Abraham Bloemaert’s Principes et études de dessin (Principles and studies of drawing), published in French in 1740. In 1749–50, Chambers trained in Paris at Jacques-François Blondel’s École des Arts (School of the Arts),110 the leading private architecture school of its time, then in Italy, where he refined his draftsmanship with French masters, including

101. Yuri Fel’ten, project for the baths of the Hermitage Palace, ca. 1765. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 50.1 × 72.4 cm. Technische Universität Berlin.

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102. William Chambers, Section of York House, Pall Mall, London, 1759. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 46 × 63 cm. Royal Institute of British Architects, London.

the architect Charles-Louis Clérisseau and the painter Laurent Pécheux.111 Chambers was above all a Francophile, which set him apart from most of his British compatriots. He maintained close relations with fellow students from the École des Arts, the architects Marie-Joseph Peyre and Charles De Wailly, and cultivated his network of Parisian artists.112 It was thus entirely natural that he should diverge from contemporary English draftsmen and break with the Palladian monochrome tradition. Nevertheless, the application of color in plans produced by Chambers’s studio seems not yet to have been standardized. The drawings for the Queen’s Lodge at Windsor, for example, are shaded in yellow and pink, but with no consistent logic, even though Chambers was the first to wash his sections in pink, introducing to Great Britain and his pupils what would become the rule in British drawing in the next generation.113 In Chambers’s case, this new use of color also related to a significant exhibition culture, which developed in Great Britain and on the continent in the second half of the eighteenth century and to which we shall return. In 1761, Chambers showed at the Society of Artists a section in

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103. Studio of Robert and James Adam, Cross Section through the Chapple and Mausoleum for the Countess of Shelburne at Bowood, 1761. Brown ink and colored washes on paper, 46.6 × 60.1 cm. Sir John Soane’s Museum, London.

ruins for the design of a townhouse for the duke of York, drawn two years earlier and based on the section of the prince of Wales’s mausoleum dated 1752 (fig. 102). The drawings created a sensation among a public unaccustomed to such brilliant colors in an architectural design, paving the way for the kinds of seductive tactics discussed in the following chapter. For Chambers, the revolution in drawing set the architect apart from the common builder. He popularized the new way of drawing through exhibitions and his assistants’ training. Shortly after, the Adam brothers, his principal competitors, began to produce sections with masonry washed in pink (fig. 103). Sir John Soane, a great admirer of Chambers, would also later adopt the technique. In this way, in addition to his well-known break with the architecture of the Palladians, at the level of draftsmanship, Chambers radically transformed the representation of architecture in Great Britain. For reasons that are themselves revealing, this transformation, with few exceptions, never reached Italy and Spain. —

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104. Filippo Juvarra, plan for the royal palace of Messina, 1714. Brown and black inks, colored washes on paper, 74 × 92.5 cm. Archivio di Stato di Torino.

Eighteenth-century Italian architects remained very reluctant to use washes of different colors. Nonetheless, there were islands of exception in this ocean of monochromy, such as the Sicilian architectural drawings of Giacomo Amato, who was active in Palermo at the turn of the eighteenth century, which included bluegray shading.114 The latter practice can be explained only as a local idiosyncrasy, out of step with contemporary trends on the Italian peninsula. Another Sicilian who used color washes in some drawings was the architect Filippo Juvarra, who pursued his career in Rome, Turin, Messina, and Madrid in the first decades of the eighteenth century. He drew and washed almost all his drawings in brown ink, even those elements that demanded polychromy, such as the cypress greens that express the funerary character of his design for the king of France’s mausoleum.115 Yet, Juvarra employed color in order to identify the different parts of a plan, a technique that was relatively unusual in Italian drawings, but that had become commonplace and systematic in France a few years before. This is the case with his 1714 design for the reconstruction of the royal palace in Messina, washed in gray, yellow, and pink (fig. 104). Juvarra was also one of the few Italian architects to wash the masonry in section on some of his drawings in pink or yellow.116 Did his particular taste for color arise from his goldsmithing background? His first Sicilian training? His experience with theater design? His drawings for set designs—with the notable exception of one for a temple of Jupiter for Giunio Bruto, by Cesarini, Caldara, and Scarlatti

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in 1711 (fig. 105)—are monochrome, much like those of his contemporaries, as exemplified by the famous Bibiena family’s graphic output.117 In any event, Juvarra’s use of polychromy set him apart from his Italian colleagues; while not consistent, it was frequent enough to be noticed, and only serves to emphasize, by virtue of contrast, the prevailing preference in Italy for brown or gray monochromy. The Italian attachment to monochromy persisted until the late eighteenth century, extending even to objects whose essential nature would seem to demand the application of various hues. In the presentation drawings for his decorative program for the basilica of San Giovanni in Laterano, dating from around 1764, Piranesi used only black ink to depict the multicolored marbles, the polychrome paintings, and the gold in the nave and choir (see fig. 90).118 These same tendencies appear in the renderings of the architects who entered the competitions organized by the Accademia di San Luca in Rome in the eighteenth century. In 1775, for example, Pasquale Belli submitted a design for a villa, and one of the drawings that he sent to the jury was treated like a veduta in perspective: the country residence stands out against a vast, hilly landscape beneath a cloud-filled sky; two trees in the foreground frame the composition, and human and animal figures populate the immense parterres that surround the villa (fig. 106). Where one would naturally expect the most vivid and enchanting colors, this Roman architect, although trained in drawing by Pécheux, a painter, employed only gray wash. This is to say that the absence

105. Filippo Juvarra, portico in front of the temple of Jupiter in scene 16 of Giunio Bruto, 1711. Black and brown ink, colored washes on paper, 38.5 × 37.1 cm. Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna.

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of colors did not signify a rejection of pictorial effects, and that monochromy in architectural drawings did not correlate with a refusal to borrow the representational means of artists. The Italian case demonstrates this clearly; the high artistic level of Piranesi’s drawings and of those of a number of San Luca candidates manifestly places their graphic presentation production within the realm of pictorial drawings, but without recourse to polychromy. But while most rejected imitative colors, certain Italian architects, influenced by the French, did begin to adopt conventional colors in the late 1770s. In a survey for one of the chapels of San Pietro in Montorio for a 1779 competition at the Accademia di San Luca, for example, the draftsman did not hesitate to use pink for the masonry in section along with green for the trees and yellow for the wooden beams (fig. 107). A similar trajectory can be retraced in another region, albeit one under Italian influence: the Iberian peninsula. —

106. (opposite top) Pasquale Belli, a villa, perspective, Concorso Clementino prima classe, 1775. Black ink, gray wash on paper, 62.7 × 98.5 cm. Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Rome. 107. (opposite bottom) Diodato Ray, survey of a chapel in San Pietro in Montorio, Concorso Clementino terza classe, 1779. Black ink, gray and colored washes on paper, 95.2 × 63.2 cm. Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Rome. 108. Juan Gómez de Mora, house for don Francisco Manso, Madrid, 1623. Brown and red inks, brown wash on paper, 37 × 46.5 cm. Museo de Historia de Madrid.

In Spain, with very few exceptions, architectural drawings remained monochrome during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In the first third of the seventeenth century, a small number of architects working in Madrid for the Habsburgs manifested a unique application of red ink: Francisco and Juan Gómez de Mora and José de Villaréal represented the bricks of their façades with horizontal lines in pen and red ink, and their roof tiles with vertical lines in the same color, a local technique that would continue to be employed until the middle of the following century (fig. 108).119 Otherwise, when color appears, it relates to a painterly

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109. Dámaso Santos Martínez, perspective of several buildings, December 4, 1775. Black ink, gray wash on paper, 66.8 × 50.1 cm. Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Ferdinando, Madrid.

activity, as in the case of Teodoro Ardemans, architect and painter to the crown at the turn of the eighteenth century. Although some of his masonry in section is washed in red,120 this was extremely unusual, with the predominant monochromy being reinforced by the Italian architects who came to work on the royal palace in Madrid beginning in the late 1730s: Juvarra, Giovanni Battista Sacchetti, and Francesco Sabatini, among others. If we consider all the drawings awarded prizes in the competitions of the Academia de San Fernando—founded in Madrid in 1752 with an initial membership drawn from the team at work on the royal palace—we note a consistent and homogeneous application of gray monochrome.121 Even the exercises assigned by the professor of perspective had to be executed in a single hue, with buildings, figures, vegetation, and fountains rendered exclusively in India ink, as is demonstrated by a view dated 1775 (fig. 109). In the eighteenth century, the very rare examples of the use of color occur in designs produced either by military engineers under French influence or by their circle.122 The elevation, section, and plans for the Tower of Hercules in La Coruña, Galicia, for instance, dated 1762, were drawn by José Cornide, a learned local who worked very closely with a military engineer, Eustaquio Giannini (fig. 110).123 And yet, toward the end of the 1770s, in parallel with what was happening in Rome, a timid shift took place within the circle of the Madrid architect Ventura Rodríguez, professor at the Academia de San Fernando. He introduced pinkwashed masonry into his last drawings, such as one for the Noaín aqueduct, dated 1782, three years before his death.124 His collaborator and pupil Manuel Machuca y Vargas employed French colors in his drawings of 1775–80, which he had not

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110. José Cornide, elevation, plan, and section of the Torre de Hércules in La Coruña, 1762. Black and brown inks, colored washes on paper, 58.5 × 45.5 cm. Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid.

done as a student at the Academia ten years earlier.125 The same is true of another protégé of Rodríguez, Juan Antonio Munar, who worked in the province of Almería beginning in 1777, at a time when his master’s colleagues, even younger ones, such as Silvestre Pérez, still practiced gray monochromy.126 In 1796, Jorge Durán exhibited in Madrid copies of the largely colored drawings that had won him the top prize the year before at the Roman Accademia di San Luca, on the theme of a sepulchral chapel (fig. 111). Though this marked a significant turning point in the adoption of the French manner, the application of pink to masonry would become

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111. Jorge Durán, a sepulchral chapel, 1796. Graphite, black ink, colored washes on paper, 64.2 × 99.4 cm. Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Madrid.

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112. (opposite) Isidro Velázquez, elevation, section and view of ruins of the Anfiteatro Castrense, Rome, ca. 1792–96. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 48.5 × 38.2 cm. Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid. 113. Francesco Bartolomeo Rastrelli, model of the main church of the Smolny convent, Saint Petersburg, ca. 1750–56. Wood and paint. Museum of the Russian Academy of Fine Arts, Saint Petersburg.

the rule in Spanish architectural drawings only with the return from Rome of Isidro Velázquez and others of his generation of Spanish academic fellows at the turn of the century.127 But even in Velázquez’s case, the building materials shown under his pink wash would not be dissolved by it entirely until the 1810s (fig. 112). The drawing that documents Rome’s Anfiteatro Castrense encapsulates the position of Spanish architects under Italian influence: imitative—pictorial—color is limited to a picturesque view of a peopled landscape beneath a cloudy sky, a drawing within a drawing, pinned to the fictive wall. The architectural document, with its measurements, is in gray wash, with pink very lightly applied to the cut portions, where the rubble stone and bricks are precisely drawn. The dichotomy between pictorial and architectural figuration could not be clearer. The rejection of the influence of painters can be explained in part by Spanish architects’ powerful tropism toward the Italian manner, but also by the position of the country’s

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114. Giovanni Baronci, order of the Arch of Constantine, Concorso Clementino terza classe, 1789. Black ink, gray and red washes on paper, 101.2 × 64.4 cm. Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Rome.

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architectural elite. The Academia’s self-imposed mission was to break with the castizo baroque of the early part of the century, with its architectural design process dominated by sculpture and sculptors.128 A return to the severity of the Escorial and of antiquity required restrained ornamentation and color, in favor of bare walls, simple volumes, and monochromy. — During most of the eighteenth century, two Europes coexisted in architectural drawing: one that quickly adopted conventional chromatic signs alongside imitative colors, and another, exemplified by Italy and Spain, that would not employ pink for masonry in section until the last third of the century. Everywhere, however, the latter practice moved further from its initial function of eliminating ambiguity and closer to another, decorative, purpose. In fact, the application of pink became superfluous and paradoxical once it left two-dimensional representations. The cut walls of the model for the church of the Smolny convent in Saint Petersburg, designed by Francesco Bartolomeo Rastrelli, a Paris-trained Italian architect, are painted pink (fig. 113). Here, color no longer compensates for the inadequacies of two-dimensional graphic representation—there can be no confusion between section and elevation on the model—but obviously spills into the decorative. It has become an affective color, an element of chromatic contrast to the decor. In the late eighteenth century, precisely when it began to prevail even in the Mediterranean countries, pink increasingly performed such a decorative role. This is readily apparent in the border that appears on a sheet showing the order of the Arch of Constantine, drawn by Giovanni Baronci for the Accademia di San Luca competition of 1789 (fig. 114). In this drawing, moreover, the color is not only decorative and arbitrary, but signifies something superfluous to the image, reinstating the drawing’s own picture plane. And, indeed, in the second half of the century color invaded presentation drawings, which were now no longer mere vehicles of information, but frankly seductive. In these works, color transcended the world of signs, whether natural or conventional, in order to embrace affect.

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CHAPTER THREE

Affective Colors

Although it takes little skill to wash a plan somewhat neatly, architects and engineers should not however neglect this feeble talent, which captivates the eyes of the crowd.1 Jean-Claude Pingeron, “Description d’une machine en usage en Allemagne pour dessiner les plans d’architecture civile et militaire” (Description of a machine used in Germany to draw civil and military architectural plans), Avant Coureur, May 20, 1771, 312.

This chapter concerns itself with the second half of the eighteenth century, the key moment at which architecture, considered in the Vitruvian world a scientific activity, began to break energetically out of that category in order to identify itself resolutely as an art of draftsmanship and affect. As Antoine Picon has emphasized, this was a transition out of a period characterized by essential beliefs that the architectonic was about proportions, that there was a close methodological connection between structural and scientific problems, and that architecture and the natural sciences shared a model of classification by types. In the course of the eighteenth century, architects would come to see themselves overtaken by progress in mathematics and geometry and leave large parts of the art of construction to civil engineers. In this later period, science gradually replaced geometry with calculus as it improved its mechanical models, thereby ending one of its deep connections with architecture.2 This revolution took place primarily among Parisian architects, whose perception of their own proper domain impacted much of Europe in the

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late eighteenth century, just as their influence had facilitated the adoption of conventional colors. Their self-perception directly affected how they represented a project: in a manner, that is, very like that of painters, whose figurative codes and techniques they assumed, especially their polychromy. This came about through the use neither of natural nor of conventional signs, but in a spectacular return to a mimesis that now sought to affect the viewer, newly motivated by the theory of sensualism formulated in the writings of Étienne Bonnot de Condillac in philosophy, Edmund Burke in painting, and Nicolas Le Camus de Mézières in architecture. Historians have sought to characterize the art and architecture of the eighteenth century by viewing it through the lens of the “subjective turn,” whereby beauty comes to be defined in terms of the viewer’s experience, rather than as a property of the object viewed.3 This radical change of outlook was based on the empiricist theory of knowledge, which holds that all knowledge is derived from sensual perception, a theory developed in British writings around 1670 and that informed the first architectural movement of “the sublime” in the circles of the architects of the reign of William III. The concept of the sublime derived from various interpretations of a first-century CE manuscript attributed to Longinus and adapted by the French author Étienne Boileau in 1674. The sublime of late seventeenth-century English baroque architects stressed variety, the union of opposing elements, and the impact of vast spaces on the spectator.4 In precisely these years, art’s scientific aspect was losing ground; as René Démoris has demonstrated, a reorganization of the relations between perspective and the painter’s art had already occurred, such that mathematical techniques were applied less or not at all by the turn of the eighteenth century.5 In 1670, Grégoire Huret, in his Optique de portraiture et de peinture (Optics of portraiture and painting), which promised to “depict the magnificent architectures of the most splendid buildings in perspective,” had already asserted that chiaroscuro and colors were more important than mathematics in achieving correct perspective.6 In the first half of the eighteenth century, when the debate about disegno versus colorito seemed to have been won by the latter’s champions and was gradually disappearing from texts, painters were already focusing on colors and the pursuit of effects rather than proportions. The reverberation of this development would not be felt in architecture until the second half of the century, however; by which time in painting the school eventually to be led by Jacques-Louis David was in fact returning to an emphasis on contour and line drawing. The story of this shift in architectural representation can be seen to begin in a work such as Gautier’s L’Art de laver of 1687 (introduced in the previous chapter). Its subtitle, La Nouvelle Manière de peindre sur le papier suivant le coloris des desseins qu’on envoie à la Cour (New method of painting on paper according to the colors of drawings sent to court) shows that the author was concerned with presentation drawings and maps made for a non-professional audience. For him, color served not only to enhance a drawing’s clarity and remove ambiguity from the representation of architecture and the territory, but also to charm the courtier

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who viewed it. This function was a new preoccupation, one that presaged the eighteenth century’s innovative applications of color. In his manuals, Gautier anticipated the addition to drawings of borders and even of brightly colored representations of the coats of arms of the patrons for whom they were produced.7 For the first time in a work by an engineer, the author foregrounded the seductive qualities of painting—that “jealous old mistress” (vieille maîtresse jalouse) in Gautier’s own gendering formulation.8 He recognized that, along with its conventional and distinguishing function, color had a fundamentally aesthetic role: “Colored lines form a whole, whose harmony is no less agreeable to the sight than a work of painting.”9 This demonstrates Gautier’s awareness of contemporary debates on the roles of drawing and color and on good taste that were roiling the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture (Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture) in Paris.10 He was himself closer to the colorist positions of the influential theorist on painting Roger de Piles, and he brought engineering into the thick of the theoretical arguments about color.11 In so doing, Gautier began a new chapter in the use of polychromy in architecture on paper. Hitherto, color had served merely to imitate the visible or else to convey signs, whether natural or conventional, intended to establish relationships of signifier to signified. Now architectural color would achieve something new, inspired by painting: it would please and delight the senses. This phenomenon, which was clearly to characterize the drawn or printed representation of architecture of the second half of the eighteenth century, arose from several factors: a novel presence of color in daily life; a theoretical and practical rapprochement between architecture and painting; and a new culture of diffusion and exhibition that widened the audience for architecture on paper.

A World in Color Social and art historians of Europe consider the eighteenth century the era of a color revolution, one that took place particularly in France and encompassed domestic spaces from upholstery to the surfaces of walls.12 We should recall that while interior decoration had previously been within the purview of the upholsterer, by the eighteenth century architects increasingly assumed responsibility for it. Architectural treatises rarely mention color for interiors prior to the 1780s, with the exception of a chapter in Lairesse’s Art of Painting of 1738: “On the matching of the various coloured marbles as well without as within a building”;13 and yet, beginning in the late 1730s, French architects introduced a wide range of richly saturated colors in interiors. Jacques-François Blondel reported in 1737 the introduction by his colleagues of woodwork painted in daffodil and lemon yellows.14 In La Petite Maison, his didactic novel written in 1763 with the journalist Jean-François Bastide, he described for the reader the different colors used in the rooms of the country house that serves as the main protagonist of the novel.15 The text’s main characters, two lovers, go from one room to the next, experiencing a

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chromatic symphony: lilac in the drawing room; yellow in the bedroom; violet, jasmine, and pink in the boudoir; green in the dressing room; and so on. Colors impress the senses of Mélite, the virtuous woman whom the marquis de Trémicour hopes to seduce through the beauty of her surroundings. The distribution of colors through rooms in this manner, intended to affect both inhabitants and visitors, was soon to be found on paper as well, in designs such as those drawn by PierreAdrien Pâris for the Château de Colmoulins, in Normandy (see fig. 116). The architect proposed a blue bedroom, a lilac bedroom, a blue cabinet, and a green room, reflecting the fashion for brightly colored decor that was spreading across Europe. When Hårleman redecorated Queen Louisa Ulrika’s apartments in the royal palace in Stockholm in 1755, he delivered a succession of vividly colored apartments: the audience room in crimson, the first anteroom in blue and the second in green; and the mezzanines in pink, green, and gold.16 These wall colors were painted, but an abundant use of colorful textiles and wallpaper is recorded too, throughout the continent. Over the course of the century, tapestries—mostly without complex figural elements and comprising two or no more than three colors—eventually lost their status as the prevailing wall treatment, even if most homes in Paris still retained them as increasingly retardataire trappings.17 Figural paintings in trompe-l’oeil appeared on tapestry hangings. In 1763, the architect Jacques-Germain Soufflot, in charge of the royal manufactory of the Gobelins, oversaw the overall design of the tapestry supplied to Croome Court, the earl of Coventry’s Worcestershire house, in which woven medallions after paintings by François Boucher were inserted into a design by flower painter Maurice Jacques (fig. 115).18 This was a typical collaboration of architects and painters of the second half of the eighteenth century, of a type to which we will return. In this example and in Pâris’s cross section of the Château de Colmoulins, rooms in upper-class apartments were decorated with matching sets: beds, wall hangings, canopies, and upholstery were in the same color, with the same pattern, and the fabric and colors changed every other season (lighter colors, in chintz, taffeta, or satin in summer; darker colors, such as green and crimson, in damask, brocatelle, or velvet in winter). Over the course of the century, the Lyons silk manufacturers adapted to producing patterns and colors especially for wall hangings; the distinction between upholstery and clothing fabrics gradually vanished, and solid colors became more stylish than patterns.19 In his drawing, Pâris represented the bedroom walls at Colmoulins hung with unpatterned fabrics in a single color. Wallpaper, meanwhile, competing with textile wall coverings, contributed to this chromatic saturation.20 Originally found primarily in middle-class interiors, in the eighteenth century it migrated into the residences of the elite. When, in the mid-1720s, the architect William Kent wallpapered the Great Drawing Room in Kensington Palace for George I, he launched the fashion in British interiors.21 A similar movement took place in France: “domino paper” (a single sheet of decorative paper made for various applications) and “tapestry paper” (made with patterns or paintings designed to form a composite arrangement of sheets glued

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to a wall to decorate a room) were initially found among the more modest classes. As the quality of these wallpapers improved, however, they began increasingly to grace aristocratic interiors.22 Another factor in their rise in rank was the introduction of Chinese wallpaper, a highly luxurious import, into upper middleclass and aristocratic homes. Such a profusion of hues on the domestic walls of the European elite soon gave rise to thoughtful theoretical reflections on the role of color. Le Camus de Mézières integrated the colors of rooms into his sensualist theory, summarized in his Le Génie de l’architecture, ou L’Analogie de cet art avec nos sensations (The Genius of architecture, or, The analogy of that art with our sensations), published in 1780. For example, he recommended green for bedrooms, because it evokes the feeling of natural foliage and the serenity of pastoral repose.23 Attributing affects to colors, after Blondel’s model, which linked human temperaments and characters to architectural orders, Le Camus de Mézières associated violence with red and vexation with yellow, while green had a quality of seriousness.24 He even attempted to match wall colors with inhabitants’ skin tones: for bathrooms, he

115. Tapestry room from Croome Court, after a design by Robert Adam, 1763–71. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Gift of the Samuel H. Kress Foundation, 1958.

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116. Pierre-Adrien Pâris, section of the Château of Colmoulins, ca. 1782. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 25.8 × 36.2 cm. Bibliothèque Municipale, Besançon, Collection PierreAdrien Pâris, vol. 484, no. 65.

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recommended hangings whiter than snow for a woman with milky skin, and blue fabrics for a duller complexion.25 In London, the architect James Peacock pushed the connection between architectural color and nature even further in the text he wrote to accompany a collection of his drawings of villas, published in 1785: “The distribution of color in . . . various parts of the principal rooms should be based on a close study of nature. In the ceiling should prevail the light, cool and delicately softened azure of the sky, diversified with such meliorated tones only, as the fleecy clouds produce when illuminated by the morning sun. . . . The walls should partake a middle hue and the floor a deeper dye, [to] be imitative of the carpet of nature.”26 The architect here transports his client into a re-creation of nature in the imitative manner of painters, arranging colors spatially, as painters do on canvas; here, we see an architect increasingly thinking like a painter. The same development can be discerned, meanwhile, in the world of architectural prints, as artists began to introduce color into a domain that, as we have seen, was characterized in the Renaissance period by a strict monochromy. —

117. Jan van Call, view of the Rondeel-Amstel in Amsterdam, ca. 1690–1700. Etching in color, 22.1 × 16.2 cm. Gemeente Amsterdam Stadsarchief. 118. Cornelis Danckerts (architect), Johannes Teyler (engraver), Keizersgracht 738–740, after 1671, reissued 1697. Etching in color, 24 × 25.3 cm. Gemeente Amsterdam Stadsarchief.

As we saw in Chapter 1, color prints had been common in Europe since the fourteenth century, be they devotional images, or anatomical or botanical illustrations. In the seventeenth century, the European center of production shifted to the United Provinces, with Amsterdam the world’s leading publisher of color maps, and the city’s architectural draftsmen applying color washes lavishly. In Haarlem, Hercules Seghers was experimenting with several polychrome engraving techniques. Shortly thereafter, around mid-century, Jan van de Velde IV employed a two-color intaglio method, with one plate for black and one for red, and developed the first aquatint processes.27 Around 1680, his compatriot Johann Teyler perfected a way of inking a single plate with several hues, using a dauber—a bundle of muslin that allows the ink to fill only certain lines on the plate.28 Teyler’s associate Jan van Call was the first to apply this innovation to architectural engravings, which soon competed with colored drawings of urban views, at lower cost. This was the beginning of polychromy in architectural engravings. In the 1690s, van Call produced largeformat polychrome views of Amsterdam, often thirty by fifty centimeters, made to adorn the walls of the republic’s wealthy middle-class residences (fig. 117). Besides city views, van Call, assisted by Teyler, also published color printed series of the works of Dutch architects, especially buildings by Cornelis Danckerts (fig. 118). Carel Allard, a print dealer and mapmaker, reissued some of these plates in a publication of his own in 1697, which illustrates both the existence of a demand for architectural color engravings and a close connection between the worlds of cartography and of architectural images in the United Provinces in the late seventeenth century.29 Nevertheless, color printed engravings were still the exception until the eighteenth century. Innovations were taking place in the Dutch sphere, but they either remained at the experimental stage or were published in small, very high-quality editions. The situation changed in the mid-eighteenth

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century, however, with the proliferation of new techniques intended to reproduce in engraving the specificity of drawings. This took place particularly in Great Britain and France. By mid-century, engravers and publishers were producing entirely new kinds of color prints for the market—what Margaret Morgan Grasselli has described as a true revolution in the world of the printed object.30 As Kristel Smentek has convincingly demonstrated, the principal argument put forward by the distributors of color engravings was their fidelity, whether in painting, drawing, or miniature, to the model.31 Because of this naturalism, color prints were understood to serve the public good and the advancement of knowledge. Most of all, the goal was to make available at lower cost objects that replicated unique products to be found at the most luxurious fringes of the range of consumer goods—the eighteenth-century phenomenon that Cissie Fairchilds has termed “populuxe.”32 The high-quality color image, hitherto identified with the unique and precious, could now be distributed on a wide scale to domestic interiors. These experiments were part of a broader development of technical inventions seeking to produce facsimiles of drawings, from Jean de Julienne’s Figures de différents caractères to Pierre Crozat’s Recueil. In the former, the engravers tried to capture the spirit of Antoine Watteau’s drawings, but the medium entailed simplifications, chief among them the elimination of the trois crayons (three-chalk) polychromy at which the turn-of-the-eighteenth-century artist had excelled. The first revolution occurred in 1721, when the readers of the Mercure de France learned about the invention of color mezzotint in London by Jakob Christoffel Le Blon.33 The process consisted of printing an image from three copper plates, inked in blue, yellow, and red, respectively. The first applications of the process, reproductions of oil works, were sold as “printed paintings,” as publicized by Le Blon’s disciple and future rival Jacques-Fabien Gautier Dagoty,34 who reproduced Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin’s famous Young Draftsman at actual size (fig. 119).35 Whereas color mezzotint was used to replicate only oil paintings and pastels, the next innovation, Jean-Charles François’s chalk-manner engravings, deliberately targeted the market for reproductions of drawings—especially drawings in red and black chalks, whose lines had hitherto been difficult to duplicate with a burin or in drypoint.36 François’s innovation occurred at a moment when the collecting of Renaissance and contemporary drawings was intensifying. Another essential site for crayon-manner engraving were drawing schools, such as the École Gratuite de Dessin (Free School of Drawing), founded in Paris by Jean-Jacques Bachelier in 1766.37 In 1767, Louis-Marin Bonnet, who had trained with Jean-Charles François and his associate, later competitor, Gilles Demarteau, adapted the technique by using several plates—as many as eight for a celebrated Head of Flora after François Boucher—and an unoxidizable white ink to mimic the trois crayons effect, in addition to tinted prepared papers to achieve different chromatic effects for the same images.38 Bonnet encapsulates the way populuxe and pedagogical objects might overlap technologically. Besides engraving interpretations of paintings, Bonnet illustrated manuals on drawing maps, including one published in 1783 by a military engineer,

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119. Jacques-Fabien Gautier Dagoty after Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin, The Young Draftsman, eighteenth century. Mezzotint, 20.8 × 15.4 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Purchase, Janice and Roger Oresman Gift, Elisha Whittelsey Collection, Elisha Whittelsey Fund, Charles Z. Offin Fund, and funds from various donors.

Charles-Louis Fossé (fig. 120). Green, pink, and ocher predominate; the choice of hues and their differences in values were much more limited than in a hand-colored print. This is no doubt why this technique, which was also burdensome in terms of both time and money, was only infrequently employed for the reproduction of architectural and cartographic drawings. Architectural etchers preferred the wash manner (manière de lavis) and aquatint in order to render the uniform hues of watercolor. The former consisted of exposing to acid the area of the copper plate that will print in color. The irregularities created by the mordant fixed the ink to the impression, resulting in light, even hues. This technique, developed by François in 1758 and Bonnet in 1763, was much less widespread than aquatint, however, with which Pierre-Gustave Folding was experimenting as early as 1761 and which was popularized by the painter Jean-Baptiste Le Prince, beginning in 1768.39

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120. Charles-Louis Fossé, LouisMarin Bonnet, “Plan d’un projet de défense.” In Idées d’un militaire pour la disposition des troupes confiés aux jeunes officiers dans la défense et l’attaque des petits postes (Paris: Alexandre Jombert jeune, 1783), plate 3. Engraving in color.

Aquatints are made using the minuscule, randomly distributed stipples that are produced when rosin is applied to the plate then heated in order to form small droplets. The plate is then acid etched in order to make a network of tiny irregular lines, called a “ground.” The image is produced on the plate by the brushing on of an acid-resistant material, a process called “stopping out.” The artist stops out different areas and dips the plate in acid between applications in order to produce tones from white to deep black. Aquatint was introduced into the English architectural milieu by the landscape artist Paul Sandby, brother of the first professor of architecture at the Royal Academy.40 Sandby, who was trained in military draftsmanship, recorded battlefields and infrastructure works for the Survey of Scotland after the defeat of the Jacobites. He obtained particular success in watercolors of architectural subjects, thanks to his masterly mix of translucent washes with opaque body colors, a method sometimes called “tinted drawing.” The brush allowed him to capture the weathering of materials, the qualities of light, time of day, and season. For his aquatints, instead of shaking rosin onto the plate, he suspended it in alcohol and applied it with a brush, making the process similar to that for his “tinted drawings.” In France, the etcher Jean-François Janinet readily grasped the utility of the technique for architecture, which became his specialty. His association with the technique was noted in the proof of one of his prints: “The Operator, engraved to imitate wash, with colors,

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by F. Janinet, who alone discovered this manner.”41 The success of his series Vues pittoresques des principaux édifices de Paris (Picturesque views of the most important buildings of Paris), published in Paris in 1787, encouraged Janinet to collaborate with the architect Jean-Nicolas-Louis Durand on two series of color engravings of Paris buildings, with the modern edifices framed by round ornamental borders, and everything printed in color aquatint (fig. 121).42 The success of this type of image in turn inspired the style of architects’ drawings. For his design for a square to be built in front of the Palais de Justice in Paris, which he had just completed, Pierre Desmaisons adopted the oval format and palette of contemporary engravers (fig. 122). Following early experiments in France and Germany, the technique spread to the rest of Europe in the late eighteenth century. In Italy, architects used aquatint to circulate designs and ideas, more than for treatises and images of existing buildings; the Roman architects who met at the Accademia della Pace in the 1790s, for example, opted to publish their designs in aquatint.43 The use of the process was short-lived, however, as the fashion was more concerned with line engraving.44 This was the technique preferred by Charles Percier and Pierre-François-Léonard Fontaine, especially for their Palais, maisons et autres édifices modernes dessinés à Rome (Palazzi, houses, and other modern buildings drawn in Rome), of 1798, for which color was applied by hand, a simpler and less expensive method.45 — 121. Jean-Nicolas-Louis Durand, Jean-François Janinet, “Vue de la maison de M. Le Doux.” In Vues pittoresques des principaux édifices de Paris (Paris: Lamy, 1792), plate 25. Engraving in color.

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122. Pierre Desmaisons, Nouvelle Place du Palais de Justice En Face de la Grille de la Cour du May, 1785. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 18.6 × 24.5 cm. Drawing Matter Collection, Shatwell.

In large part owing to the expense of aquatint and similar processes, and against the background of the long tradition of hand-coloring, this rise to prominence of the colorful image appears to have boosted spectacularly the production of high-quality hand-colored prints, a category that had nearly disappeared since the sixteenth century outside of the world of botanical and anatomical illustrations. There had always remained, of course, an active market for inexpensive hand-colored prints, such as the optical views produced in Augsburg, London, and Paris.46 The subjects depicted were cities, ports, monuments, and famous landscapes, as well as maritime views and scenes from history, always shown in very forced perspective, with a preponderance of urban views centered axially on important streets, as seen in Georg Balthasar Probst’s project for Saint Petersburg (fig. 123). But these lowcost prints, like those of peddlers’ almanacs, popular engraved devotional images, and playing cards, were not attempts to reproduce faithfully the colors of drawings or even building materials. The ready availability of these lower-market versions makes the reappearance of the high-quality hand-colored print all the more remarkable and expressive of color’s new status in graphic production.

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The new, even innovative, emergence of high-quality, hand-colored prints can be correlated with the driving force of tourism. With the growth of the Grand Tour in the second half of the eighteenth century, prints became one of the commodities most popular with travelers, and the market adapted rapidly. A handtinted print was a unique, original object that cost less than a drawing. Giovanni Volpato, a Roman engraver and dealer, seems to have been the first to have grasped the financial opportunity offered by this market (the addition of color doubled the price of the print).47 For his enterprise, he hired Francesco Panini, son of the famous architectural painter Giovanni Paolo Panini.48 Francesco provided the line drawings, Volpato etched the copper plate, and Francesco then colored the print by hand, as we can see in a spectacular example of a view of the Galleria Farnese in Rome (fig. 124).49 Sofia Amanda Hernandez’s analysis of these objects shows that the plates were etched with the specific intention of adding polychromy. Francesco Panini preferred gouache to wash, so as to give his drawings a texture more like that of paintings and better to control the application of the pigments, thereby achieving “natural colors,” in the words of the amateur Michael Huber in his Manuel

123. Georg Balthasar Probst, project for a square in Saint Petersburg, ca. 1740. Handcolored engraving and brown ink, 31 × 43 cm. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris.

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124. (opposite) Francesco Panini (designer and colorist), Giovanni Volpato (engraver), Veduta della Galleria dipinta da Annibale Carracii et suoi Scolari esistente nel Palazzo Farnese in Roma, 1777. Etching, colored washes and gouache on paper, 50 × 37.7 cm. British Library, London. 125. Abraham-Louis-Rodolphe Ducros (designer and colorist), Giovanni Volpato (engraver), Vue de l’Arc de Tite à Rome, Rome, ca. 1780. Etching, colored washes and gouache on paper, 73.4 × 50.7 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Gift of Mrs. Charles Wrightsman, 2009.

des curieux of 1800.50 For his yellows, Panini must certainly have used mica-based pigments in order to obtain his iridescent effect. Except in his perspective view of the Galleria Farnese, Panini employed orthogonal projection, which situated him in the world of architectural draftsmen; he always in fact styled himself a “painter and architect.” We know that he produced at least one project, for a sculpture gallery for William Petty, second earl of Shelburne; the polychrome drawing is in the collections of the Sir John Soane’s Museum in London.51 Volpato, however, did not only engage painter-architects: he collaborated with the painter AbrahamLouis-Rodolphe Ducros on views of Rome and of the Museo Pio-Clementino in the Vatican (fig. 125).52 During this same period, a French architect, Jean-Louis Desprez, worked with Giovanni Battista Piranesi’s son Francesco, producing and

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126. Pierre-François-Léonard Fontaine and Charles Percier, Palais, maisons et autres édifices modernes dessinés à Rome (Paris: Baudouin, 1798), plate 92. Hand-colored engraving. Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art, Paris.

selling etchings of views of Roman monuments, enhanced with watercolor.53 Thus, architects and painters found themselves in the same commercial enterprises dedicated to the tourist trade, and associated with similar technology. Purchasers bought both etchings with watercolor and drawings: between 1785 and 1791, Sir Richard Colt Hoare, for example, acquired for his estate of Stourhead, Wiltshire, large-format washed drawings of views as well as prints hand tinted by Ducros54— from whom Percier and Fontaine, Napoleon Bonaparte’s future architects, learned their etching techniques. Fontaine writes in his manuscript autobiography that he had “admired in the studio of a Genevan painter, Ducros, who enjoyed a well-deserved reputation, water-colored views reproducing the antique monuments of Rome with an extraordinary faithfulness and color strength.”55 Percier and Fontaine integrated

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color into their earliest publications, including Palais, maisons et autres édifices modernes (cited above), whose tinted editions sold for eight times as much as those with only line etchings—twenty-four livres instead of three (fig. 126), and Fontaine’s wife, Sophie Dupuis, trained as a print watercolorist.56 As Jean-Philippe Garric reminds us, Percier and Fontaine were not the first to include hand-tinted engravings in architectural books: Panseron, whom we met earlier, sold some copies of his 1772 Élemens d’architecture washed,57 and we will see below that, beginning in 1787, the engraver Amant-Parfait Prieur offered printed reproductions with watercolor added to prize-winning designs from the Académie Royale d’Architecture in Paris. Panseron had kept only the pink of masonry in section, a conventional color. The washes of Percier and Fontaine, by contrast, were neither natural nor conventional signs, but affective, as they had been for Volpato and Janinet. Thus did these businesses apply to architectural drawings the aims of painting, a phenomenon that dominated architecture in the last decades of the eighteenth century.

Architectural Paintings Seventy years ago, Paul Oskar Kristeller hypothesized that the “modern system of the arts” originated in the eighteenth century with the writings of the abbé Batteux and included the “irreducible nucleus” of the fine arts, comprising painting, sculpture, architecture, music, and poetry.58 Although his theory has since been disputed,59 it does capture a key feature of the second half of the eighteenth century, with direct bearing on the present study: that is, the evaporation of the distinction between painting and architecture. This was initially manifested in paintings of architectural subjects, of which the Roman Giovanni Paolo Panini was the master. The Venetian theorist Francesco Algarotti, who purchased an interior view of the Pantheon from him, considered Panini the last of the illustrious line of the architects descended from Serlio, Palladio, and Desgodetz.60 Panini’s canvases were less popular with the British, who preferred those of the Venetian Canaletto, but they were hugely successful with the French, who also collected his drawings and prints (fig. 127). At the 1775 Paris sales of Pierre-Jean Mariette’s collection, Panini’s drawings brought prices up to almost four hundred livres (more than drawings by Guercino) and were sold to the director of the Bâtiments du Roi and the most prominent of the Parisian architects, including Richard Mique (MarieAntoinette’s architect) and Soufflot.61 Panini would remain very close to French milieux, becoming a member of the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture in Paris in 1732. At the Académie de France in Rome, where he was nearly made director in 1737, he taught perspective to painters who took the architectural genre back to France—Giovanni Niccolò Servandoni, Pierre-Antoine de Machy, and Hubert Robert—and to architects—Louis-Joseph Le Lorrain, CharlesLouis Clérisseau, Marie-Joseph Peyre, and Mathurin Cherpitel.62 Architects and artists painted together under his guidance, just as they drew together from live

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127. Giovanni Paolo Panini, print: ruins, with a statue on the left, ca. 1728. Brown ink and colored washes on paper, 19 × 26.5 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. Robert Lehman Collection.

models, excavated Roman ruins together, and went on group drawing excursions.63 Clérisseau, a student of Panini, is a good example of this new kind of architect, at the intersection of architecture and painting. Trained by the architect Germain Boffrand, Clérisseau arrived in Rome in 1749, having won the Grand Prix of the Académie Royale d’Architecture in 1746. At Palazzo Mancini, home of the French Academy, he turned to painting, taking classes with Panini, whose paintings he copied; according to a letter of the director, Charles-Joseph Natoire, dated July 19, 1752, Clérisseau was “currently working on a colored drawing.”64 His work with Panini resulted in exceptionally polychrome drawings, a marker of the locus common to painting and architecture. The French architect’s mastery of the colored drawing made his reputation among the British, who acquired his output in abundance.65 His fame as a colorist was one reason Clérisseau was sought after as a private teacher by architects on the Grand Tour, among them Robert Adam, who wrote to his brother in 1755, “I found out Clérisseau a Nathaniel in whom tho’ there is no guile, yet there is the utmost knowledge of architecture, of perspective, and of designing and colouring I ever saw, or had any conception of.”66 In Adam’s view, Clérisseau “has all these knacks, so necessary to us architects” (figs. 128 and 129).67 The expertise in drawing that Clérisseau acquired in Rome, in an environment in which architects and painters studied together and shared their representational techniques, established his renown, on a par with artists such as Hubert Robert, a celebrated painter of ruins who also practiced built architecture. It was the pursuit

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of the tourist market, as we have seen, that prompted the erosion of the boundaries between architectural drawings, paintings of architecture, and paintings of ruins, a movement in which architects willingly participated by adopting the affective colors and representational techniques that had been proper to painting.68 This blurring is evident in sales catalogues: for example, the “design for a fireworks display, drawing in pen and colored,” itemized in the posthumous sales catalogue of the architect Pierre Contant d’Ivry was found in the paintings section, after “a painting of architecture depicting a dining-room interior” by Jean Le Maire, an early seventeenth-century artist who was one of the first painters of architecture, especially of Roman ruins.69 The fashion for architectural paintings reached a peak in the late 1760s at the Salon, the annual exhibition of the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture in Paris, to the point that writers began to tire of them, with one critic asserting in 1769 that he preferred “my leg of mutton & my pâté to the Grotto of Posilippo or Prince Mattei’s country house, however fine they may be.”70 Two years later, in his Cours d’architecture, Jacques-François Blondel, since 1762 a professor at the Académie Royale d’Architecture, complained about the influence of paintings of architecture on drawings by architects, who employed formless, random strokes and “wish to please only the painters of ruins.”71 Blondel was reacting against a powerful tendency on the part of the younger generation among his colleagues at the Académie to argue for a close commonality between painting and architecture on paper. The history of the theoretical connections between painting and architecture is outside the scope of this study, which is concerned with the practical results of their intersection; however, I should stress that the development of the use of polychromy in the representation of architecture, in both drawings and prints, corresponded to a particular moment, one in which architects asserted their identity as artists in order to align the aim of their art with that of painting. That is to say, they sought simultaneously to imitate nature, to teach morality, and to enchant the senses. It is important to recall that the academic separation between architecture and the visual arts that prevailed in Paris was, in fact, unique in Europe.72 Ever since Vasari, the academic world in general had taken for granted the unity of the three drawing arts: architecture, painting, and sculpture. This was echoed in every art school across the continent, except in Paris. There, although the situation had never been seriously challenged, some eighteenth-century authors, such as Guillaume Baillet de Saint-Julien in 1739, did nevertheless begin to regret the division it entailed, wishing to bring architects and painters closer together.73 A few years later, the Florentine Giovanni Gaetano Bottari maintained, in the third of his Dialoghi sopra le tre arte del disegno (Dialogues on the three arts of drawing), published in 1754, that to be a good architect, one must be a good draftsman, like Michelangelo.74 For the Venetian Francesco Milizia, on the other hand, drawing must be merely a tool that served the architect, not the essence of architecture.75 In this, he was following Vincenzo Scamozzi’s dictum of 1615: “graphium means drawing pen, and not paintbrush.”76 Some years later, westward across the

Overleaf: 128. Charles-Louis Clérisseau (attrib.), capriccio, ca. 1756. Pencil, black ink, and washes on paper, 36 × 30.6 cm. Sir John Soane’s Museum, London. 129. Robert Adam, capriccio, ca. 1756. Pencil, black and brown inks, and colored washes on paper, 36 × 30.6 cm. Sir John Soane’s Museum, London.

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Mediterranean, in Madrid, the powerful professor of mathematics of the Academia de San Fernando Benito Bails also defended the separation between architects and painters. Fearing that students who concentrated too much on drawing would lose their way, Bails opposed draftsmen to architects.77 These conflicting voices were only reacting to a strong tendency in the last third of the eighteenth century, however, as architecture neared the other liberal arts. As Chambers wrote to his pupil Edward Stevens, during the latter’s Grand Tour in 1774, “Study painting and sculpture thoroughly; you can never be a great master in your own profession without great judgement in these arts, which are so intimately connected with it.”78 This “intimate connection” is evident in Stevens’s drawings, which manifest all the characteristics of painting, especially its brilliant colors (fig. 130). The similarities between painting and architecture were increasingly accepted. Le Camus de Mézières explored them in Le Génie de l’architecture of 1780 (mentioned above). Comparing the architect’s way of handling light with the painter’s, Le Camus de Mézières evoked architecture’s hues, gradations, and nuances.79 His colleagues supported the comparison. Étienne-Louis Boullée took as his own a remark attributed to Correggio—“And I too am a Painter”—using it as an epigraph in his Essai sur l’art, which existed only in manuscript until the twentieth century.80 In the 1804 edition of his Architecture considérée sous les rapports de l’art, des mœurs et de la legislation (Architecture considered in terms of art, customs, and legislation), Claude-Nicolas Ledoux wrote, “If you would become an architect, begin by being a painter”; and he advocated a sensualist approach to architecture.81 Meanwhile, their colleague at the Académie Royale d’Architecture Charles-Axel Guillaumot held that a mastery of painterly effects was best expressed in the picturesque, embodied in particular in modern garden design.82 — Perhaps because garden and landscape design was itself such a crucial locus of experimentation in eighteenth-century Europe, one of the strongest connections between painting and architecture occurred in this area. A new mode of designing gardens, born in Great Britain, originated in the emulation of seventeenth-century continental paintings and ushered in the “picturesque” movement. During the 1770s, Hubert Robert, a painter of architecture and ruins, was devising gardens in the picturesque style; the Chevalier de Jaucourt, meanwhile, writing in the Encyclopédie, had united the adjective “picturesque” to the noun “composition,” defining the resulting phrase as “the arrangement of the objects that must be included in a painting, relative to the painting’s overall effect.”83 Colin Rowe has argued that the word “composition” in the context of architecture was first employed in England, by Robert Morris in 1739, who took it from the vocabulary of painting.84 Rowe ties the appearance of the word and its propagation to the picturesque movement, particularly the free, asymmetrical laying out of gardens. The movement spread in the United Kingdom with the popularity of the tours described by William Gilpin, whose writings began circulating in manuscript in the

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1770s. Gilpin maintained that buildings could express sentiments in harmony with the landscape surrounding them—once again connecting architectural theory and sensualist philosophy.85 In 1773, Robert Adam, influenced by Piranesi, wrote on the concept of movement, comparing the effects of projections—concave and convex walls—with landscape painting.86 One of the most important books published in France on garden design, issued in 1777, was titled De la composition des paysages (On the composition of landscapes) by René-Louis de Girardin, a close friend of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. The theoretical literature on garden design consistently assigned primacy to color. In the Encyclopédie méthodique of 1788, for example, the entry “Arbres” (Trees) proposes a typology of the various species according to their chromatic values and the effects that these colors can produce in gardens;87 the colors were those of the landscape draftsmen who were part of the contemporary watercolor movement.88 The introduction of landscapes to support designs was even encouraged by the authors of manuals on architectural drawing. Charles Dupuis, an architect who was teaching drawing to the pages-of-honor of the king’s eldest brother the comte de Provence,89 wrote in his Traité d’architecture of 1782,

130. Edward Stevens, design for the interior decoration of a house, 1758. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 43.5 × 64 cm. Royal Institute of British Architects, London.

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Landscape, a very pleasing kind of drawing, is suitable for the architect who is skilled in perspective; it provides him with the means to render artfully a perspective view, not only of the buildings to be erected, but also of the objects surrounding the buildings: a very satisfying view for the owners who, at a glance, take in the extent of the views they may enjoy in their homes: this is what led me to give a general idea of the way to draw landscapes of several types; one will acquire from this treatise the habit of mixing colors, & of using them in varying situations.90 The connection is clear here between landscape and the use of color by architectural draftsmen—a connection we also find among their rivals, the civil engineers, a group that emerged in the first half of the century from the mapmakers’ milieu.91 Engineers, too, were encouraged to master landscape drawing, with the first competition organized in 1775 at the École des Ponts et Chaussées (School of Bridges and Roads, the French state training institution for civil engineers) by its director, Jean-Rodolphe Perronet.92 A manuscript notebook of models for students, which Picon has convincingly attributed to the professor of drawing Pierre-Charles Lesage, advised to “begin by drawing the landscape before drawing the map” (fig. 131).93 Lesage recommended avoiding the conventional hues systematized by the military, opting instead for the colors imitating nature that architects were then adopting: “I will never bring myself to believe that reasonable people with eyes, talent, and a little taste could have come up with, and think we should adopt, a convention 131. Pierre-Charles Lesage (attrib.), model of trees, ca. 1793. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 18 × 27 cm. Bibliothèque de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, Champs-sur-Marne. Photo: Basile Baudez.

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that ordains the representation and coloring of nature as it is not.”94 He suggested substituting blue for liquid verdigris, the conventional color for all water, because the sky is mirrored in water.95 The position taken by the Ponts et Chaussées reflects the century’s trajectory. Civil engineers, now influenced by architects, appropriated the tools of the painters’ trade and distanced themselves from traditional cartography and military engineering. Maps were now executed like true paintings, as we can see in the famous Ribbons Map, in which the colored drawing overrides the black and white print (fig. 132). Engineering students employed their architect counterparts’ affective colors, as in a 1787 competition for a design for an aqueduct-bridge, canal, and locks (fig. 133). The increasing resemblance between architectural and engineering drawings manifests the ambitions of civil engineers, who, in Picon’s phrase, considered themselves artists, too. Mimesis and the painters’ affective colors won out at the Ponts et Chaussées, demonstrating a new conception of architectural drawing, even among engineers, as a stand-alone element in a design, an end point within an independent process. —

132. The Ribbons Map, École des Ponts et Chaussées map competition, 1784. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 58 × 73 cm. Bibliothèque de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, Champssur-Marne. Overleaf: 133. Le Vatois, project for an aqueduct-bridge, canal, and locks, École des Ponts et Chaussées drawing competition, 1787. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 142 × 311 cm. Bibliothèque de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, Champs-sur-Marne.

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Thus, we find that, by the end of the eighteenth century, architectural drawings had followed the example of artists’ drawings, which had themselves separated from paintings in the first half of the eighteenth century to be means to their own end. An earlier case of such autonomy is that of Raymond Lafage, who died in 1684 at the age of twenty-eight. He evidently never executed a painting, but was famous internationally for his drawings, which were collected by great amateurs such as Everhard Jabach or Pierre Crozat a generation later.96 These collections implied that drawings were no longer solely preparatory sheets for painted works, but, more broadly, themselves signs of the creative spirit. In the mid-eighteenth century, when the abbé Gougenot, an art connoisseur, argued that the painting academy’s members should exhibit their drawings at the Salon, he was alluding to what was a commonplace to his readers, that these drawings had value independently of any related paintings.97 The phenomenon of the increasing autonomy of artists’ drawings is evidenced in their becoming truly collectible objects, beginning in the 1740s.98 Framed drawings began to appear at sales in the 1750s and became an established category in the 1770s; by mid-century, it was fashionable to adorn the walls of one’s cabinet with prints under glass.99 A dealer, Jean-Baptiste Glomy, set the style for “enhanced drawings” (dessins ajustés) mounted with gold fillets and washed borders applied directly to the glass covering the drawing.100 It was in this context that architectural drawings came increasingly to resemble artists’ drawings, even though there appears to have been no market among connoisseurs for architectural drawings, in the strict sense, before the twentieth century.101 The resemblance to artists’ drawings allowed architecture on paper to become independent of any project. Piranesi was unquestionably the architect who contributed most powerfully to this process of increasing autonomy. In his introduction to his Prima parte di architettura, published in 1743, the Venetian began by admitting that his original aim had been to become a great architect, but since no prince or private person seemed to be greatly inclined to build at the time, his only opportunity—as for all contemporary architects—lay in presenting his ideas in the form of drawings, thereby challenging the advantage held by the arts of painting and sculpture on their home ground: the representation of the imaginary.102 Piranesi’s extraordinary sense of the market enabled him to make a name for himself by selling his books of prints and drawings of fantasies (fig. 134).103 Clérisseau reported in 1754 that he owned three drawings by Piranesi, which he had acquired with difficulty, and that he was prepared to sell two of them for a high price.104 Even if these productions do not properly fall into the category we earlier defined as architectural drawings, their influence on the graphic rendition of architectural projects should not be understated. Simultaneously, the growing autonomy of architectural drawings was bolstered by the adoption throughout Europe of the academic competition as a way to validate architectural ability. The Grand Prix of the Académie Royale d’Architecture in Paris, the Concorso Clementino medals of the Accademia of San Luca in Rome, the medals of London’s Royal Academy, and the prizes of the Saint Petersburg’s Imperial Academy of the Arts, among others, were awarded for purely

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134. Giovanni Battista Piranesi, architectural fantasy with a colossal arcaded façade on a piazza with statues, victory columns, fountains, and an obelisk, ca. 1740–50. Graphite, brown ink, brown wash, and red chalk on paper, 27 × 42.8 cm. Morgan Library and Museum, New York. Purchased as the gift of Miss Alice Tully.

graphic exercises, with no oral examination. These were judged independently of any constructional, technical, financial, or even precise site considerations; the only criteria were grasp of compositional principles and architectural language and the response to a program based on building types. The Paris competition, which was the model for others in Europe, consisted of two phases: a sketch, executed in a day, that displayed the design’s strictly architectural qualities, and then, for the eight or ten happy semifinalists, a series of large renderings to be completed within four months.105 Because these renderings had to reflect all the solutions proposed in the sketch, what were judged in the end were not the candidates’ qualities as architects, but their abilities as draftsmen. This is evident in the design for a menagerie that Antoine-Laurent-Thomas Vaudoyer submitted for the Grand Prix of 1783 (figs. 135 and 136). There is almost nothing in the finished drawing that has not been designed in the sketch; the only “added value” is the quality of the drawing technique itself and its affective qualities. The goal of preparing the best draftsmen of architecture had become confused in academic circles with the definition of a good architect, in the pure Vasarian tradition. As early as 1672, in a speech to the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture, Henri Testelin proclaimed that “architecture and drawing are one and the same.”106 Not only were designs disconnected from any material or geographical reality, but the fact that the Académie excluded wooden models from its competitions confirmed the status of drawings as the only architectural production that could compete with built architecture. In this way, architectural drawings officially attained the status of artists’ drawings, whose value was recognized independent of the objects they presumably prefigured. The situation was acknowledged—and

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criticized—by contemporaries. In the early nineteenth century, Antoine Chrysostome Quatremère de Quincy would rue the course taken by architectural drawings in the second half of the previous century, even if he admired Piranesi as a draftsman:107 It is evident that most early architectural drawings were merely simple ink lines, lightly hatched or washed in bister. Today’s architects seem to have made a special art of drawing architecture. I think this art has grown or become refined in inverse proportion to the number of works and buildings that are constructed. In olden times, moreover, an architect’s drawing was nothing but the sketch for his building. It had to be so, since it was the architect himself who would realize his sketch. Since the art [of architecture] has become divided, as a fact and in practice, into invention and execution; since men have emerged who invent and compose, but can’t build, with others building on behalf of those who can only invent, of course drawings have become more [artistically] rendered, affected, and finished. I do not presume, besides, to attack the value of finish in drawings, although, to tell the truth, finish in architectural drawings consists of pure lines, accurate measurements, and exact proportions. I will merely remark that this quality does not determine the merit of the architecture, and that, without these tidy washes and picturesqueness and effects of nuanced highlights and shading, as in a painting, one can make architectural drawings that are just as good and just as suited to the primary purpose for which they are intended; that is, construction.108 Quatremère perfectly summarizes the evolution of architectural drawings: their autonomy arose from a separation between projection and invention, and their use of wash and color followed from the replacement of geometry by painting as the paradigm. In the early nineteenth century, architectural drawings had clearly attained a status that they had not had a century earlier, one that was uncontested when it was a question of artists’ drawings, but fiercely challenged when granted to architecture—a discipline hard pressed to maintain its equilibrium in its unstable position between art and science. This veering of architectural drawings toward art may be explained in large part by the increasing similarity between architects and artists, both in their training and in theory. The two were to be directly pitted against each other for comparison, however, on the walls of exhibitions in which architectural drawings aspired to the level of painting, to an unprecedented degree. —

135. Antoine-Laurent-Thomas Vaudoyer, menagerie, esquisse for the Grand Prix, 1783. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 18 × 26 cm. Beaux-Arts de Paris.

In his Dialogues sur la peinture of 1773, Antoine Renou lamented the fact that architects did not display their designs publicly; thirty years later, Fontaine was fulminating that Napoleon forced him to show his projects to the public at the Salon.109 In one generation, the first architect to the emperor had witnessed the birth in France of

136. Antoine-Laurent-Thomas Vaudoyer, menagerie, rendu for the Grand Prix, 1783. Black ink and colored washes on varnished paper, 45 × 93.5 cm. Beaux-Arts de Paris.

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137. Charles De Wailly, project for the main pulpit of SaintSulpice, Paris, ca. 1788. Black and brown ink and colored washes on paper, 58 × 48 cm. Musée Carnavalet-Histoire de Paris.

an audience for architecture, the result of a new exhibition culture. This culture exerted a significant influence on the development of a new type of drawing. While for the most part derived from the traditional presentation drawing for clients, it was now made for a public increasingly accustomed to discussing and critiquing paintings, and so had to rise to the challenge of competing with these. Use of a wide range of colors proved to be particularly important to success in doing so. Artists’ drawings began to be collected and exhibited at the annual Paris Salon at mid-century, while architectural drawings tended to remain out of public view. Architectural drawings were gathered for institutional reasons (in the plans office of the administration of the Bâtiments du Roi, for example) or for practical reasons (in architects’ studios as records or templates). The schools where architecture was taught, such as Blondel’s École des Arts or Bachelier’s École Gratuite de Dessin, preferred prints to drawings because they cost less and, being reproducible, could be used for longer. But schools and offices were private institutions, and public display of architectural drawings remained sporadic events, limiting their general accessibility. Among them, public auctions, which multiplied during the second half of the century, allowed even those who weren’t buying to see the works. The meticulously drawn sketches that Gabriel de Saint-Aubin made as notes and illustrations in his copies of sales catalogues suggest that the display of ephemeral objects in salesrooms represented an opportunity for collectors and artists to see things that would otherwise have stayed out of circulation. But architectural drawings are rarely mentioned in French catalogues, with the remarkable exception of those by Charles De Wailly, who became the architect of the Comédie Française and designed a magnificent pulpit for the Parisian church of Saint-Sulpice (fig. 137). Beginning in 1761, his drawings commanded extraordinary prices:110 a framed drawing under glass of the Pantheon in Rome went for nearly three hundred livres in 1780,111 while one of the interior of Saint Peter’s reached 664 livres five years later.112 As a comparison, at the same sale, two paintings by Hubert Robert sold for half the latter amount, and none of the painter’s drawings went for more than twelve livres. The editors of the posthumous catalogue of Jacques-Germain Soufflot in 1780 explained that “M. De Wailly’s drawings are very unusual; they reveal both the painter and the architect.”113 Clearly, what made De Wailly’s drawings so valuable on the market was not the architectural design presented to the public, but the pictorial effects. A similar phenomenon occurred in relation to older architectural drawings, which were particularly rare on the market. At the Contant d’Ivry sale of 1777, the drawings by Oppenord, Jean Bérain, and Jean Lepautre were sheets depicting ornaments, decor, and capricci.114 Oppenord especially was far better known for his drawings than for his buildings (see fig. 96).115 Public exhibitions in Paris rarely showed architectural drawings. Those organized by the Académie de Saint-Luc, the corporation of Paris painters and sculptors, included what were described as “drawings of architecture”; these were by painters and by illustrators such as Louis-Gabriel Moreau the Elder and had very little to do with architecture.116 Exceptionally, in 1761, the catalogue for the

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annual exhibition on the place Dauphine mentioned “designs full of grandeur and genius” by the architects “Peyre and Rades”—certainly Marie-Joseph Peyre or his younger brother Antoine-François, and Louis-François Petit-Radel.117 At the Coliseum exhibition of 1776, the public could admire Dumont’s design for a vauxhall (pleasure garden).118 In 1791, at the Youth Exhibition (Exposition de la Jeunesse) organized by the painting dealer Jean-Baptiste Lebrun, there was a single architectural drawing, a design for a monument to be erected on the place du Trône (today place de la Nation) in Paris.119 Following a common eighteenthcentury practice, visitors hoping to acquire the large varnished watercolor could buy raffle tickets.120 An exception in this desert was the salon of the Établissement de la Correspondance Générale sur les Sciences et les Arts, which has been studied by Valérie Nègre, where, from 1776 to 1787, architects including JacquesDenis Antoine, Victor Louis, and Claude-Thomas Lussault exhibited alongside architect-draftsmen such as Desprez and Panseron.121 However, the exhibition’s only semi-public nature—one had to be “known or brought by a scholar, artist, or well-known amateur”—limited its reach.122 The situation specific to ancien régime institutions in Paris—that is, the division between painters and sculptors in one academy and architects in another—goes far toward explaining the absence of a culture of exhibiting architectural drawings in the city. Only members of the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture could exhibit at its annual salon at the Louvre, a rule that automatically excluded all architects, except for those who entered as painters; Clérisseau in 1769 and De Wailly in 1771 were both accepted under the new category of “painters of architecture” established by the followers of Panini.123 Ten years earlier, De Wailly had organized his own exhibition of drawings, furniture, and decor in a temporary, purpose-built structure under the windows of the Louvre Salon, where the annual exhibition was taking place.124 Michel Gallet reports that De Wailly, hidden behind a curtain, laughed as he listened to visitors’ comments;125 the architect admitted in a letter to Chambers in 1763 that sales of his drawings made up for lack of building commissions.126 Until the end of the ancien régime, the royal administration countered all challenges to the Académie’s monopoly on public art exhibitions, thereby minimizing chances for the public to see architectural drawings. Petit-Radel’s attempt in 1779 to show his colored drawings in the hall between the Infanta’s Garden and the Louvre Salon was quickly quashed by the authorities (fig. 138).127 Architects were reduced to exhibiting their drawings in their homes, as Boullée in 1761 did with his designs for the chapel he was building in the church of Saint-Roch.128 The situation outside Paris, however, allowed the public greater opportunities to see architectural drawings. Outside the capital, architects could exhibit alongside other artists. In 1776, at the salon of the Académie des Arts in Bordeaux, the architect Jean-Baptiste Lartigue presented an elevation of his design for a Gothic portal for the Cathédrale Saint-André.129 In the brochure that the abbé Lebrun published in his Almanach that same year, Lartigue stated that he was submitting “his views to artists, connoisseurs, the public, and to healthy, corrective criticism,

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too.”130 But this case was very unusual among eighteenth-century, provincial exhibitions. In Lille, for example, after 1766, the salon organized by the local drawing school included architectural drawings, but only those by current or former students. The types of drawing displayed to the public—copies of prints and designs for modest projects—reflected the curriculum. The close connection between the school and the salon is demonstrated by the fact that when the former stopped teaching architecture, from 1794 to 1808, such drawings disappeared from the latter. Nevertheless, during this period, architects seem to have grasped that showing their drawings increased their reputations and attracted new commissions. François Verly from Lille enrolled at the Académie Royale d’Architecture in 1783 and sent some of his competition drawings to the salon of his home town; during the Revolution, he exhibited a design for the reconstruction of Lille’s city center (fig. 139).131 In this, the architect presented his design as a vast urban landscape, in perspective, and with a repoussoir of ruins in the foreground, in the manner of Piranesi’s prints. Although the colors are restrained, they enliven the picture, the blue of the sky echoing the hue of water, roofs, and even statues. The drawing, made for the exhibition, was in all likelihood displayed together with a large project in the reception rooms of the town hall in an effort to convince the city officials who had opposed it.132 In Toulouse, the salon, which had been held at the town hall since 1751, displayed the artistic taste of the province’s collectors more than local artistic production—including that of its Académie des Beaux-Arts.133 As there was no market for architectural drawings, the exhibition catalogues register very few

138. Louis-François Petit-Radel, grand composition of architecture, 1768. Black and brown ink and colored washes on paper, 33.4 × 61.8 cm. Musée des Arts Décoratifs, Paris.

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139. François Verly, proposal for the center of the town of Lille, ca. 1793. Black and brown ink and colored washes on paper, 52.8 × 90.3 cm. Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lille.

such works, even though a section had been devoted to them since 1759. As in Lille, the lenders of the very few architectural drawings exhibited were students and their instructors. In both Lille and Toulouse, the salons functioned less as sites for discussing architectural designs than as a means of publicizing them or making a case for a contested project, as in the Verly example cited above. And yet, these two provincial instances reflected a far greater variety and vitality than in Paris—even if the latter has always been privileged historiographically. They also reveal an ongoing connection between public exhibitions and education that would become even stronger in the next century. For example, after 1816 the Lille salon consistently included all drawings awarded first prize by the local school. The connection between exhibition and education is also visible in the context of the great European art academies. In Paris, beginning in 1769, drawings by competitors for the Grand Prix were exhibited in the assembly hall of the Académie Royale d’Architecture in the Louvre a few days before being judged.134 Fontaine wrote in his autobiography that in 1779 he went to see the drawings shown at the Louvre on the opening day of the Salon.135 Across the Alps, after 1777, in honor of the feast day of Saint Louis, August 25, the students at the Académie de France in Rome could exhibit their work to the public in the galleries of Palazzo Mancini. Fontaine evokes in his autobiography two drawings of modern and antique Rome exhibited in 1787, for which he was praised. This shows that students could exhibit their personal drawings, and not only the envois, the mandatory exercises

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that were supposed to be sent to Paris as evidence of their progress.136 The French ambassador, Cardinal de Bernis, recognizing the importance of these events, elected to show in his apartments works by French artists outside the Academy; in June 1789, he presented watercolors by two architects, Thomas de Thomon and Louis-François Cassas.137 A number of European academies followed suit. Before the Roman Accademia di San Luca’s public prize-giving ceremony, which took place on the Campidoglio, the finalists’ drawings were exhibited to the public for a few days in a gallery adjacent to the aula.138 In this case, however, only some members of the Roman elite were admitted, which prompted the journalist Michele Mallio to argue in the Annali di Roma in 1792 for an exhibition venue where Roman artists might submit their work to public gaze.139 But no gallery would be dedicated specifically to the exhibition of juried, prize-winning works until the Napoleonic occupation of Rome, when the Accademia di San Luca and the Scuola Libera del Nudo (Free School of Life-Drawing) on the Campidoglio were granted large spaces in the former convent of the Convertite on the Corso.140 The situation in Madrid was similar: when the Academia de San Fernando moved to its current premises on via de Alcalá, it gained an exhibition gallery on the upper floor, in which the prize-winning works were on display to the public for two or three weeks after the jurying.141 However, the fact that there was no mention of these exhibitions in the Madrid or Paris press demonstrates that they were, for the most part, private and, in the eighteenth century, had not attained the social significance of the equivalent London events, at which architects had been showing their drawings beside the works of other artists since the beginning of the century. — We have seen that William Chambers introduced the new manner of representing architecture, with colors, at the exhibition of his drawings organized, first, by the Society of Artists in 1761, and then, after 1768, by the Royal Academy. Thomas Sandby, the first professor of architecture at the latter institution (and elder brother of Paul, mentioned above), invented the illustrated lecture: Sir John Soane later recalled that Sandby displayed, among other things, a side elevation of his triumphal bridge design on multiple sheets of paper pasted together to form a length of sixteen feet (fig. 140).142 The former student testified to “the powerful impression the sight of that beautiful work produced on myself and on many of the young artists of those days.”143 Beyond the walls of the classroom, and unlike their French counterparts, English architects showed their drawings to the London public every year, beside those of painters, engravers, and sculptors. It is thus unsurprising to find in England one of the earliest reflections on the exhibition of architecture. In an article entitled “The Architects’ Mirror” that appeared in The Morning Post, and Daily Advertiser of Friday, May 3, 1776, and that has been analyzed by Nicholas Savage, a writer with the nom de plume PhiloArchitectus, described the greatest difficulties confronting architects when they

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140. Thomas Sandby, view of Saint Paul’s Cathedral from an idealized bridge, ca. 1780. Pencil, black ink and colored washes on paper, 47.3 × 42.5 cm. Royal Collection Trust, London.

exhibited.144 In the first place, it was very difficult for the public to evaluate an architectural drawing, because there was no “exact standard in nature to regulate our judgement by.” The public believed themselves able to judge painting and sculpture, because they were familiar enough with these creative modes to do so, but that was not true of architecture. Then, “the best architectural designs should be expressed somewhat gracefully, and especially when exhibited to public view, otherwise they cannot among paintings be introduced with propriety. . . . The most ingenious architect by not paying a little attention to his drawing, may lose the merit of his design how excellent so ever it may be.” What the public saw in the exhibition were the painters’ and sculptors’ final products, whereas architects could be judged only by the built objects—not the beauty of their drawings, which were doomed to vanish forever if the architects failed to find clients with enough taste, time, and money to realize them. Finally, the architectural drawing was, by definition, the vehicle of a project meant to be carried out, and was to be judged from that viewpoint. This last consideration placed the British author radically at odds with the French followers of Piranesi, who defended the autonomous nature of architectural drawings. Philo-Architectus insisted throughout on the difference between design and drawing, in the Platonic tradition, which holds that the former exists independently of the latter, as a first principle or a concept formed in the architect’s imagination. The architect was thus caught between two necessities: to be exactly faithful to the facts of the future project, on the one hand, and to express the effects it would elicit in built form, on the other. He had therefore to develop representational strategies in order to reconcile these two requirements. John Yenn, a pupil of Chambers, was the first regular exhibitor to have grasped the graphic implications of the exhibition drawing, as opposed to the design drawing, as a type.145 Yenn used orthographic projection but borrowed some of Chambers’s techniques in order to embellish his drawings: rain-swept walls, trees as repoussoirs in the foreground, and smoking urns and chimneys, as well as the stormy skies that appear in a design for a villa he showed in 1769 (fig. 141). His application of gouache and watercolor lent vivacity to an image made for a public exhibition. After 1773, he never again showed plans, exhibiting only elevations and sections, a choice that characterized most of Chambers’s disciples. One consequence of the pressure experienced by architects who exhibited beside painters was the increasingly common practice of hiring professional artistdraftsmen. James Wyatt, the architect who would succeed Chambers as surveyor general and comptroller of the king’s works, apparently employed professional draftsmen very early in his career and seems to have hired John Mallord William Turner, especially for the views of Fonthill Abbey (fig. 142). Turner also worked for Joseph Bonomi, even though Bonomi was known to be an excellent draftsman himself. The danger, which very quickly manifested itself, was that the public could consider the draftsman the designer, whence the reported rumor that Wyatt forbade John Dixon, his first assistant, to exhibit under his own name,146

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and the successful opposition in 1795 by Joseph Farington, the Royal Academy’s secretary, to Thomas Malton’s admission, on the pretext that Malton was “only a draughtsman of buildings, but no Architect.”147 In this narrative, Soane and Joseph Michael Gandy’s collaboration was highly unusual and complicated, given Soane’s ambiguous relationship to drawing (fig. 143).148 In his fifth lecture to the Royal Academy, Soane wrote that it was “impossible not to admire the beauties, and almost magical effects, in the architectural drawings of a Clérisseau, a Gandy or a Turner,” even as he warned against the perils of spending too much time on the drawing at the expense of the project.149 It is evident from this that British architects took more nuanced positions than their French counterparts, who—Boullée and Ledoux, for example—considered that architects must be artists first, and prove that they could produce architectural paintings without painters’ resources. Parisian architects, excluded from the Salon until 1793, arrived on the scene at a moment when the public and the press, the two audiences for whom their drawings were increasingly now made, had developed a critical vocabulary for evaluating paintings, but found themselves at a loss when it came to talking about the figuration of architecture. When the critic for the Journal de Paris came to number 118 at the 1781 Salon, “Architecture, by M. De Wailly,” he confessed in his review his inability to discuss architectural drawings.150 Architecture critics were usually architects themselves, who most often covered their own projects in order to publicize them.151 As Richard Wittman has shown, the general public’s very limited exposure to architectural drawings and unfamiliarity with the 141. John Yenn, design for a nobleman’s villa, 1769. Black ink and colored washes, 48.2 × 64 cm. Royal Academy of Arts, London.

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142. James Wyatt (designer), and possibly John Mallord William Turner (draftsman), Fonthill Abbey, Wiltshire, 1798. Graphite, black ink, and colored washes on paper, 72.4 × 110.5 cm. Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, CT. Paul Mellon Collection.

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143. Joseph Michael Gandy, design for the rebuilding of Pitzhanger Manor, Ealing, following one by Sir John Soane, 1800. Black and brown ink, colored washes, and gouache on paper, 66 × 106.5 cm. Sir John Soane’s Museum, London.

discipline made architecture relatively inaccessible, but this did not necessarily imply a lack of public interest. In the second half of the eighteenth century, building matters were much discussed in the press, and, beginning in June 1760, the Mercure de France argued for a separate salon for architectural designs.152 Only regular public exhibitions of drawings would make it possible to judge projects on their merits, before the unpredictable course of their realization. These debates make clear the position of a significant number of architects, that bringing graphic representations of architectural projects into the heart of exhibition culture could well forge a connection between their own output and the public, as had been the case with painters a generation earlier. This explains why architectural drawings began to take on the language and means of painting, resulting in large-scale drawings in which the architecture was inserted into a peopled landscape, the whole in vivid colors. This evolution is especially noticeable in designs by the students of the Académie Royale d’Architecture in Paris.

From Triumphant Polychromy to Sublime Monochromy The Académie Royale d’Architecture’s competition drawings offer a fascinating snapshot of the tendencies and various ways of representing a project fostered by

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the French kingdom’s architectural elite. The jury comprised all the institution’s members, typically some thirty people, and they were elected for life, generally at mid-career. It therefore reflected several generations of architects, working in several manners, often concurrently. This meant that the prize-winning drawings, executed by a small number of students chosen by the academicians, and which have been kept by the Académie since the eighteenth century (now in the collections of the Beaux-Arts de Paris), record the dominant trends in how architectural projects were conceived and depicted by leading Parisian architects. The competition subjects provide no indication of the technique to be employed; only the scale. The entrants rendered their sketches (esquisses) on a sheet of the size known as pot, measuring eighteen by twenty-six centimeters (see, for example, Antoine-LaurentThomas Vaudoyer’s design for a menagerie, fig. 135). The final renderings (rendus) were often larger than the largest sizes sold by stationers, grand-aigle (67 × 98.8 cm) and grand-atlas (66.3 × 74.4 cm).153 This meant that competitors often pasted several sheets together, thereby exceeding the scale associated with drawings and attaining those of paintings. Jean-René Billaudel’s elevation for the 1754 Grand Prix, for example, measures 172 centimeters high by 440 centimeters wide. The sizes of submissions for the monthly prizes established after 1763 (prix d’émulation) became as inflated as their themes, from a simple formal church façade in June 1763 to an all’antica circus in January 1782. The section that the young Thomas Froideau presented for the latter measures 49 centimeters high by 245.5 centimeters wide, a size that can be taken in only from a substantial distance (fig. 144). This increase in size was a response to an aesthetic that perceived a close similarity between architectural drawings and painted pictures and favored affect and the spectacular

144. Thomas Froideau, a circus in the manner of the ancient Romans, prix d’émulation, January 1782. Graphite, black ink and colored washes on paper, 49 × 245.5 cm. Beaux-Arts de Paris. Photo: Basile Baudez.

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over fine details and precision in the rendering. Larger than the spectator’s body, this grand object contributed to the elaboration of an aesthetics of the sublime, as Burke redefined it in A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful, of 1757: beauty results from violent emotions, and this intensity arises most often from contemplation of the sensation of the infinite, which is evoked by large dimensions.154 To achieve an impression of infinity, the entrants increased the size of their sheets, on the one hand, and, on the other, dramatically reduced the scale of their designs, even including tiny figures that emphasized the building’s grand scale (fig. 145). A lavish use of color washes, with bold, saturated values that created stark contrasts, also reflected this strategy of emulating paintings, even in sketches. In Paris, the earliest such polychromy appeared on Pierre Laurent’s project for a triumphal arch in 1730; in the following years, it became the norm, albeit limited to sparse vegetal and aquatic elements, before expanding into what might be characterized as true colored paintings in the 1780s. These were drawings that clearly aspired to the language and visual impact of painting, entirely independent of the need to convey information about the proposed structure per se. The situation peculiar to Paris is emphasized by contrast with Rome and Madrid, where strictly conventional signs, such as pink for sections, remained the norm. In Rome, colored pictorial effects would appear only in academic drawings in 1795, with Giovanni Campana’s and Durán’s sepulchral chapels in perspective (fig. 146; and see fig. 111), a theme similar to subjects proposed a decade earlier in Paris. In Madrid, before 1793, only two exceptions exist to prove the rule: the granpremio-winning drawing of 1763 by Juan Pedro Arnal (who had, however, been trained in France, at the Toulouse Académie) uses bister to depict the triumphal columns of his bishop’s palace; and the other exception was Antonio López Losada’s perspective view of a “Templo del Honor y la Inmortalidad” (Temple to honor and immortality) of 1772, a subject that echoed, in part, one assigned in Paris the year before. But nothing resembled what was being drawn in Paris at the time. 145. Thomas Froideau, a circus in the manner of the ancient Romans, prix d’émulation, January 1782 (detail). Beaux-Arts de Paris. Photo: Basile Baudez.

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The drawings by Jean-Charles-Alexandre Moreau, who won the second Grand Prix in the 1784 annual competition in Paris, the assigned subject of which was a lazaretto (or isolation hospital for the diseased, itself an ideal match for the sublime), are exemplary of French chromatic practice and deserve more detailed analysis (figs. 147 and 148).155 Imitative colors include Prussian blue mixed with gray for water and bister for the walls, onto which the draftsman dripped green or blue wash mixed with gray, a technique employed routinely in drawings made in Paris in the 1770s to suggest the passage of time and the effects of weather, probably borrowed from Panini’s paintings and drawings.156 Conventional colors include pink for the masonry in section of the quays in the elevation and different shades of green to distinguish the landscaped spaces on the plan. And finally, affective use of colors includes the contrast between the blue of the sea and the brown of the skiffs, the different values of the green of vegetation in the elevation and section, the violet of the mountains, treated in atmospheric perspective, and the orange of the rocks that dramatically frame the composition on the right. Moreau established a dialogue between the buildings and the complex landscape in which they are set which reinforces the qualities of isolation, wilderness, and sublime beauty he sought to impart to his vision of a lazaretto.

146. Giovanni Campana, a sepulchral chapel, Concorso Clementino prima classe, 1795. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 60 × 100 cm. Accademia di San Luca, Rome.

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147. Jean-Charles-Alexandre Moreau, a lazaretto, second Grand Prix, elevation, 1784. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 64.4 × 280.5 cm. Beaux-Arts de Paris.

To fully grasp the range of colors and their diverse effects on the spectator, consideration of Moreau’s drawings as engraved in 1787 and a number of tinted examples in public collections can prove insightful. In 1787, the engraver AmantParfait Prieur (introduced above) suggested to the academy that a selection of prize-winning drawings be engraved and sold to the public.157 Unlike in the case of Panseron’s edition of his Elémens, the watercolorists working for the publisher did not merely wash in pink the masonry in the sections, but radically transformed the line engravings into, in effect, architectural paintings. In the absence of a subscribers’ list, there is no way of knowing to whom the prints were sold; but the engravers, seeking the widest possible audience, likely intended to market them to professionals, students, and collectors. We know that they were used by architectural students in order to practice washing, as Garric has demonstrated from his study of the drawings by François-Léonard Seheult, who trained in Paris in the late 1780s.158 I have found no contracts between Prieur and the colorists, and they did not sign their work, so their names remain unknown; similarly, there is no positive proof that the drawings were washed during Prieur’s lifetime. Nevertheless, the following analysis demonstrates the probability that while the pigments are consistent with a date in the 1780s and 1790s, the majority if not all of the colorists had no architectural training. I will analyze in detail, by comparing the colorists’ work, the various roles that color played in the representation of architecture in the late eighteenth century. Prieur’s first maneuver was considerably to reduce the size of the drawings, for obvious reasons of handling, economy, and flexibility of use (fig. 149). He may

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also have used reduced-scale drawings made by the students themselves: starting in 1758, indeed, the Académie Royale d’Architecture asked the winning competitors to deliver to the institution a copy of their drawings in a smaller format in order “to see at one glance the progress of the School of architecture.”159 Whether he was copying originals or copies, Prieur had sometimes to crop the overall composition. The sky occupies a disproportionate amount of space, and the buildings lose their monumentality; the drawing is, obviously, no longer a tableau d’architecture. Furthermore, the three types of representation—plan, section, and elevation—are all the same size, around thirty-three by forty-seven centimeters, which was not the case when plans were drawn on sheets a third the size of those used for sections and elevations: another indication of the prevalence of representational systems shared with paintings.160 The frame is tighter; in the elevation, this eliminated the two dramatic landscapes that bordered the composition, as well as the picturesque villages that dotted the foothills, and, in the plan, the landscape is drawn in perspective (figs. 149–50). But some of the built parts of the design disappeared, too, such as the two columnar lighthouses on the ends of the jetties, clearly visible on the drawn section and plan, and the watchtowers at the ends of the quays. These elements, which reinforced the similarity between the lazaretto and a sea fortress, are lost in the prints. In the translation to line engraving, the shadows were also lost, rendering less legible the sequence of grounds in the elevation and the terraces in the plan.161 Finally, the composition is reversed. This creates no problems when the architecture presents perfect axial symmetry, but when the architecture is inserted into a peopled landscape, it can give rise to compositional infelicities.

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148. Jean-Charles-Alexandre Moreau, a lazaretto, second Grand Prix, plan, 1784. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 220 × 143 cm. BeauxArts de Paris.

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149. “Lazaret. 2e grand prix proposé par l’Académie en 1784 et remporté par Mr. Moreau . . . Prieur scul.” In Amant-Parfait Prieur and Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte, eds., Recueil des prix proposés et couronnés par l’Académie d’Architecture (Paris: Joubert, 1787–91), plate 4. 150. “Elévation du lazaret de M. Moreau. Prieur S.” In AmantParfait Prieur and Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte, eds., Recueil des prix proposés et couronnés par l’Académie d’Architecture (Paris: Joubert, 1787–91), plate 5.

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For example, the highest mountain is on the left of the sheet, and the skiffs are propelled by wind coming from the right, whereas the eye is accustomed to reading an architectural drawing like a text, from left to right, a reading reinforced by a convention established at mid-century of lighting compositions from the left.162 This feature illustrates how the passage from drawing to engraving—for long inconsequential, because of the canon of symmetry—became problematic in the late eighteenth century, in the context of the adoption by architectural drawings of painterly codes.163 The subtraction of color entailed such a loss of legibility and of the attractiveness of the original drawing that publishers obviously concluded that only hand-colored prints could appeal to their clients. How individual colorists attempted to compensate for these losses is extremely revealing (figs. 151–54 and 155–58). First, there is the question of the application of color necessary to apprehend the design itself, and then there is the issue of colors that improve the engraving in terms of affect and turn it into an architectural painting. To begin with, distinct differences in the selection of tints suggest that none of the colorists saw the original drawings. We note significant errors in the interpretations of the plan, resulting from the elimination of the original colors: the colorist of figure 154 washed the areas edging the jetties in browns and greens, which suggest dry land. The other three colorists understood that these were jetties reaching into the sea. There is another difficulty: the square flat plane of land on the composition’s axis, between two lower spaces. The original drawing shows it with a lawn, and the shading that edges the terraces and emphasizes the steps leading to them communicate that the architect placed them on two different levels. The draftsman of figure 153 left everything in paper reserve, except for a brushstroke of gray ink on the steps, the only shading on the drawing besides that on the quays above the seawater. Whereas the draftsman of figure 154 correctly interpreted the print in this section, the colorist of figure 151 not only washed the axial square with brown but, by applying shading and blue-gray, actually introduced an entirely imaginary element: narrow elevated terraces where Moreau had drawn flat planes all at the same level. Finally, the colorist of figure 152 obviously misread the concept of the terraces, placing the three flat planes at the same lower level and drawing shadows on the quay, resulting in an elegant, balanced, but impossible image. Moreover, as the stairs are uniformly shaded, there is no longer any passage from the level of the main building to the level of the quay. Another source of confusion arises from the six double exedrae that punctuate the spaces between buildings. The drawing indicates the presence of ornamental ponds separated by statues (the plan shows pedestals washed in red); each pond is flanked by two fountain basins, all within a dense grove bordered by a double line of trees divided by a turfed allée. Prieur, following established convention, denoted the single trees simply with points and the groves with scribbles, left the ponds in reserve, and figured the mobile water of the fountain with light, curved lines (see fig. 149). Although they understood the fountains because of the engraver’s notes, none of the colorists rendered the ponds; the colorist of figure 151 washed them in green, and the others left them in reserve.

151. (opposite top left) “Lazaret. 2e grand prix proposé par l’Académie en 1784 et remporté par Mr. Moreau . . . Prieur scul.” In Amant-Parfait Prieur and Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte, eds., Collection des prix que la ci-devant Académie d’Architecture proposoit et couronnoit tous les ans (Paris: Joubert, 1787–91), plate 4. Hand-colored print. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. 152. (opposite top right) “Lazaret. 2e grand prix proposé par l’Académie en 1784 et remporté par Mr. Moreau . . . Prieur scul”. In Amant-Parfait Prieur and Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte, eds., Recueil des prix proposés et couronnés par l’Académie d’Architecture (Paris: Joubert, 1787–91), plate 4. Hand-colored print. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris. 153. (opposite bottom left) “Lazaret. 2e grand prix proposé par l’Académie en 1784 et remporté par Mr. Moreau . . . Prieur scul.” In Amant-Parfait Prieur and Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte, eds., Recueil des prix proposés et couronnés par l’Académie d’Architecture (Paris: Joubert, 1787–91), plate 4. Hand-colored print. Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art, Paris. 154. (opposite bottom right) “Lazaret. 2e grand prix proposé par l’Académie en 1784 et remporté par Mr. Moreau . . . Prieur scul.” In Amant-Parfait Prieur and Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte, eds., Recueil des prix proposés et couronnés par l’Académie d’Architecture (Paris: Joubert, 1787–91), plate 4. Hand-colored print. Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art, Paris.

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The groves were depicted correctly, but only the draftsman of figure 152 accentuated the pedestals in red. Evidently, in the absence of nonchromatic conventional signs, the identity of certain elements essential to the design was lost. In sum, the essential function of color in the plan was to distinguish between terra firma and water. Turning to elevations and sections, we find one specific designation for which color is essential if the drawing is to be understood: pink for masonry in section. The engraving, like the original, is not strictly an elevation, since the two jetties that extend into the water in the foreground are represented in section (see fig. 150). Moreau opted to render these in section in order to avoid drawing the lighthouses, which would have concealed part of the side pavilions. In his original drawing, he washed the sections of the jetties located in the vertical axis of the pavilion porticoes in red and included a strong projecting shadow (see fig. 147); the engraver represented them with three parallel lines. Only the colorist of figure 157 interpreted this feature correctly; the others washed it with the same color as the quay, with no shading. The colorist of figure 156 densely shaded the platform’s underside, without indicating the section. The result resembles cantilevered terraces, which would have been structurally impossible to build at the time. In the hand-colored prints, this detail reveals an obvious difference in design between plan and elevations/sections,

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the latter having completely eliminated the jetties, which are visible on the plan. Thus, what is essential here is the pink on the section. What, then, was the role of the other colors, which did not function to communicate architectonic information? One purpose of these colors was to animate parts of a building that risked appearing uninteresting at first glance. In order to bring the smooth, unadorned walls fashionable in the 1780s to life, the colorist washed them with a hue and dripped pigmented water onto the sheet from above, a technique architects had taken from painters of ruins and that Moreau applied on his own elevation. Color’s second and certainly more important function was to create contrasts and provide a hierarchy for the composition’s various elements—another goal pursued by both painters and mapmakers. It thereby situated forms in depth by means of atmospheric perspective: the mountains are depicted in less saturated values than the objects in the foreground. This principle can be pushed further, however, in order to suggest different relationships between the positions of the various buildings. The colorists of figures 156 and 158 implemented this approach, washing the pavilion walls with values deeper and darker than those on the main building, in order to bring the pavilions closer to the picture plane. This effect does not appear in Moreau’s elevation. As an architect, he no doubt considered that an elevation could not be imagined without a plan, and so did not feel it necessary to eliminate this ambiguity, whereas it would have been a natural reflex on the part of a colorist trained as a painter. Another topos of contemporary drawing was the contrast between vegetation and architecture, between the severity of architectural lines, intersecting at right angles, and the curves and countercurves of the groves and surrounding vegetation; the movement suggested by the treetops contrasting with the solid, monumental immobility of the built objects; contrasts that the color emphasizes, with lighter and deeper greens set against the relative whiteness of the architecture. Similarly, the color of the seawater contrasts with the brown of the quays, with the two hues forming the composition’s base and border. Finally, the colors selected for the sky endow the composition with its overall atmosphere and mood. Since first appearing in competition drawings in the mid-1770s, skies had embellished the entrants’ elevations and sections. One year after the lazaretto competition, Fontaine lost the Grand Prix to Moreau, however, because the jury considered his inclusion of lightning streaking across a stormy sky a distraction from the design itself (fig. 159). In the case of tinted prints of the lazaretto, the colorists interpreted the design’s atmosphere according to their individual understanding, from a clear and cloudless sky (see fig. 155), to a menacing one (see fig. 158), and even rain (see fig. 156). The depiction of weather is revealing of the encounter between the academicians’ reserve and the prevailing taste, often in dialogue with notions of the sublime and well explored by contemporary painters Joseph Vernet and Pierre-Jacques Volaire. These artists frequently organized their suites of paintings—pendants or, at times, groups of four—according to shifts in atmosphere, such as calm contrasted with storm, or sunrise versus sunset. The color of the sky in Moreau’s engraved series is reflected by that of the sea. The colorist of figure 157 was still using the traditional

155. (opposite top left) “Elévation du lazaret de M. Moreau. Prieur S.” In Amant-Parfait Prieur and Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte, eds., Collection des prix que la ci-devant Académie d’Architecture proposoit et couronnoit tous les ans (Paris: Joubert, 1787–91), plate 5. Hand-colored print. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. 156. (opposite top right) “Elévation du lazaret de M. Moreau. Prieur S.” In Amant-Parfait Prieur and Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte, eds., Recueil des prix proposés et couronnés par l’Académie d’Architecture (Paris: Joubert, 1787–91), plate 5. Hand-colored print. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris. 157. (opposite bottom left) “Elévation du lazaret de M. Moreau. Prieur S.” In AmantParfait Prieur and Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte, eds., Recueil des prix proposés et couronnés par l’Académie d’Architecture (Paris: Joubert, 1787–91), plate 5. Hand-colored print. Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art, Paris. 158. (opposite bottom right) “Elévation du lazaret de M. Moreau. Prieur S.” In AmantParfait Prieur and Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte, eds., Recueil des prix proposés et couronnés par l’Académie d’Architecture (Paris: Joubert, 1787–91), plate 5. Hand-colored print. Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art, Paris.

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“color of water,” largely made up of liquid verdigris, while the other colorists of our sample preferred Prussian blue, which increasingly replaced the former pigment in the century’s last decades. Prussian blue, mixed with or applied beside gray wash, according to the desired effect, was considered more suitable for close imitation of the visible. As we see here, most colors were selected in order to please and for affect, rather than to provide actual information about the project. — The prizewinning drawings of 1784 represent a high point in the application of polychromy in submissions for the Grands Prix. The next year’s subject was a funeral monument for rulers of a great empire; the competitors presented monochrome, gray-wash elevations (see fig. 159). The colorists of Prieur’s engravings tinted the designs for the 1785 competition—including Moreau’s and Fontaine’s—with neither landscape nor sky, in gray-wash monochromy, amid which only the pink of masonry in section survived. A new aesthetic seems to have prevailed in academic circles, one whereby the play of shadow and light overrode a diversity of colors, as Louis Dumanet’s 1788 cenotaph illustrates (fig. 160). This trend emerged precisely when the academic scene in Paris was dominated by the figure of Étienne-Louis Boullée, the representative of one of the most consistent and original currents of the eighteenth-century movement against polychromy. On one level, it might appear to have been Boullée who took the concept of the architectural painting the furthest.164 He spearheaded the anti-Vitruvianism that defined architecture as an art of conception rather than of construction—the art of invention evoked by Quatremère de Quincy.165 And indeed, despite having a thriving architectural practice, Boullée used drawing as an instrument of the imagination, something his contemporaries, including his critics, recognized. In 1800, the architect Charles-François Viel lamented, in his Décadence de l’architecture à la fin du dix-huitième siècle (Decadence of architecture at the end of the eighteenth century), Boullée’s “multitude of drawings, the products of a flighty and unruly imagination.”166 The way in which Boullée displayed his drawings, framed on the walls of his home, and the terms his contemporaries used to describe them, as architectural paintings, reflect the dominant role this architect and educator played in the transformation of the medium’s status at century’s end. A letter from Anne-Louise Brongniart to her architect husband summarizes the extraordinary effects that Boullée achieved: Do as citizen Boulé [sic] does, whom genius commands to make splendid things; but, as he does not want to be impeded in his rise, he works as if he were still 20 years old, and the finest decoration of his home is provided by his paintings [tableaux]. I had certainly heard you speak of them now and again, but I could not have imagined that moral effects could be produced in architecture as in painting. That is what I experienced yesterday at your master’s home. . . . He drew a national palace uncluttered by columns [fig. 161]. Its handsomest decoration is the rights of man inscribed

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on the façade and the 85 departments that subscribe to them. But it is so pure and has with that a certain something so grand that I had goose bumps looking at it. One feels that he is the painter of the happiness and unhappiness of human beings by the laws that come from them. . . . That, mon ami, is what this great man caused me to experience.167 The above passage and the terms its author employed encapsulate the trends predominating in the late eighteenth century: drawings became paintings, and architects became, in a sense, painters. In aspiring to the language of painting, their works could have a physical impact upon spectators, often through “sublime” effects. Anne-Louise Brongniart described Boullée as a painter; like poets, he was inspired by genius, and he exploited his imagination. But he sought to achieve more than merely to play further upon a theme whose development, as we have seen, preceded him. His ambition was to propose a new theory of architecture, one informed by drawing, that emerged as a theory of shadows.168 Boullée returned to the monochromy of grays in order to emphasize the chiaroscuro that underlay his specific aesthetics, and his followers did the same. Although he participated wholeheartedly in the movement of the sublime, he drew conclusions different from those of the partisans of polychromy. For Boullée, architectural paintings partook of a phenomenological perception of the universe. By eliminating color, the draftsman 159. Pierre-François-Léonard Fontaine, sepulchral monument, second Grand Prix, elevation, 1785. Black ink and gray wash on paper, 76.5 × 276 cm. Beaux-Arts de Paris. 160. Louis Dumanet, cenotaph of the sailors who perished during the Lapérouse expedition, prix d’émulation, elevation, November 1788. Black ink and gray wash on paper, 81 × 126 cm. Beaux-Arts de Paris.

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161. Étienne-Louis Boullée, national palace, ca. 1793. Black ink, gray and brown wash on paper, 140 × 57 cm. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris.

could accentuate contrasts of shadow and light, spotlighting the simple geometry of architectures, which revealed the essence of nature and reinforced the human sensation of smallness before its sublimity. The taste for shadows was a current in British architecture as well, especially in works by Soane.169 The new disinclination for polychromy in architectural drawings was a generalized phenomenon, as Pastoureau reminds us, which occurred strikingly in literature, with the fashion for Gothic novels such as Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto, of 1764, Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolfo, of 1794, and Matthew G. Lewis’s Monk, published the following year.170 A propensity for aquatints and mezzotints—the French manière noire—is characteristic of this new aesthetics of shadows, for which the huge popularity of the intense blacks of Piranesi’s plates prepared the ground. Analogously, the new monochromy was reinforced in architecture by a radically new aesthetic viewpoint, grounded in descriptive geometry: a contemporary revolution in the depiction of shadows that derived from the schools of military engineering.171 Enthusiasm for this new science of representing objects in space, based on a rigorous geometry, eclipsed the application of colored washes and pictorial formulas. Science had caught up with architecture, in a movement reacting against the artistic tendencies prevailing in the late eighteenth century. Although he was a pupil of Boullée, Jean-NicolasLouis Durand, who trained at the Académie Royale d’Architecture before becoming a professor at the fledgling École Polytechnique (Polytechnical School), urged a break with painting. Once again, drawing as the foundation of architecture evoked skepticism, partly because of the context in which Durand was teaching—a school for military engineers during continuous wartime—and no doubt also in reaction to what his contemporaries considered the excesses of the late ancien régime. For Durand, drawing should be “reduced to a simple line serving to indicate the shape and arrangement of the objects; and if we have had recourse to washing, it was only to distinguish solid from empty, in plans and sections.”172 Motivated by a concern for efficiency and economy dictated by the events of the last decade of the century, Durand retained only the conventional color, rejecting its use for affect. Ten years later, he would express his dislike of polychromy and washes in general in even harsher terms:

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“Washing geometric drawings, far from adding anything to these drawings’ effects or intelligibility, can only give them a suspect and equivocal cast.”173 In early days, the essential role of color in architecture on paper had been to remove ambiguities, clarify the graphic discourse, either by imitating visible reality or by participating in a graphic semantics; here, Durand asserted a contrary view. But this was not the final word on polychromy, and those following the academic tradition continued to affirm architecture’s place among the drawing arts. The drawings in the first competitions organized after the Revolution, in 1797, are exuberantly colorful landscapes (fig. 162). Even engineers gradually returned to polychrome washes, acknowledging their affective power. Jacques Guillerme cites the minutes of a meeting of the development committee of the École Polytechnique of July 13, 1811: “All public services agree that washing is indispensable if one is to give the representation of an object a more striking, and, I dare say, a more popular quality. . . . The committee believes that the teaching of washing cannot be too strongly recommended.”174 The use of colorful washes was thereby rescued, not for its ability to imitate reality, nor for its semantic, conventional role, but rather for its capacity to affect non-professionals. And so, despite Boullée’s and Durand’s attacks, polychromatic washes became an integral part of the training of architects and engineers, constituting a significant element in the definition of what two generations later would be called the Beaux-Arts style; the specifically pictorial language of which was destined to conquer architectural representation around the globe.

162. Louis-Ambroise Dubut, public granaries, grand prix, 1797. Black and brown ink and colored washes on paper, 85.5 × 294.5 cm. Beaux-Arts de Paris. Photo: Basile Baudez.

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CONCLUSION

The Anxiety of the Architect

During the Middle Ages and in the world that emerged from the Italian Renaissance, only painters represented architecture in color. When color appeared in architecture on paper, it signaled either a collaboration between illuminators and designers, as in fifteenth-century cityscapes and judicial maps, or the trace of an earlier pictorial practice, as in the cases of Giotto and Peruzzi.1 In the sixteenth century, the monochromy of architectural engravings was a defining feature; these prints’ essential role in propagating a consistent graphic vocabulary for depicting buildings established a model for draftsmen, and in this monochromatic world, a fascination with ancient architecture further leached color from their representations. These factors account for the absence of polychromy in architectural representation as practiced by Italian draftsmen and their emulators, especially in Great Britain. Palladio’s followers—both the first wave, with Inigo Jones, and the second, with Burlington and Campbell—stood apart from their baroque, papist rivals in their almost exclusive application of gray ink. The study of color in architecture on paper not only elicits a veritable geopolitics of architectural drawing, but also underscores the complexity of the construction of cultural identities that took shape at the heart of early modern Europe. The Palladians defined themselves in opposition to a continental graphic practice that borrowed an imitative use of color from the world of painters. If the function of color in seventeenth-century French architectural elevation drawings was primarily to make distinctions— usually between two materials, such as tiles and slate on roofs—that was not the case with architects across the Rhine. In Dutch and German territories, lavish use

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of diverse colors in the representation of architecture may be largely explained by a return to a pictorial approach to the depiction of buildings, as inherited from painter-illuminators. Traditional city views became very important in the assertion of civic pride by the urban cultural elite of the United Provinces and, to a lesser degree, in the German regions. These models were reinforced by the emergence of a new generation of architects, trained principally in painting, such as de Bray, van Campen, Vingboons, and Post. We thus observe the coexistence in the seventeenth century of two European schools of architectural drawing: one, monochrome, faithful to the legacy of the Italian Renaissance; and the other, polychrome, taking from painters an imitative use of color. — While architects’ use of imitative color in elevations may be explained by painterly influence, this is, logically enough, not true of plans. In understanding color’s role in architectural plans, the much older practice of cartography emerges as a crucial factor. Since antiquity, mapmakers had encountered problems similar to those later faced by architectural draftsmen: how best to facilitate instantaneous, visual legibility and make clear a hierarchy between many objects that repeat and often overlap on a single sheet. Their solution lies in the multiplication of the natural signs that operate by analogy, thereby establishing taxonomies that go beyond pictorial mimesis. For example, the green that indicates the sea on Matthew Paris’s map distinguished it from rivers, which were washed in blue (see fig. 36). Cartography served as a model for architects in another way, too. In addition to conveying information, colors were tasked with delighting viewers and persuading them of the faithfulness of the represented image to the features of the land itself. Estate maps, in which both property boundaries and the owner’s wealth and taste were documented, provide striking evidence of these hybrid desiderata. The connection between surveying and architecture is also found in the writing of Renaissance architects. The graphic devices employed in surveying, painting, and architectural drawing circulated freely between the disciplines thanks to the fluid definitions of these professions before the eighteenth century, and were even more widely disseminated with the development in the late sixteenth century of the industry of map printing and coloring, centered first in Antwerp and then in Amsterdam. Hand-colored maps, collected in portfolios along with drawings and prints or framed and hung on the wall like paintings, provided a paradigm for the use of color in architectural plans—which were, in effect, large-scale maps—particularly when, in the seventeenth century, the coloring of maps became a pastime of the European elite. Color’s taxonomic role in map production led to a reduction in the number of hues, and a taste for contrast and saturated values, all of which also occurred in architecture on paper. Certain architectural hues came directly from cartography, including the red that indicates the human imprint on the landscape. This red, a reference to the color of the flames that fired bricks, had crowned the color scale since

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antiquity, and marked the transition from natural to conventional signs that took place in mapmaking and later in architectural drawing. The connection between the signifying chromatic sign and the object signified was no longer intuitive and natural, but instead the product of a consensus that brought it into the realm of convention. In seventeenth-century Europe, French military engineers were the first unified and hierarchized professional group to adopt graphic codes imposed by a normative central authority. Even before they were organized into a corps, military engineers were the first to use colors systematically as conventional signs in the representation of buildings. In particular, conventional colors were used in order to distinguish a project’s various phases. The establishment of a true chromatic language required the corps of military engineers essentially to “think” as a whole; a remarkable process, for which Vauban was responsible. A central, normalizing authority was required to approve drawings in order that depictions of the various theaters of military operations, often along French borders and overseas, could be rendered consistent and legible. Vauban preferred drawing to explanatory notes, so the codes composing drawings became integral to the designs themselves, and their makers could not afford the least ambiguity. The stakes of ensuring consistent communication were high, not excluding the risk of grievous geostrategic consequences. Because natural signs were too imprecise, subjective, or site specific, it was better to give preference to conventional signs, which bore no resemblance to the visible and whose definition resided with the central authority. This language, transmitted by the earliest architectural drawing manuals, written by military engineers such as Gautier de Nîmes and Buchotte, and taught in the first engineering schools, was disseminated throughout Europe, thereby building the prestige of a French school of fortification. These conventions passed from military engineers to civil architects through formal education and the professionalization of the architect’s trade in the eighteenth century. Architects explored several conventional applications of color. Some, proving too complicated or idiosyncratic, such as those identifying types of stone, remained exceptional; some, such as the red used to indicate paintings in interior elevations, were passing fashions. Other associations endured for centuries, however. Examples are the colors applied in order to express a temporal distinction between existing buildings and future projects: red and yellow for military engineering, black and red for civil architecture. Likewise, the application of pink wash to indicate masonry in section was widespread throughout the century. An analysis of the adoption of this convention outside France reveals the ways in which graphic practices traveled within Europe and delineates a map of national traditions and international influences through architectural drawing, not at the level of architectural style but in terms of technical modes of representational language. The first countries to embrace these conventions were those most strongly influenced by Paris: that is, northern nations such as Sweden and Russia, then, beginning in the mid-eighteenth century, the United Kingdom, in the wake of Chambers, who had been trained partly in Paris. Most Italian and Spanish

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architects, by contrast, resisted these French innovations and remained faithful to gray or brown monochromy until the last decades of the century. — Having taken natural chromatic signs from cartographers and conventional signs from engineers, French architects made a spectacular return to mimesis during the second half of the eighteenth century. This signaled a rapprochement with painting, and encompassed both theory and practice. Influential voices from the world of architecture, notably Boullée and Ledoux, believed that their discipline should devote itself to the aims and methods of painting—seeking to please in order to convince in the wake of what has been dubbed a “subjective turn,” whereby beauty was defined in terms of the viewer’s experience rather than a as property of the object viewed. To this end, French architectural draftsmen applied painting’s affective means: chiaroscuro, geometric perspective, and a diversity of colors. A new chromatic environment, one in which color prevailed throughout daily life, at least for Europeans of the elite, partially explains this shift. Architects, who considered interior decoration and furniture to fall within their purview, used original hues on woodwork and paper and in textiles. Their choices of wall colors reflected an architectural theory of affects that derived from sensualist discourse. At the same time, architectural prints, which had remained almost exclusively monochrome since the Renaissance period, also underwent a revolution. New color-engraving techniques, and especially the introduction of a new consumer product, born of tourism—the watercolor-tinted architectural print—mark an important development. This technique blurred the boundary between reproducible engravings and unique drawings just as the vogue for paintings of architecture accustomed the public to the partial merging of two disciplines hitherto generally regarded as separate, except in regard to landscape gardening. The immediate effects were observable in the introduction of landscape into architectural drawings, and with it colors imitating nature. Drawing landscapes became part of the training of architects and civil engineers—a new group that appeared in the eighteenth century and shared methods and training with architects. A sectional view of an aqueduct projected by civil engineers in the French Caribbean demonstrates their common concerns (fig. 163).2 Academies and private schools that flourished throughout eighteenth-century Europe placed drawing at the heart of their teaching, following models of formal architectural education established in Paris. In this institutionalized context, drawing emerged as the only medium that allowed the talent of future architects to be evaluated, independent of any construction project. The profession of architecture played its part in a broader shift in the field of drawing: that of the medium’s increasing autonomy, as championed by Piranesi and, later, by Boullée. The latter treated his drawings like paintings, framing them and displaying them on the walls of his home, much as painters’ drawings were displayed at public exhibitions. Such emulation, which would have been impossible in Paris prior to the abolition of

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royal academies and the professional distinctions they upheld, pressed architects into employing the colors of painting, a tendency that intensified in the first half of the nineteenth century. A review by the architecture critic César Daly in 1841 epitomizes this situation: “Architectural drawings are often dispersed randomly among the watercolors and even oil paintings. The architects, to avoid being completely eclipsed by these vigorous neighbors, pour great torrents of color onto their paper; if they could, they would even mix in the most brilliant metals, to avoid the dull, cold effect that causes the public to turn their gaze away.”3 But this trend, typical of what would become Beaux-Arts drawing, is not reflected in all architecture on paper. Rather, engineers charted their own path. —

163. Joseph-Henri Dausse and Pierre-Bernard Varaigne, sectional view of the aqueduct on the side of Mount Tranquility, SaintDomingue, 1777. Black ink and colored washes on paper, 94.1 × 44.5 cm. Archives d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-Provence.

We have seen how civil engineers in the late eighteenth century, like architects, began to employ imitative colors for affect and persuasion, distancing themselves from natural and conventional signs. At the same time, however, military engineers stayed true to their conventions and scientific models for abstraction. At the École Polytechnique, Durand, the architect who trained at Boullée’s school, rejected pictorial effects and reduced the graphic language of architecture to geometric signs. Here, at the heart of the military engineers’ milieu, we witness a return to, and the conclusion of, the story of the institutionalization of conventional chromatic signs that had begun in the late seventeenth century and enveloped the entire architectural community during the eighteenth, only for its colors to be supplanted by others, unrelated to the world of signs. But it will come as no surprise that in France, in 1802, during the Consulate, the government printing

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office confirmed the conventional colors to be used in the military’s graphic documents. The continual warfare between France and most of the European monarchies that began in 1792 required the production of increasingly precise military maps. The minister of war, Louis-Alexandre Berthier, had begun his career as a topographical engineer, under the direction of his father, Jean-Baptiste, who made several of the most beautiful of all eighteenth-century royal maps.4 Louis-Alexandre’s abilities are evident in the famous maps showing the advance of Rochambeau’s army during the American War of Independence (fig. 164). Himself a product of this circle of cartographers, in 1802 Berthier set up a topographical and military commission “charged with simplifying and standardizing the signs 164. Louis-Alexandre Berthier, Camp à Falmouth, Le 12 Juillet, 1/2 mile de Carles Thoon Ton’s house: Le 13 Sejour, 1782. Black and brown ink, colored washes on paper, 33 × 21 cm. Princeton University Library, LouisAlexandre Berthier Collection.

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and conventions in use in topographical maps and plans.”5 In his conclusion to its report, he imposed the use of the zenithal map and conventional colors. The summary table, which would become the model for all subsequent nineteenthcentury French military cartographic documents, specifies the color to be employed for each type of element in the map and—in acknowledgment of the impossibility of determining an exact vocabulary of hues—indicates the material composition of each one, along the lines of Gautier’s and Buchotte’s formulas (fig. 165). However, the long explanations in the last column demonstrate the difficulty of constructing a graphic semantics applicable to every local situation that a topographer might encounter. The organizers of the 1802 commission address the problem of the deterioration of colors over time: the use of flat tints would prevent “the natural or accidental deteriorations the colors might undergo.”6 Notwithstanding the authors’ difficulty in elaborating a universal conventional chromatic language, however, it is evident that the date 1802 marks a very significant moment in the history of the application of colors to architecture on paper, and a final rupture between the worlds of architecture and cartography. The history recounted in this volume has shown that the chromatic language in use in the nineteenth century derived from a synthesis: of natural signs, taken from the pictorial realm; of the conventional signs of military engineers; and of the affective colors, evocative of pure pleasure, that accompanied the adherence of architects to the mandate of the painter. In 1802, French architecture, whether embracing the watercolorists’ polychromy or the sublime monochromy of Boullée’s school, was squarely in the artists’ camp, no longer in the scientific world of the engineers. The difference between the two realms lay not in the range of colors used, but in the reasons behind their selection. Although the architects retained only two conventions—red for a proposed plan and pink for masonry in section—they employed an abundance of painterly colors. Rather than imitating the nature of the materials composing the architecture, these painterly colors served to embellish the sheet and affect its beholder. They spoke to a public more accustomed to responding to beauty expressed in visual than in geometric or constructional terms, and to debating those terms in the public sphere. Nevertheless, this trend encountered energetic resistance within the architectural profession itself. At the end of his life, after years of defending the pre-eminence of drawing and asserting its resemblance to painting, Jacques-François Blondel seems to have discovered with alarm the monster he had created, writing in 1763 that “most of these [academic] submissions were drawn with a freedom that has less to do with architecture than with painting . . . because this vague and indeterminate manner of drawing masks, so to speak, their shoddiness and their inability in the art of developments, without which, in any case, one cannot achieve excellence in architecture.”7 The themes of masks and imposture have long featured in critical discussions concerning the relation of drawing to architecture; they arose as early as 1657, in Jacques Lagniet’s engraving, published in Recueil des plus illustres proverbes, illustrating the saying “Paper suffers all . . .” with the humorous title

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165. Mémorial topographique et militaire, rédigé au dépôt général de la Guerre par ordre du ministre (Paris: Imprimerie de la République, an IX [1802]), 10–13.

“Who builds, lies” (Qui bastit ment) (fig. 166).8 Until the eighteenth century, color’s primary function was, by the application of its taxonomic and deictic capacities, to elucidate graphic discourse; the role that eighteenth-century architects assigned to it, however—to manifest the similarity between architecture and painting—called into question its role in the expression of a design.9 — It is the convergence of chromophobia and the criticism of architectural drawings that largely inspired this study, which quickly developed into an exploration encompassing the longue durée of a fundamental tension identifiable since the Renaissance. Did architects who indulged in polychromy and the language of painters risk losing sight of the goal proper to their discipline: that is, to produce buildings, rather than to please and instruct? As long as polychromy was kept to its taxonomic task of clarifying the discourse, architectural drawings were certain to retain their relationship to measurable, constructible reality. But when color went beyond imitating the visible, the creation of a different reality, detached from nature, made for a dangerous form of representation. Architects felt in turn the need to replace color with a language of nature particular to drawing—shadows and

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simple geometric figures, following Boullée, for example, or descriptive geometry, according to Gaspard Monge.10 The visceral attachment of the nineteenth-century École des Beaux-Arts to the orthogonal representation of buildings is most likely a manifestation of a desire to defend a last bastion against a fusion with painting. Persistent conventions, such as pink for masonry in section, cast shadows falling at forty-five degrees, orthogonal elevations, and black for solids in plans (the famous poché), kept architects’ graphic production within the profession’s bounds and protected it from the lure of pure imagination, for succumbing to which draftsmen had been criticized in the late eighteenth century. Only by retaining these signs could architects speak their own language and demonstrate a close connection between drawing and building. Draftsmen who strayed too far from conventions risked burning the bridges that attached them to “the art of building,” to invoke Vitruvius’s definition of architecture, which remained prevalent throughout the nineteenth century, notwithstanding its detractors’ attacks. Those who defended the discipline’s place among the drawing arts against engineers and builders managed to strike a delicate balance. Nineteenth-century architects belonged to a recognized profession, whose clientele had greatly expanded to include the middle classes; the discipline was taught in politically approved schools; its

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practitioners organized themselves into professional associations; and the public was accustomed to discussing their output, whether drawn or built. This conflation of concerns resulted in architectural practitioners gradually becoming aware over previous centuries that theirs was a true profession, with codes and customs acknowledged by the authorities and the public. First among these codes was the mastery of draftsmanship, which had divided architects from laborers since the Renaissance. Alongside this, however, was the application of a genuinely pictorial graphic vocabulary that distinguished architects from their rivals, the engineers. The abandonment of most conventional color in favor of a surfeit of affective colors, quite distinct from the immediate concerns of building, reveals the anxiety that now, at the turn of the nineteenth century, came to characterize the world of architecture, caught as it was between art and science.

166. Jacques Lagniet, “Qui bastit ment.” In Recueil des plus illustres proverbes (Paris, ca. 1657), plate 60.

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APPENDIX

The Draftsman’s Tools

The drawing has been reproduced so often that it has become iconic (fig. 167). Washed in bright colors, The Draftsman’s Tools (Les Instruments du dessinateur) mixes text and images, plans, elevations, and sections; it exhibits the most refined washes and saturated colors, plays on the textures of wood, sponge, feather, hairs, flesh, fabric, and paper, and displays masterful shading on curved and complex surfaces. As a manifesto of the extraordinary talents of the ideal draftsman, this drawing today illustrates manuals, lectures, and technical treatises. Signed “Jean-Jacques Le Queu delin” and dated 1782, it was part of a planned treatise its creator intended to publish under the title Architecture civile and that aimed to prove “the rules of the science of natural shadows and of wash in the finished rendition.”1 Rediscovered by the surrealists, exploited by Marcel Duchamp, referenced along with Ledoux and Boullée by Emil Kaufmann in his history of modern architecture,2 labeled an outsider by Jacques Guillerme and his followers,3 and eventually rehabilitated by Philippe Duboÿ and Ewa Lajer-Burcharth,4 Lequeu would have remained more or less unknown had he not bequeathed, in July 1825, a year before he died, a considerable group of drawings and manuscripts to the French Bibliothèque Royale.5 Although a major figure among the Enlightenment architects of the imaginary, he had built almost nothing—like his contemporary Julien-David Leroy, author of the first illustrated volume on ancient Greek monuments and a professor at the Académie Royale d’Architecture.6 Unlike the latter, however, Lequeu was known neither as an archaeologist nor as an educator. His fame rests on his exceptional talent as a draftsman, his wonderful mastery of watercolor, a striking use of various

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167. Jean-Jacques Lequeu, “The Draftsman’s Tools,” 1782. In Architecture civile, MS, plate 4. Black, red, and brown ink and colored washes on paper, 51.5 × 36.5 cm. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris.

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hues, a fertile imagination, and the ability to translate into extreme terms certain contemporary tendencies in architectural theory, such as metonymic architecture, the obsession with grottoes and caves, and the search for the origins of architecture. His planned treatise belonged to the tradition that emerged, with text only, in the late seventeenth century, from the military engineering milieu, and continued, illustrated, with the flourishing of the European encyclopedias. Here, however, Lequeu’s radical methodological innovation was to combine on a single sheet the two approaches—textual and pictorial—to the teaching of drawing. For his Architecture civile, Lequeu followed the illustrative principle behind the Encyclopédie’s prints, but incorporated text, in the form of captions and annotations, throughout the drawings, displaying in The Draftsman’s Tools “some of the instruments used by he who makes line drawings and shading; in short who finishes and ends a flat projection or perspective on paper, with a good draftsman’s care and neatness.”7 Instead of separating the explanatory text from the plate, he combined them, though it meant confounding the spectator with multiple kinds of reading, since the text is consistently subordinated to the image. Captions and notes were readily placed vertically to suit the orientation of the depicted object. Ubiquitous text is the hallmark of Lequeu’s compositional method; it appears on everything from his architectural designs to his watercolors of human genitalia. His originality lay, in addition, in his operating a twofold discourse, both demonstrative and explanatory, showing and telling, about not only the object represented, but also how to draw it. In the upper left section of The Draftsman’s Tools, for example, Lequeu specifies that he has drawn the water trough in plan and in elevation—the words are to the left of the object—and notes, inside, its material (“of earthenware”); he identifies a figurative convention (“section in dotted lines”); and he explains the use of the object, in captions labeled in the first case by a V that is matched within each image of the trough: “trough with a smooth sloping base for a little ink at a time to be rolled with clean water”; and then by a T that links the image of the trough to that of a small basin to the right: “edges where the tip can be discharged [of ink] to restore its sharpness.”8 This approach to presentation, with its multiple readings, is a perfect illustration of the ambiguity inherent in architectural drawings. What is the print’s subject? The temple figured in the drawing at the upper right? The sheet placed on the wooden board, the brush and colors as tools? Or, perhaps, the act of drawing itself? The next drawings represent “with pictures, the hues with which and how to wash plans, elevations, and profiles of opaque bodies,” but, instead of teaching the draftsman rendering techniques, the captions refer to the project itself: “lampshade with which one can also illuminate a large reservoir,” for example; and elsewhere, “The engraved curse. May anyone who acts, speaks, or thinks against the republic perish damned by God with all his kind.”9 Lequeu thus situated himself in the continuum of those authors of architectural treatises who, claiming to provide the public (amateurs as well as professionals) with models, presented more or less subtly a collection of their own compositions for promotional purposes. In

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this he was breaking with the architectural drawing manuals proliferating in the eighteenth century, whose aim really was to provide a working knowledge of wash techniques and the conventions of colors and shading, primarily intended for those who were not trained in a workshop—engineers, surveyors, and mapmakers. The Draftsman’s Tools is all the more significant in that its subject is unique in Lequeu’s body of work; in a single work, it collects the tools and techniques available to the late eighteenth-century architect.

Whiteness and the Nature of Drawing Paper As Marco Frascari reminds us, “The assortment of drafting papers cannot be deemed as mere supports for architectural representations, but rather their very materiality should be considered as part of the dynamic characteristic of the architectural facture.”10 The draftsman’s first necessity is paper, but the impeccable white color characteristic of our modern paper was not attained by papermakers until the late eighteenth century, so we must imagine prior to that far wider variations in color than we know today. Plant-based paper—which appears twice in Lequeu’s drawing: in perspective, at upper right, where it curls, cut on one side, torn on the other; and in plan at lower left—was invented in China before the second century BCE, and later spread to all the Muslim-dominated lands.11 From the twelfth century, Spanish paper was being exported throughout the Mediterranean, replacing the much more fragile Egyptian papyrus, but was slow to make its way into Europe—at the time, parchment was only somewhat costlier and certainly sturdier. Nevertheless, beginning in the late thirteenth century, paper mills began to proliferate in Europe, first in Italy, then, in the following century, in France, at Avignon and Troyes. In China, paper pulp was most commonly made from bamboo, but, depending upon the area, hemp, paper mulberry, or sandalwood might be used instead. In the West, the pulp was derived from second-generation vegetable matter, that is, vegetable matter that had been turned into cloth—what French papermakers called chiffe: rags of old hemp or linen underclothes. The relative abundance of this raw material in France—the most populous European country during the early modern period—explains in part the primacy of the French paper industry in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The pulp, produced by soaking, is placed on a mold with brass wires, which leave horizontal impressions called “laid lines”; these are crossed by “chain lines.” The size of the sheet of paper is determined by the deckle, a removable frame. Toward the end of the thirteenth century, the watermark appeared in Italy; produced from a brass design placed between two chain lines, this identified the papermaker.12 Artists were among the first to use paper, as well as smoothed parchment. One such was Pisanello, in the early fifteenth century, who mostly used blue paper, made from rags of that color.13 While many artists preferred colored papers, especially blue—we might think of Jean-Baptiste Oudry in the eighteenth

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century, for example—architects sought a white background that would provide a contrast for the black inks most often applied in drawings. The authors of early modern treatises were obsessed with the problem of white paper, and in the eighteenth century the Académie Royale des Sciences in Paris dedicated a number of meetings to the exploration of ways to improve its manufacture, especially based on the contributions of Nicolas Desmarest.14 The period from the mid-eighteenth century to the mid-nineteenth was characterized by spectacular advances in the technology of papermaking, driven by everincreasing pressure from engineers, cartographers, and architects. It was for this market, rather than for artists per se, that paper-merchants began from the 1770s to produce “drawing paper.” This was in addition to the finest white paper, socalled thesis paper, from colored papers, and from the more common “Cap,” Venetian or Lombard paper, a thick, brownish product, favored by artists until late in the century and otherwise used primarily for packing.15 The technique of producing white paper pulp by bleaching rags with chlorine was known since the early eighteenth century, but the cost precluded any significant sales, and, in any case, the majority of artists preferred the beige or eggshell hue of cap paper—even if Lequeu featured a “sheet of fine white paper” on his print. Only in the 1820s, with the development of chloride of lime, would papermakers achieve brilliant, less expensive whites. The coarse texture of cap paper held black and red chalks, and its sturdiness allowed this modest-quality paper to stand up to pouncing, erasure with gum, and scratching with a knife. In the second half of the eighteenth century, however, French paper was seriously rivaled by Holland’s incomparably fine, calendered product. The architect Claude-Mathieu Delagardette, author of a manual published in 1803, which paraphrased and replaced Buchotte’s, referred to this so-called Dutch paper.16 He failed to mention, however, an invention that revolutionized the paper industry five years before his manual was published. In 1798, Louis-Nicolas Robert built the first paper machine capable of producing sheets of any length, thanks to a rotating screen belt, onto which the paper pulp was poured.17 Hitherto, sheets could only rarely be longer than the span of the papermaker’s arms at the vat, that is, the grand-aigle size (Delagardette gave it as thirty-five by twenty-four pouces, or 94.7 cm × 64.9 cm); but now papermakers could sell much larger sheets in quantity. Yet, it appears that stationers continued to offer only traditional sizes, and single sheets rather than rolls. These latter sizes were often too small for architects’ presentation drawings or engineers’ smallscale maps, obliging these practitioners to glue several sheets together to attain unique sizes. Delagardette proposed a way to join several sheets of paper with no visible seam, specifying that the upper sheets should overlap the lower, and those on the right those on the left, in order to avoid shadows being cast by the seams.18 Robert’s machine also did away with the laid and chain lines: this “wove” paper, or vellum, resembles parchment, with its absence of laid lines. Wove paper was soon rivaled by another type, invented around 1740 by the Englishman James Whatman of Turkey Mill, Kent. The exceptionally high quality of this paper, called vélin à

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la cuve, or mold-made vellum, brought the company instant international success, setting a standard that would continue through the following century. Whatman paper was then imitated by French papermakers, who began to produce the moldmade vellums used by most architects until the late eighteenth century. Usually bought in large sizes, this paper was then prepared by the architectural draftsmen themselves, if this had not been properly done before by the miller. Lequeu’s drawing shows a knob of alum on the sheet of white paper, between the square and the compass’s pencil holder. Buchotte notes that good drawing paper must be beaten and washed beforehand.19 This beating, the last stage in manufacturing the sheet, consisted of either scraping it to remove any roughness, or polishing the paper with a piece of wood or hard stone to even out its surface. While a draftsman could tell by the texture if the paper was properly beaten, he or she had to trust the shopkeeper as to whether the sheet was properly washed, or sized: that is, dipped into a bath of alum and gelatin made from animal glue. Delagardette wrote, “If you wash the surface and it soaks up the ink before you have time to spread it, it wasn’t washed: you can correct this by brushing alum water over it.”20 Or, as Lequeu put it, “Pass a light water over the entire sheet with a very large brush, to keep it from soaking up and to hold the line on it.”21 Given an aesthetics that over time came increasingly to focus on the quality of washes, we can understand the great emphasis placed on the degree of the paper’s absorbency. Architects need a support for their sheet of paper, and the authors of treatises attached great importance to the selection of a drawing board, forerunner of the architect’s drafting table. Buchotte, as later Lequeu, recommended walnut or beech; Delagardette, pine or beech—the best wood to use with animal glue, which attached the paper to the board and which Lequeu represents as an orange loaf, “made of clippings of the hide of sheep, lambs etc. and called Flanders glue and to which you must add clean water, white Orléans sugar, and orange peel.”22 The problem was how to glue the drawing to the plank firmly enough to keep it from wrinkling or forming rucks, or being cut; the authors provided extensive and precise suggestions, including always dampening the paper with a sponge ahead of time, in order to obtain the correct tension once the paper dried. Draftsmen employed a small plank for medium-sized and small drawings; such a board could be easily turned over, and Buchotte described one into which he inserted a square. Delagardette also cited a stretching frame, which held the dampened sheet of paper in a movable wooden frame tightened with screws and thus eliminated the need for glue. In all cases, however, the paper had to be cut when the drawing was finished, and this explains why nearly all surviving sheets are smaller than the usual commercial sizes. Delagardette advises drawing standing up; this is how the architect Huyot was portrayed in his room at the Villa Medici (fig. 168). The sizes of the sheets used for architectural renderings and the tilt of the table favor this posture, which is different from the seated position of artist-draftsmen as Chardin, Natoire, and Hubert Robert depict it, whether at home, at the academy, or outdoors. A standing posture and the size of the boards also encourage collaboration, with

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168. Martin Drolling, Huyot’s Room at the Villa Medici, ca. 1812. Oil on canvas, 30 × 39.5 cm. Beaux-Arts de Paris.

draftsmen going from table to table, and several hands working on one drawing. Another consequence of standing to draw was the orientation of plans, which begin at the bottom of the sheet, near the draftsman, and develop vertically.

Colored Chalks Until the seventeenth century, architects’ first lines on a sheet of paper were often invisible: for the preparatory strokes, they used drypoint, employing a sharp metal stylus to prick the support or create lines in relief that can be seen only from the side or by raking (angled) light. Gradually, chalks replaced drypoint, even for preparatory drawings. French crayon was a generic term, which in the early modern era could designate a variety of raw materials, all mineral, with the property of leaving on paper a pigmented residue that could be lightened or erased

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by rubbing. Artists employed chalks in three colors, red, black, and white; their use in combination constituted the trois crayons technique, particularly popular with early eighteenth-century French artists. The red chalk, or sanguine, was made of a colored clay rich in iron oxide, primarily hematite (Fe2O3), bought in lumps from a spice or color merchant and first popularized by Leonardo da Vinci. Although no architectural manual recommended it, some architects used it routinely, especially in Italy, beginning in the Renaissance period; François Mansart employed it to identify interventions in the drawing, as we saw in Chapter 2. In eighteenth-century France, ornamental designers such as Nicolas Pineau favored sanguine, as did Pierre-Adrien Pâris and other architects drawing from motifs in Rome, but it is nowhere to be seen on Lequeu’s drawing; nor are white and black chalk, undoubtedly because chalk lines lack precision. White chalk could be soapstone (tailor’s chalk), gypsum, or gesso (plaster). It was applied to create highlights on a drawing. Black chalk, a dense-grained, carbon-rich argillaceous schist, mined in Piedmont, first appeared in Italian workshops shortly before the end of the fifteenth century, then spread throughout Europe. In the seventeenth century, it was gradually replaced by a manufactured black stone made from clay and lampblack. Because of its imprecise line, architectural draftsmen were usually advised against using it except for specific effects, in particular in landscapes. Beginning in the second half of the seventeenth century, architects preferred graphite, a crystalline form of carbon, at the time mistakenly called “blacklead” and still today called pencil “lead.” The word “graphite” was coined in 1789 by a mineralogist, Abraham Gottlob Werner, from the Greek graphein (to write). Discovered around 1540 in the mines of the county of Cumberland in northwest England, graphite was first produced commercially in the early seventeenth century. Its line is more metallic and often more precise than that of black chalk. Francesco Borromini inaugurated its application to architectural drawings in the early 1630s.23 According to Cojannot, the earliest known French architectural drawing executed entirely in graphite dates to 1648, and the new medium was gradually adopted by architectural draftsmen in the second half of the seventeenth century.24 One could buy the “lead” loose and insert it into a metal holder, which might be double, allowing one to change the texture of the graphite. Beginning in 1662, the lead was inserted into a cedar stick, like the one depicted by Lequeu, and which Delagardette called a capucine.25 These pencils are cited in most of the period’s posthumous inventories of French makers of scientific instruments.26 In the eighteenth century, there were two kinds of pencil-lead: the ordinary probatum, employed only for tracing straight lines, and a fine version, marketed as “English pencils,” which were “blacker, and yet more easily erased.”27 The most common eraser was breadcrumb, still widely used today, although in The Draftsman’s Tools Lequeu presents, above the sponge, an alternative to breadcrumb, which he called “an elastic gum from America . . . a more or less liquid white juice darkened with lampblack and that flows from incisions made to a tree.” This demonstrates his knowledge of the latest inventions, as the first latex erasers were not marketed

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until 1788, by the English maker of scientific instruments Edward Nairne.28 Although rubber erasers soon became commonplace, they never entirely replaced breadcrumb in the hands of artists and architects. During the Revolution period, supplies of graphite ran out in France because of the wars with Great Britain, and French chemists sought a substitute for the Cumberland product. In 1795, the industrialist Nicolas-Jacques Conté perfected a process whereby a small amount of graphite was mixed with clay and fired. The firing determined the texture of the lead, which could be marketed in degrees of hardness, described by Delagardette as a range of 1 to 4, superseded in Europe after the 1830s by the English-language scale based on H, for “hard,” and B, for “black.” This allowed the draftsman to control the lead’s value of black more consistently. As it is practically impossible to tell graphite from Conté crayon in drawings from the first half of the nineteenth century, the usage is to employ “pencil” for both, as distinct from black chalk and charcoal, the latter simply being carbonized wood. Thus, the draftsman normally begins by sketching out the drawing in pencil. This may be done freehand or with mechanical instruments.

Tools and Mechanical Aids Until the early eighteenth century, manuals recommended only a graduated ruler and a compass, with or without interchangeable points, the instruments featured on the title page of the Cholmondeley Codex of the 1530s.29 They have been used since antiquity, as evidenced by a collection comprising several two-legged dividers and a square found in the ruins at Pompeii. At the very end of the eighteenth century, August Rode described in his edition of Vitruvius, published in Leipzig, the instruments architects required to turn their drawings into buildings; he cited the euthygrammus (ruler), circinus (divider), normal (protractor), libra (level), and linea (line).30 Buchotte described dividers, compasses, rulers, squares, and protractors.31 Architects and engineers usually had tool kits or boxes with at least a divider, a compass with interchangeable points, a protractor, several wooden rulers, and a square. The development of the European manufacture of mathematical instruments was connected primarily to the emergence and growing number of surveyors, architects, mariners, and military engineers.32 Renowned French manufacturers had been active in Paris since the early seventeenth century, in the Louvre’s Grande Galerie, then, from mid-century, on the Île de la Cité. The most prominent were Jean Choizy, Roch Blondeau (the expert appraiser of instruments for the 1654 inventory after the death of the architect Jacques Lemercier), Pierre Sevin, Jean Chapotot, Michel Butterfield, and Nicolas Bion, author of the famous Traité de la construction et des principaux usages des instruments de mathématiques (Treatise on the construction and principle uses of mathematical instruments), first published in 1709 and reissued until 1752.33 In the eighteenth century, they were succeeded by the Langlois-Canivet-Lennel dynasty, still in the Louvre’s galleries, and the

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workshops of the Baradelles père and fils, the Le Maires, and Bion fils.34 In the early eighteenth century, Paris supplied scientific instruments to the European elite, but over the course of the century this changed, as London’s prestige increased. In the seventeenth century, English architects such as Robert Hooke and Christopher Wren made their own instruments, but absence of the constraints consequent upon participation in a guild system favored innovation in the capital. London makers of mathematical instruments, who were admitted as fellows of the Royal Society, took over the European market.35 The Russian emperor Peter the Great bought his instruments from Macquart, Chapotot, and Butterfield in Paris in 1717, but two generations later, the Imperial Academy of the Arts in Saint Petersburg hired an Englishman, Francis Morgan, to teach the students their manufacture.36 Apparently, Morgan conveyed his specialty with some success, presenting at the Academy’s 1777 competition seven pupils, each of whom had to make one of the following: a compass for drawing ellipses, a generator, a wind engine, a pantograph, an astrolabe, a sundial, and a thermometer; in 1779, eight of his students graduated as masters.37 Of this list of instruments, however, few would be of much use to architectural draftsmen, who started with simple rulers, in order to trace straight lines. It was essential that rulers be made from appropriate wood. It had to be hard and sturdy, like ebony, but not too much so, or ink would smudge on the paper. The most suitable woods were pear, cherry, or rowan—the latter being, with ebony, the most popular.38 All rulers had beveled edges; this is clearly visible in Lequeu’s drawing. Beginning in the 1670s and 1680s, architects could trace equidistant parallel lines by means of parallel wooden or metal rulers connected by copper, brass, or silver cross pieces. Parallel rulers were employed mostly for architectural drawings, in which straight parallel lines are legion, at the very least in stair treads. Architects also used folding rulers hinged to form a set square, which allowed them to be set to any desired angle; a large specimen can be seen resting on the right of the open chest illustrated in figure 169 and another in a drawing by Sauveur (fig. 170).39 In order to measure angles, especially to draw shadows, draftsmen more commonly used either a proportional compass, which always included a chord scale, or a protractor, whose semicircular shape dated to the 1650s and became common from the 1680s.40 During the same period in Great Britain only rectangular protractors were employed; by the later eighteenth century, however, these had been superseded by the semicircular form used in France, of which we can see a large brass example resting under the three-legged silver divider, and a smaller silver one inserted in the upper case, in figure 169. Whether of brass, copper, or even silver, the protractor was a fixture in every draftsman’s tool kit, so it is most surprising not to find it in Lequeu’s print. The absence of a T-square is less so, since this instrument was not used in architectural offices in its present form until the late nineteenth century, with the development of the architect’s table; although it already existed in the seventeenth century, it was often small and little used. However, Lequeu did draw an ebony square with a hole in the middle, an unusual tool, not mentioned by Maya Hambly in her work

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on drawing instruments.41 This square makes it possible to draw very quickly two exact right angles with a line in common, without having to swivel it as one would with a conventional square (a very difficult, or time consuming, procedure).42 The draftsman moves the object in question along a ruler, tracing one right angle to the left, another to the right, and so on. Lequeu also depicted in his drawing a pearwood forty-five-degree triangle (or set square), with hard, ebony edges. Such a triangle allows shadows to be figured at forty-five degrees and diagonal lines traced. The authors, however, disapproved of using it to raise perpendiculars, recommending a compass for this instead.43

Drawing Curved Lines The ancient Egyptians used dividers, though the Greeks credited the invention of these to the Cretan Talos, a relative of Daedalus. The ancient Romans generally employed bronze, iron, and copper dividers, and much material evidence survives. Carpenters and stonecutters employed the larger type, while much later, notably in the eighteenth century, clockmakers and goldsmiths were using smaller ones. The technology evolved little until the sixteenth century, when Augsburg became the European center for the manufacture of mathematical instruments. The first compasses with interchangeable points appeared in 1550; by means of a wheel that could be locked with a screw or a sliding system a draftsman could insert one-third of the way up a chalk holder, drawing pen, or roulette (for dotted lines). This last type, made only in England, appears on Lequeu’s print. A divergence emerged between dividers, which serve to transfer proportions, and drawing compasses, which have one tracing point. Every pocket case of drafting tools contained at least one of each type. To trace small circles, a draftsman might also use a bow-spring compass, equipped with a sort of small handle above the two arms, which allows it to be held between thumb and index finger and rotated. Wing compasses also appeared in the early seventeenth century: each point of the arm is made up of two parts joined by a screw, which allows them to swing open to different angles; early in the following century, British manufacturers marketed so-called hair-compasses, and hair-dividers, whose two arms are connected by a U-shaped element with a central screw, which allows the compass to be opened with hair’s-breadth precision: one is reproduced in Sauveur’s drawing, between a divider and a reduction compass (fig. 171). The latter comprised two arms with two points each, articulated at its midpoint along a groove on each arm, and is employed to enlarge or reduce a drawing, according to a ratio determined by the position of the pin. The principle is that of the proportionality of the sides of two similar isosceles triangles opposed at their apices. Easier to use than the pantograph, invented in 1603 to facilitate copying and reducing drawings, proportional compasses were widely employed by architects and military engineers, who routinely had to change scale from one rendering to another. We should recall that the notion of a single scale in a body

169. Jacques Canivet, architectural draftsman’s box, ca. 1763. Wood, brass, cardboard. Private collection, France. Photo: Patrick Rocca.

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170. Joseph Sauveur, Géométrie pratique, MS. Black and red ink, red wash, yellow watercolor, 33 × 24 cm (drawing). Princeton University Library. 171. Joseph Sauveur, Géométrie pratique, MS. Black and red ink, red wash, yellow watercolor, 33 × 24 cm (drawing). Princeton University Library.

of architectural projections of a single object was not obvious. Pierre Le Muet, in his Manière de bien bastir pour toutes sortes de personne (How to build well, for all types of people), of 1623, was one of the first to champion it, followed much later by Percier and Fontaine, in Palais et maisons et autres édifices modernes, of 1798, and JeanNicolas-Louis Durand, in Recueil et parallèle des édifices de tout genre (Compendium and comparison of buildings of every type), of 1801, but it appears nowhere in the most-read Renaissance treatises—neither in Palladio’s nor in Serlio’s, for example. Draftsmen also drew ellipses and curved lines with so-called parrots and French curves, used by masons, wood sculptors, and stonecutters since the Middle Ages. These aided in drawing complex curves, especially domes. They were first mass produced in pearwood in the early seventeenth century, but manuals on architectural drawing omitted them because draftsmen were supposed to calculate their curves geometrically; nevertheless, they were widely employed in workshops. The draftsman could draw ellipses directly, either with a string and two points to mark the foci, or with a graduated ruler and a compass—this principle in particular is the basis for designing the arches of bridges. As we have seen, there are dividers and there are compasses; the latter may hold a pencil or pen.

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Quills, Pens, and Brushes Early modern architects working with ink used primarily either a bird’s feather or a pen. Authors distinguished between goose feathers—the norm; crows’ feathers, which Lequeu recommended, Buchotte endorsed for landscapes, and Delagardette praised for their hardness, which suited them to the drawing of “extremely small, delicate subjects”; and swan feathers, reserved for filling in borders, because of their excessive width.44 But all these authors stressed the importance of choosing the right feather. The best were considered to be those from the tip of the right wing, the side with the larger barbs facing the thumb; the lighter-colored ones were to be selected, because the shaft was more easily split, and the softer, which are easier to cut for thinner lines. Older feathers were better, if they had been kept in a dry place. Lequeu advised checking that the bird be “in good health and not too young so that it [the quill] does not make a double line.”45 Buchotte recommended a supply of two or three hundred quills, a number expressive of how quickly they were consumed. Lequeu shows a penknife beside his quill; this metal blade set into a wooden handle served both to cut the feather shaft and to scrape ink off paper. Drawing pens—used alongside quills since antiquity—were made up of two metal nibs, one of which, in earlier examples, curved inward. The pressure the draftsman exerted on the points touching the paper spread the metal nibs, thereby releasing the ink they contained. A sliding ring allowing the user to control the nibs’ opening was added in the late sixteenth century, was widespread in the seventeenth, and gradually fell into disuse in the eighteenth. The classic drawing pen came eventually to be replaced by a type in which the nib’s opening was controlled with a small screw, originally butterfly shaped, then circular.46 Drawing pens were a necessity for architectural draftsmen until the 1960s. Made of copper or silver, but always, after 1650, with steel nibs, then routinely with a steel point from the mid-nineteenth century, the best drawing pens had an articulated arm that allowed them to be cleaned more easily. In 1803, Delagardette deplored the fact that draftsmen in civil architecture were abandoning quills for pens: “It is regrettable that real artists see draftsmen in civil architecture prefer [pens] to quills for drawing straight lines. They always produce a dry, hard line that has no velvety quality and destroys the softness that corners and the edges of façades and sections require, whereas a wellcut quill always achieves this dual end. They should be employed only for a plan, where it often does not matter whether the lines are dry or velvety.”47 Nevertheless, because the flow of ink could be more consistently controlled with a pen than with a quill, many draftsmen replaced the latter with the former. In France, in the last quarter of the seventeenth century, besides quills and pens, draftsmen began applying ink directly with brushes. This innovation, which Cojannot credited to Robert de Cotte, spread among many French architectural draftsmen in the eighteenth century, and Lequeu gives it pride of place in his drawing.48 Authors recommended keeping many kinds of brush, but especially a double one, with one end for applying color to the paper and the other for

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blending it.49 Cennino Cennini, in his Libro dell’arte, written at the turn of the fourteenth century, cited brushes of pig bristle for murals and of squirrel hair for drawing. The range of animals exploited in the seventeenth century included gray squirrels, badgers, polecats, dogs, and horses.50 Lequeu suggested buying badger, marten, or gray squirrel brushes and inserting the hair into lark- or swanfeather shafts, and, for larger brushes, into tin tubes. Delagardette mentioned only wooden handles and advised civil architects to have at least two brushes of the same size, one that would only be dipped in water, to lighten hues—a direction absent from earlier texts.51 Lequeu depicts a dip cup, a container that emerged in the seventeenth century, with compartments separating clean from used binders. Ink was difficult to erase, requiring either emery powder, or, when the paper’s thickness allowed, scraping with the penknife used for cutting quills and pencils. In most cases, architectural draftsmen preferred to glue a new piece of paper over the area to be corrected. The manuals’ authors made no distinction between inks for lines and those for washes, although traditionally architects applied only two or three colors—black, brown, and red—for lines, shading, and writing captions.

Writing Inks: Brown, Black, and Red An ink is a colored solution or dye, and watercolor is a suspension of extremely fine pigment particles in gum water. Gum arabic, harvested from several types of acacias, was sold in small white balls. A dye colors the paper fibers; the colored grains of a watercolor are dispersed on and between the fibers. When the pigment’s particles are too coarse to achieve transparency, the wash becomes strongly tinted and loses its transparency; this is called “body color,” and “gouache” when lead white is added to the mixture. The number of colored inks used between the fourteenth and the late sixteenth centuries in Europe decreased significantly. The range expanded again during the seventeenth century, as we saw, in the United Provinces and Germany, where they were used as washes and not as inks.52 In his drawing, Lequeu shows “yellow, pink, blue, black,” and in the early nineteenth century, the Commission Topographique, set up by the French government to coordinate the conventional signs and hues to be employed on maps, listed the same colors: India ink, carmine, gamboge yellow, and blue (Prussian blue had replaced indigo by this time).53 However, alongside these four principal colors, others, including brown and green, frequently appeared on architectural drawings. The most common of all the colors is black, but there were two types: blackcarbon ink and metallo-gallic ink. The latter is produced by a chemical reaction between a gallotannic acid (derived from oak gall) and a metal sulfate (a vitriol), which forms a black pigment, to which is added a binder (gum arabic or turpentine oil) to keep the particles in suspension.54 Until the Middle Ages, writing inks consisted essentially of carbon black, however. It was not until the early Renaissance period that the use of metallo-gallic inks surpassed that of carbon-black inks for writing.

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The former were purchased in liquid form, and they adhered wonderfully to the support, but, though they produced initially a deep, brilliant black, they tended to turn brown over time and corrode the paper. This drawback led to their gradual replacement with the older carbon-based inks in architectural drawings, except in Italy, where architectural draftsmen continued to use iron-gall inks routinely until the early nineteenth century. We should thus bear in mind that a difference in hue between browns and blacks may be due only to degradation of metal-gall ink, which initially had matched the black inks perfectly. Piranesi’s section of San Giovanni in Laterano, reproduced in Chapter 2, is a prime example of the phenomenon (see fig. 90). Carbon-based inks, which would come to be called “India” ink, are made of a black pigment from lampblack or from calcinated material: ligneous, such as pure wood cellulose, vine shoots, or peach or cherry pits; bone or ivory; or even dried wine dregs. The powder was mixed with a binder, which could be a carbohydrate (usually gum arabic, but also the gum of other trees, or honey), a protein (egg white, gelatin, or hide glue), or a lipid (oil or fat). Draftsmen or their assistants could make their own India-ink sticks rather than buy them, by carbonizing peach or cherry pits then grinding them on marble with gum water. The stick was then diluted with water in saucers to obtain lighter or darker hues. Most authors recommended preparing three at a time. The best ink sticks were imported directly from China; made of soot and a proteinaceous glue, they were over twice the price of those made in France or Holland (Delagardette reported in 1803 that a stick of black ink of medium quality imported from China cost around three francs, when one made in France or in Holland could be bought for one franc and twenty centimes).55 Ink sticks generally sported more or less fanciful Chinese characters, as we can see in Lequeu’s drawing, which shows the extension of the practice to color sticks. Bister, meanwhile, an extremely light-sensitive brown dye, was prepared with infused and filtered chimney soot; it came to be used less and less for line drawings in architecture but was commonly applied with a brush as a wash, before being superseded by sepia at the very end of the eighteenth century. Sepia, obtained from the bladders of razor clams or cuttlefish, was sold in liquid form. In the absence of chemical analysis, it is practically impossible to tell bister and sepia apart, so discussions of brown ink or wash do not specify the specific source.56 As for sienna, although known in the eighteenth century and present in watercolorists’ boxes in the early nineteenth, it was apparently not yet employed in architectural drawing. The last writing color used in architectural drawings was red.57 In 1687, Henri Gautier listed treated cinnabar, minium, Turkish and columbine lakes, carmine, red bole or sanguine, red brown, and, finally, a decoction of brazilwood. In fact, however, most draftsmen used only the first of these, a mixture of vermilion and minium (tri-lead tetroxide), purchased in vials.58 Technically, vermilion is an artificial cinnabar, obtained synthetically by heating sulfur and mercury; it was mass produced in Venice and Holland. Earlier draftsmen, especially in the Middle Ages, also used natural cinnabar. Vermilion produces a bright red color but tends to darken when exposed to light.59 Carmine was much more expensive. It was once

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made from kermes, a material extracted from the dried bodies of the female of an insect parasite on European oaks; beginning in the sixteenth century, it was derived from cochineal, a parasite on nopal cactus, cultivated primarily in the Oaxaca region of Mexico.60 Carmine was stored as a powder, which was then diluted in water; it was the only red that Buchotte identified.61 In his late eighteenth-century drawing, Lequeu features pink (a light red), a color that achieved its prominence only in the second half of the century.62 The three writing colors of early modern Europe— the most commonly used—were black, brown, and red; and they dominated the palette of architectural draftsmen, who always hovered midway between writing and painting. Nevertheless, the authors of manuals do allude to other basic colors.

Artists’ Pigments Authors of architectural drawing manuals added many more colors to the palette: Gautier, like Lequeu, replaced brown with yellow,63 while Buchotte listed “India ink, carmine, ultramarine, gamboge, liquid verdigris, commonly called water color, bister, fine indigo blue, sap and orris greens, and vermilion.”64 The entry “Washes” (Lavis) in the Encyclopédie numbers seven principal pigments: India ink, carmine, yellow, sap green, verdigris, bister, and indigo.65 Ultramarine, composed of lapis lazuli—a stone made up of three main minerals: lazulite, a deep-blue silicate; pyrite, an iron sulfide with iridescent metallic glints; and white calcite— was purchased as a powder; it was expensive, until French chemists, notably Jean-Baptiste Guimet, were able to synthesize it in the 1820s. It yields deep blues, but was little used in architecture; draftsmen usually employed instead indigo, a dark-blue dye from indigotin, of Asian origin and cultivated in European colonies in America and South Asia. Gautier certainly meant indigo when he referred to “purple,” a pigment virtually nonexistent before the nineteenth century. Prussian blue, following its discovery by Johann Jacob Diesbach in Berlin between 1704 and 1707, would eventually replace all other blues over the course of the eighteenth century.66 It is produced by the oxidation of ferrous ferrocyanide salts. Until the late eighteenth century, blue was either expensive, like ultramarine, or too light sensitive, like indigo, and draftsmen often applied liquid verdigris instead, especially to figure different bodies of water. The latter pigment, also called water color, came from the corrosion on copper and was sold as a liquid in vials. It tended to oxidize over time, and, in the late eighteenth century, Pierre-Charles Lesage, professor of maps at the École des Ponts et Chaussées, advised against its use. Writing of wash for ravines and sunken roads, he recalled that “no one used water color, which I finally gave up completely, after coming across plans and maps that had utterly changed and darkened after a couple of years.”67 Sap green, a deep green bordering on brown, is equally light sensitive; it comes from a colorant extracted from the seeds of the buckthorn, a shrub cultivated in the south of France. The other usual green was obtained by macerating irises in an

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alum solution; this produced a more brilliant, but less stable hue. Most yellows were derived from gamboge, a product of the resin of the Clusiaceae, a family of tropical plants. Buchotte believed it was a friable stone, probably confusing it with orpiment, a natural arsenic trisulfide. Gamboge was certainly the least costly pigment, and was widely applied in designs for fortifications. In the nineteenth century, it was to be challenged by chrome yellow, a lead chromate synthesized early in the century by Louis-Nicolas Vauquelin and Claude-Louis Berthollet and soon put into production as a pigment, especially for watercolorists. Colors were rarely applied unmixed, and authors provided detailed recipes for mixtures giving the widest range of hues most useful to the draftsman. Pigments, in vials and cakes, were often kept in small chests, most often separate from other drawing instruments, and, unlike artists’ watercolor boxes, only a few eighteenth-century kits, belonging especially to British practitioners, have survived. A number of eighteenth-century architect-draftsman’s boxes contain little bottles, small bags of various mineral powders, and ivory or earthenware water dishes. Generally, the little bags of powder came to be replaced in the nineteenth or very late eighteenth century by small cakes of watercolor, which were much easier to use. One example of a kit, in the Musée du Louvre’s collections, was made by Jacques Canivet, Claude Langlois’s successor as engineer of mathematical instruments at the Académie des Sciences in Paris.68 Delivered to its owner around 1763, it comprises various compasses, a try-square and a triangle, a protractor, a pencil holder for scriber and pricker, cant files, and, above all, small bottles and porcelain bowls. Today, those bottles are empty, but this is not the case in another Canivet box, held in a private collection (fig. 172). The drawer forming the bottom of the box holds an inkwell, a box of powder to dry the inks, and cut-crystal bottles and bowls that contain

172. Jacques Canivet, architectural draftsman’s box, ca. 1763 (detail).

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colored pigments. If one were to focus on the latter, one might, at first glance, take them for those from the box of an artist-draftsman: there are vials of gum water and bister, pieces of white lead and fine lake wrapped in paper, and pigments distributed in faience dishes. But if we examine their labels more closely—“water green,” “blue for shading”—we notice that these refer, for certain pigments, to a convention, connecting an element to be figured, such as water, to its pigment, or to an action, such as shading. Here, as in the use of color in architectural drawings, the pigments’ nomenclature follows the semantic model, both natural signs— “lemon,” for a bright yellow—and conventional signs, such as the color for water, demonstrating once more that the study of color offers the investigator fascinating insight into how our forebears conceived the world around them.

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AC K N OW L E D G M E N T S

Like architecture, academic research cannot be done in isolation, and the published results of my own emerged from scholarly and friendly collaborations and discussions built up over the years. It is my sincerest pleasure to here acknowledge the help I received from institutions, colleagues, friends, and family in the making of this book. First and foremost, it is the product of the wonderful Princeton community, to which it’s been an honor to belong since I moved to the United States from France. It is a challenging, questioning, inspirational place to work, and I am deeply grateful to the faculty, students, and staff of the institution for their constant interest and generous support. My particular thanks go to my colleagues in the Department of Art and Archeology with whom I had fruitful discussions on my work, among them Yve-Alain Bois, Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, Beatrice Kitzinger, Carolina Mangone, Anne McCauley, and Carolyn Yerkes. Michael Koortbojian and Rachael Z. DeLue, as successive chairs of the department, nurtured my work in many ways. I cannot thank enough the late Susan Lehre, who helped me settle in, and Maureen M. Killeen, who keeps us all sane and has been a constant source of support and help with all her wonderful staff, Julie Angarone, Stacey K. Bonette, Mo M. Chen, Joanna Kovac, and Diane J. Schulte. The Department of Art and Archeology also generously provided help in securing the numerous illustrations of this volume, with the support of Julia Gearhart, director of the visual resources department, and the efficiency and patience of Michele Mazeris and Jacob Wheeler. I would not have been able to convince the readers of this book of the affective qualities of architectural drawings without the generous funds granted by the Barr Ferree Committee at Princeton University, which made possible the magnificent color reproductions. Outside of the department, I benefited from discussions with Princeton colleagues such as Sigrid Adriaenssens, David Bell, Anne Cheng, Alison Isenberg, and Ekaterina Pravilova. Members of the School of Architecture have encouraged me in my work, notably Monica Ponce de Leon, Stan Allen, Erin Besler, Sylvia Lavin, Spyros Papapetros, and Stefana Parascho. Dialogue with students of seminars I have taught at Princeton was crucial for the development of my thinking on the material presented in the book. I give special thanks to Hannah Rose Blakeley, Molly Eckel, Ned Furlong, Suzie Herman, Jane Ilyasova, Yifu Liu, Tiantian Lou, Matthew Maldonado, Ben Price,

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Earnestine Qiu, Julian Rose, Emily Smith-Sangster, Wenjie Sue, and especially to my brilliant PhD advisees, Aleksander Musiał and Louis Loftus. At the start of this project I benefited from the generous support of the Center for Advanced Studies in the Visual Arts of the National Gallery in Washington, DC, first as a guest scholar, then as the Millon architectural history scholar. For those wonderful and productive moments in the East Building, I am deeply indebted to former dean Elizabeth Cropper and associate deans Teresa O’Maley and Peter Luckhart, and the staff of the National Gallery Library, notably Yuri Long, rare book librarian, and Gregory P. J. Most and Andrea Gibbs at the Department of Image Collections. Starting with the National Gallery Library, I was then lucky enough to be able to use the Princeton Marquand Library, and the curators and staff there have allowed me to work in the best environment one could dream of. I cannot thank enough its dynamic director Holly Hatheway, assistant librarian Rebecca Friedman, and bibliogapher for Western material Nicola J. Shilliam, who always supported acquisitions from which this research has benefited so much. At Firestone Library, Gabriel Swift and Julie L. Mellby were kind enough to let me dive into the rare books and manuscripts and the graphic collections. It has been a privilege to work closely with outstanding museum and archive directors, administrators, and art historians, among them Niall Hobhouse and Matthew Page at Drawing Matter Collections; Helen Dorey, Stephen Astley, and Frances Sands at the Sir John Soane’s Museum in London; Emmanuelle Brugerolles and Alice Thomine-Berrada at the Beaux-Arts de Paris; Valery Chevtchenko at the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg; Ascensión Ciruelos at the Academia de San Fernando in Madrid; Peter Don at the Rijksdienst voor het Cultureel Erfgoed in Amersfoort; Alexandre Cojannot at the Archives Nationales; Olivier Gabet and Bénédicte Gady at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris; Corinne Le Bitouzé and Pauline Chougnet at the Département des Estampes of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France; Guillaume Saquet at the École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées; and Angela Cipriani at the Accademia di San Luca in Rome. I am also grateful for the kindness and generosity of the staff of the following institutions in facilitating my research, answering my queries, and helping in my quest for illustrations: in the United States, the Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library at Columbia University, the Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum, the Frick Art Reference Library, the Getty Research Institute, the Morgan Library and Museum, the National Gallery of Art, the Thomas J. Watson Library at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the William L. Clements Library at the University of Michigan, and the Yale Center of British Art; in France, the Archives Départementales des Yvelines, the Archives d’Outre-Mer, the Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art library, the Musée Carnavalet-Histoire de Paris, the Cabinet des Dessins du Musée des Beaux-Arts de Lille, the Musée du Louvre, the Musée des Châteaux de Versailles et de Trianon, the Service Historique de la Défense, the Société des Antiquaires de Picardie; in the United Kingdom, All Souls College, Oxford, the British Library map division, the British Museum, the National Portrait Gallery,

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the National Records of Scotland, the Public Record Office in Richmond, the Rothschild Collection at Waddesdon Manor, the Royal Academy of Arts, and the Royal Institute of British Architects; in Sweden, the Nationalmuseum; in Austria, the Albertina and the Österreichischen Nationalbibliothek; in Germany, the Generallandesarchiv in Karlsruhe, the Historisches Museum in Frankfurt-amRhein, the Kunstbibliothek and the Architekturmuseum at Technische Universität in Berlin, the Landesarchiv Thüringen, the Mainfränkisches Museum, the Stadtbibliothek Augsburg, the Universitätsbibliothek Kassel; in the Netherlands, the Gemeente Stadsarchief and Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, the Museum Lakenhall and the Universiteitsbibliotheek in Leiden, the Koninklijke Bibliotheek and the Mauritshuis in The Hague, and the Stadtarchief Haarlem; in Italy, the Archivio di Stato in Rome, the Archivio Arcivescovile and the Biblioteca Reale in Turin, and the Gallerie degli Uffizi in Florence; and in Spain, the Archivio Estatal de España in Simancas, Biblioteca Nacional and Museo de Historia de Madrid. Parts of the material that constitute this research have appeared in the following: “L’Europe architecturale du XVIIIe siècle: Analyse des dessins,” in Le Dessin d’architecture, œuvre/outil des architectes, edited by Agnès Callu (Paris: École Nationale des Chartes, 2015), 43–58; “Autonomie du dessin d’architecture: ‘Un langage sensible qui parle aux yeux’; Dessins d’architecture au Siècle des Lumières,” in De l’alcôve aux barricades, dessiner au XVIIIe siècle, edited by Emmanuelle Brugerolles (Paris: ENSBA, 2016), 19–21; “La couleur dans le dessin d’architecture au XVIIe siècle, une histoire de peintres, d’ingénieurs et d’architectes,” in Le Dessin d’architecture en France au XVIIe siècle, edited by Alexandre Cojannot (Paris: Le Passage, 2019), 163–87. Related papers have also been presented at the annual conference of the American Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies, at the History, Theory, Criticism Forum at the Massachussets Institute of Technology, at the Rencontres du Centre André Chastel in Paris, at the Western Mediterranean Culture Workshop at the University of Chicago, at the University of Edinburgh Department of History of Art, at the Harvard Graduate School of Design, at the Françoise and Georges Selz Lecture on Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-Century French Decorative Arts and Culture at the Bard Graduate Center, at the Collins/ Kaufmann Forum for Modern Architectural History at Columbia University, at the Morgan Library and Museum, at the department of Art History and King’s College of Cambridge University, and at the Southern California Institute of Architecture graduate program conference. I am grateful to the organizers of and participants in these events for their lively and instructive debates, among them Colin Bailey, Barry Bergdoll, Ian Campbell, Jeffrey Collins, Caroline van Eck, Lauren Jacobi, Elena Manferdini, Erika Naginski, Jennifer Tonkovich, and Anatole Upart. Special thanks are due to the scholars who generously read chapters or full manuscripts of this book, offering advice that has shaped arguments and led to new discoveries and fresh ways of thinking: David Bell, Andrew Clark, Charly Coleman, Madeleine Dobie, Thomas Dodman, Jeffrey Freedman, Jeff Horn, Laurence Marie-Sacks, Thierry Rigogne, Joanna Stalnaker, David Troyanski; along with the three readers

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of the manuscript conference funded by the Department of Art and Archeology, Sven Dupré, Jason Nguyen, and Antoine Picon; and the anonymous readers who helped to improve the manuscript considerably before publication. I am grateful to the following generous colleagues and friends for sharing material or for their comments and advice: Lucia Allais, Adrián Almoguera Fernández, Niall Atkinson, Adriano Aymonimo, Nadja Bartels, Sandra Bazin, Neil Bingham, Sarah Blake McHam, Isabelle Bonzom, Éloïse Brac de la Perrière and Luc Lebrault, Martin Bressani, Judith Brodie, David Brownlee, Véronique CampionVincent, Sarah Catala, Roberto Caterino, Susanna Caviglia and Nicolas Brunel, Miriam Cera, Kee-il Choi, Marianne Le Blanc and Alexandre Cojannot, MarieLaure Crosnier Lecomte, Dario Donetti, Richard Etlin, Étienne Faisant, Peter Fuhring, Olivier Gabet, Alexandre Gady, Meredith Gamer, Jean-Philippe Garric, Isabelle Gournay, Margaret Morgan Grasselli, Florian Haerb, Étienne Hamon, Sofia Amanda Hernandez, Gordon Higgott, Mari Hvattum, Margaret Iacono, Barthélémy Jobert, Amy R. Johnston, Francesca Kaes, Elisabeth Kieven, David Young Kim, Miri Kim, Tim Knox, Gaël and Lovisa Lesterlin, Carlo Mambriani, Meredith Martin, Dominique Massounie, James McAuley, Mary McLeod, Claude Mignot, Mauro Mussolin, Valérie Nègre, Kristoffer Neville, Marco Rosario Nobile, Claire Ollagnier, Nicholas Olsberg, Émilie d’Orgeix, Koen Ottenheym, Susanna Pasquali, Fabien Passavy, Edoardo Piccoli, Eleonora Pistis, Lisa Pon, Andrei Pop, Daniel Rabreau, Mark Rakatansky, Mary Roberts, Patrick Rocca, Delfín Rodríguez Ruiz and Helena Pérez Gallardo, Eva Roell, Nico Rogner, Carlos Sambricio, Nicholas Savage, Camille Serchuk, Susan Siegfried, Julia Siemon, Kristel Smentek, Perrin Stein, Margaret Stewart, Michelle Sullivan, Werner Szambien, Katherine Fischer Taylor, Serguei Tchoban, Meredith TenHoor, Gary Van Zante, David Van Zanten, Tony Vidler, Deborah Vischak, Peter Vlaadingerbroek, Aaron Wile, Hannah Williams, Richard Wittman, and Wilfried Zeisler. I cannot be grateful enough for the extraordinary work that Alexandra Bonfante-Warren did in translating this manuscript into English. Francis Eaves has been a meticulous copyeditor; his brilliant suggestions greatly improved my text. Yve Ludwig made the book more beautiful and elegant than I could dream of, and I could rely constantly on the help and efficiency of Kenneth Guay, a great assistant to my truly brilliant, patient, and reassuring publisher Michelle Komie. I owe a great debt of gratitude to my family, who have been supportive all the way: my mother, Isabelle Friedman, who knows something about beaux-livres and in whose blind love I have always found a haven; and my adopted close-knit family, Peter Friedman, Dianne and Edward Pullins, Catherine Bernard, and Serge Sobczynski. My father would have enjoyed reading this book: he who taught me curiosity, rigor, and creativity. Last but in no way least, I dedicate this book to David Pullins, whose support, encouragement, advice, patience, and love have proved invaluable during all these years.

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introduction 1. The painting belongs to a cycle commissioned in 1645 from the painter Eustache Le Sueur by the Carthusians of Paris for the small cloister of their monastery in Vauvert. Mérot, Eustache Le Sueur, 185–216. 2. Dupérac, “Vestigij delle Terme di Dioclitiano,” in I vestigi dell’antichità di Roma (Rome: Lorenzo della Vaccheria, 1575), plate 30. Dupérac, who in 1575 published one of the earliest collections of views of Rome, introduced a way of figuring ancient architecture that went beyond the records of ruins marketed to architects and antiquaries. Lurin, “Paysages, documents ou vedute?” On the question of drawings of antique remains in the Italian Renaissance, see Nesselrath, “I libri di disegni di antichità”; Günther, Das Stadium der antiken Architektur in den Zeichnungen der Höchrenaissance; Yerkes, Drawing after Architecture. 3. Pastoureau, Black, 113–63. 4. This is so even if there has been a constant dialogue that became in certain situations more relevant, notably in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. One can cite debate on polychromy in ancient Greek architecture or discussions among modernist movement actors such as Bruno Taut and Le Corbusier, for example. 5. See Shearman, “Titian’s Portrait of Giulio Romano.” 6. Leon Battista Alberti, On the Art of Building in Ten Books, ed. and trans. Joseph Rykwert, Neil Leach, and Robert Tavernor (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1988), 34. On the definition of the architect in Alberti, see Kanerva, Defining the Architect; and Carpo, “Craftsman to Draftsman.” 7. See Rowland and Noble Howe, Vitruvius; Hart and Hicks, Paper Palaces; Payne, Architectural Treatise in the Italian Renaissance. 8. Recht, Le Dessin d’architecture; Ackerman and Jung, Conventions of Architectural Drawing; Ackerman, Origins, Imitation, Conventions. 9. Goodman, Languages of Art, 120. 10. Sainz, El dibujo de arquitectura, 218. 11. Moya, “Noticia del De architectura traducido por Urrea,” 18. 12. Jungmann, L’Image en architecture, 39–44. On the specific case of capricci, see Steil, Architectural Capriccio; Bürger and Kallweit, Capriccio & Architektur; Sestieri, Il capriccio architettonico. 13. For the foundational positions in the debate between disegno and colorito, see Vasari, Lives of the Artists on disegno (of which there are many editions); and Ludovico Dolce, Aretin, or, A Dialogue on Painting on colorito (also available in many editions). For a sophisticated treatment of the philosophical stakes of the debate in seventeenth-century France, see Lichtenstein, Eloquence of Color. 14. On the concept of mimesis, readers can refer to Benjamin, “On the Mimetic Faculty”; Walton, Mimesis as Make-Believe; Gebauer and Wulf, Mimesis. For a short and lively summary of the history of hostile reactions to color, see Batchelor, Chromophobia.

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15. Aristotle, Poetics, ed. and trans. Michelle Zerba and David Gorman (New York: W. W. Norton, 2018), 11. 16. Lichtenstein, Eloquence of Color, 62. 17. Roger de Piles, Cours de peinture par principes (Paris, 1708), translated into English in 1743 under the title The Principles of Painting. See Puttfarken, Roger de Piles’ Theory of Art; and Lichtenstein, Eloquence of Color, 178–85. 18. Lichtenstein, Eloquence of Color, chaps. 6 and 7. 19. Gombrich, Art and Illusion; Blinder, “Controversy over Conventionalism,” 253. 20. Goodman, Languages of Art, 34–39. 21. R. Williams, Marxism and Literature, 121, quoted in Johnston, Drafting Culture, 141. 22. See among others, Ferguson, “Mind’s Eye,” 835; Latour, “Visualisation and Cognition,” 3n2; Vérin, La Gloire des ingénieurs. 23. Picon, French Architects and Engineers in the Age of Enlightenment. 24. “On peut dire qu’un plan est un composé de signes qui parlent aux yeux et qui s’expliquent d’eux-mêmes sans nul discours.” Louis-Charles Dupain de Montesson, La Science de l’Arpenteur dans toute son étendue augmentée du Spectacle de la campagne exprimé par des couleurs sur les plans et sur les cartes, 4th ed. (Paris: Gœury 1813), 114; Bousquet-Bressolier, “De la ‘peinture géométrale’ à la carte topographique,” 99–100. 25. Foucault, Les Mots et les choses, 57. 26. Antoine Arnauld and Pierre Nicole, La Logique, ou l’Art de penser contenant, outre les règles communes, plusieurs observations nouvelles propres à former le jugement (Paris: Jean de Launay, 1662). On the general theory of Port-Royal regarding conventions and language, besides Foucault, see Marin, La Critique du discours; Biard, “La Sémiologie de Port-Royal”; Derenne, Théorie raisonnée des idées chez Antoine Arnauld. This has to be linked to the long tradition of using sign language in monastic settings, notably feminine ones. See Bruce, Silence and Sign. 27. Bertin, Graphics and Graphic Information-Processing; and Bertin, Semiology of Graphics. See also Denègre, Sémiologie et conception cartographique. The study of the vocabulary of colors became at the end of the nineteenth century a branch of linguistics. See, on the topic the luminous, Eco, “How Culture Conditions the Colours We See.” 28. See Talbert, Rome’s World; and Albu, Medieval Peutinger Map. 29. Moles, L’Image, communication fonctionnelle, 91–134. Moles built his theory on Charles Peirce’s concept of iconicity; see Nöth, “Peircean Semiotics in the Study of Iconicity in Language.” On technical graphic language, see Deforge, Le Graphisme technique; and Johnston, Drafting Culture. 30. “Laver un plan, c’est étendre sur les différentes parties les couleurs qu’on est convenu d’employer pour distinguer chacune de ses parties.” “Lavis,” in Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond D’Alembert, eds., Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des arts, des sciences et des métiers (Paris: Le Breton et al., 1751–72), 9:314.

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31. Saussure, Course in General Linguistics, 120. 32. Pastoureau, “Mensonges et vérités de la couleur à l’aube des Lumières,” 92. 33. I am aware of the limitations of the term “presentation drawing,” as many drawings for patrons do not present a level of finish and completeness that we usually associate with this type of work on paper—notably in sixteenth-century examples such as Michelangelo’s drawings for the Laurentian Library. But in that case, the patron, Pope Clement VII, was versed enough in architecture to be able easily to read a working drawing. See Sambin de Norcen, “Michelangelo e Clemente VII”; Brothers, “What Drawings Did in Renaissance Italy,” 113–15. 34. Notably for prints. See Dackerman, Painted Prints; Grasselli, Colorful Impressions; Goedings, “Afsetters en meester-afsetters”; Stijnman and Savage, Printing Colour. 35. Finlay, Color; Lowengard, Creation of Color in Eighteenth Century Europe; Feeser, Daly Goggin, and Fowkes Tobin, Materiality of Color; T. Baker, Dupré, Kusukawa, and Leonhard, Early Modern Color Worlds. 36. Berlin and Kay, Basic Color Terms; Itten, Art of Color. 37. A notable exception is Miyamoto, “Significant Red,” in which the author discusses topics we touch on in Chapter 2. 38. Gage, Colour and Culture; Gage, Colour and Meaning; Gage, Colour in Art. 39. Lange, Colours of Rome; Lange, Colours of Copenhagen. 40. Buchloh, “Primary Colors for the Second Time”; Riley, Color Codes, 208–19; Wrigley, White Walls, Designer Dresses; W. Braham, Modern Color / Modern Architecture; Philipp and Stemshorn, Die Farbe Weiss.

prologue: architectures in black and white 1. Bucher, “Design in Gothic Architecture”; Recht, Les Bâtisseurs des cathédrales gothiques; Müller, Grundlagen gotischer Bautechnik, 21–34; Bork, Geometry of Creation. From the Renaissance on, brown inks are usually the result of the oxidation of iron-gall ink, black when applied. See the appendix to this volume. 2. Schedl, Der Plan von St. Gallen. I would like to thank Beatrice Kitzinger for suggesting this convincing interpretation. 3. We will discuss this question in greater depth, but one can refer to Woodward, “Medieval Mappaemundi,” esp. 326. 4. Recht, Les Bâtisseurs des cathédrales gothiques, 381–84; Bork, “Plan B and the Geometry of Façade Design at Strasbourg Cathedral.” 5. Here the iron-gall ink has turned brown. Hamon, “Le dessin et l’architecte au soir de l’âge gothique.” There are some rare exceptions to this general tendency, however, such as the design for the belfry of Ghent dating from the year 1320, reproduced in Hurx, Architecture as Profession, plate 12, and discussed 283. 6. Cennini, Il libro dell’arte, trans. D. V. Thompson Jr. as The Craftsman’s Handbook (New York: Dover, 1933), 9–10; McGrath, “Colour in Italian Renaissance Drawings,” 23. 7. Plagnieux, “Une si longue absence,” 51. 8. Recht, Les Bâtisseurs de cathédrales gothiques, 393–97; Plagnieux, “Une si longue absence,” 51. 9. Taburet Delahaye et al., France 1500, 60. 10. Hamon, “Le dessin et l’architecte au soir de l’âge gothique,” 247. 11. Salamagne, “Plan et représentation dans l’architecture,” 55. 12. White, “Giotto’s Use of Architecture”; Radke, “Giotto and Architecture,” 90.

13. White, Birth and Rebirth of Pictorial Space, 59–62. 14. Degenhart and Schmitt, Corpus der italienischen Zeichnungen, vol. 1, cat. 38, 54; C. Frommel, “Reflections on the Early Architectural Drawings,” 101. Norman, Siena, Florence and Padua, 2:129–30. On the role of Siena in the emergence of architectural drawings, notably on paper, see Toker, “Gothic Architecture by Remote Control.” 15. Elevation drawing, presumed to be of the Cappella di Piazza, Siena, ca. 1350, Museo dell’ Opera del Duomo, Siena, reproduced in Norman, Siena, Florence and Padua, 1:122. 16. C. Frommel, “Reflections on the Early Architectural Drawings,” 102. 17. There are some notable exceptions of course, such as the model of the church of Saint-Maclou in Rouen, France, dated by Frothingham to 1414 and by Bischoff to after the church’s construction in the first decades of the sixteenth century. The model is made of papier-mâché colored in two shades of graybrown, and the roof tiling is painted in black. Frothingham, “Discovery of an Original Church Model by a Gothic Architect”; Bischoff, “Les maquettes d’architecture,” 287n3, quoted in Mindrup, Architectural Model, 33. There is also the drum of the cathedral at Florence, attributed to Giuliano da Sangallo, Florence, Museo dell’Opera del duomo, inv. 140. Donetti, Faietti, and Frommel, Giuliano da Sangallo, 56. On architectural models before the seventeenth century, see S. Frommel, Les Maquettes d’architecture; Hasselberger, “Architectural Likeness”; Muller, “Maquettes architecturales” de l’Antiquité; Lepik, Das Architekturmodell in Italien; Evers, Architekturmodelle der Renaissance; Reuther and Bergenhagen, Deutsche Architekturmodelle; Gentil Baldrich, Traza y modelo en el Renacimiento, 23–55 for Italy, 113–49 for Spain; Mindrup, Architectural Model. At the end of the seventeenth century, Charles-Augustin d’Aviler mentions architectural models on which colored drawings were pasted: “These models, which are more intelligible than drawings, are built in wood or paper on which one pastes cut, shaded, and colored drawings in order to judge the whole edifice.” (Ces Modelles, qui sont plus intelligibles que des Desseins, se font de bois ou de carte, où l’on cole les desseins chantournés, ombrés & colorés pour juger de l’ensemble de l’Edifice.) Cours d’architecture (Paris, 1691), 2:685, quoted by Cojannot, “En petit ou en grand,” 199. 18. Leon Battista Alberti, On the Art of Building in Ten Books, ed. and trans. Joseph Rykwert, Neil Leach, and Robert Tavernor (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1988), 34. 19. Dackerman, Painted Prints, 11 and 19. See also Stijnman and Savage, Printing Colour. 20. Grasselli, “Color Printmaking before 1730,” in Colorful Impressions, 1. 21. Bloy, History of Printing Ink Balls and Rollers. 22. Landau and Parshall, Renaissance Print, 180; Grasselli, “Color Printmaking before 1730,” 2; Meijer, Schretlen, and Stijnman, Coloritto. See more recently on the topic Littman, Der Farbtondruck. 23. By Erhard Ratdolt, for example, who publishes in 1494 a Missale Pataviense in Augsburg, containing a five-color image of the three principal saints of Passau. Reproduced in Grasselli, Colorful Impressions, fig. 3. 24. The first to experiment with this method was Mair von Landshut in the 1490s. See an example in the collections of the Cleveland Museum of Art on olive-gray-tinted paper, analyzed in Richards, “Engraving by Mair Von Landshut.” 25. Landau and Parshall, Renaissance Print, 184–90; Takahatake, Chiaroscuro Woodcut in Renaissance Italy.

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26. For an overview of this vast subject, see Frascari, Monsters of Architecture; also Payne, Telescope and the Compass. 27. Cunningham, Anatomical Renaissance; Kusukawa, Picturing the Book of Nature. 28. Petcu, “Amorphous Ornament.” 29. Picon, Claude Perrault, esp. 29–88. 30. Satzinger, “Baumedaillen.” 31. On imaginary city views, see Heuer, City Rehearsed; and Fuhring, “Hieronymus Cock.” 32. Zerner, “Du mot à l’image”; Brizio, Il rilievo dei monumenti antichi; Brothers and Waters, Variety, Archeology and Ornament; Waters, “Renaissance without Order”; Yerkes, Drawing after Architecture. 33. Payne, Architectural Treatise in the Italian Renaissance, 25–30. 34. Payne, 65–69; Carpo, Metodo ed ordini nella teoria architettonica dei primi moderni. On Serlio’s role in the birth of the architectural book, see Rosenfeld, “Sebastiano Serlio’s Contributions”; and Hart, “Serlio and the Representation of Architecture,” 173. 35. Notably in Carpo, L’architettura dell’età della stampa. See also his “How Do You Imitate a Building That You Have Never Seen?” 36. Witcombe, Print Publishing in Sixteenth-Century Rome, 67–78; Zorach, Virtual Tourist in Renaissance Rome. 37. Payne, Architectural Treatise in the Italian Renaissance, 113–43. 38. Alberti, On the Art of Building, book 2, 34; Eck, “Verbal and Visual Abstraction,” 1:164. 39. There is only one mention of color in drawings, when Vasari writes about monochrome wash on a toned ground. McGrath, “Colour in Italian Renaissance Drawings,” 22. 40. Vincenzo Scamozzi, L’idea dell’ architettura universale (Venice: Giorgio Valentino, 1615), i, xv, 51; Eck, “Verbal and Visual Abstraction,” 168. 41. Caroline van Eck advocates convincingly the use of the term of “visualization” instead of “illustration,” which implies too much passivity and subordination to the text. Eck, “Verbal and Visual Abstraction,” 176. 42. Pincus and Shapiro Comte, “Drawing for the Tomb of Dante.” I would like to thank Sarah Blake McHam for having drawn this paper to my attention. In her study of fifteenth-century Venetian drawings, Genevieve Verdigel argues that “colored wash served mainly to increase the aesthetic appeal of the drawing in order to secure approval from the commissioning body. Interplay between color’s descriptive function and aesthetic effect emerges as a recurrent trait across fifteenth-century Venetian drawings ostensibly used in contractual negotiations.” Verdigel, “Colore in Disegno,” 153. 43. Fols. 32r, 35r, 38v, and 39v in Codex BR 228, Biblioteca Nazionale, Florence. Buonaccorso was the grandson of Lorenzo Ghiberti, the author of the Florence Cathedral baptistery doors. Corwegh, “Der Verfasser des kleinen Kodex Ghiberti”; Scalia, “Three Renaissance Drawings of Church Façades,” reproduced 173. 44. Tuena, “I marmi commessi”; Pincus and Shapiro Comte, “Drawing for the Tomb of Dante,” 740. 45. McGrath, “Colour in Italian Renaissance Drawings.” Color to represent architecture also occurs in the practice of intarsia workshops; see notably the “Northern Italian Album” (Sir John Soane’s Museum). Fairbairn, North Italian Album. 46. Lotz, “Rendering of the Interior in Architectural Drawings of the Renaissance.” 47. C. Frommel, Ray, and Tafuri, Raffaello architetto, 260. 48. C. Frommel and Adams, Architectural Drawings of Antonio da Sangallo the Younger and His Circle; Brothers, Michelangelo, Drawing and the Invention of Architecture. The use of red chalk itself seems to characterize architects trained as painters, such as Bramante,

Peruzzi, and Michelangelo. See notably Bramante’s designs for Saint Peter’s in Rome. Huppert, “Envisioning New St. Peter’s,” 162. 49. Donetti, Faietti, and Frommel, Giuliano da Sangallo, 45. 50. A summary of the literature on Peruzzi is found in Huppert, Becoming an Architect in Renaissance Italy. 51. John Revell, Project for a Tower of St. Paul, 1561, London, Archives of the Society of Antiquaries; Cornelius Cure, Project of a Tomb for Eduard VI, ca. 1580, Oxford, Bodleian Library, Gough Maps 43, no. 63. I am grateful to Gordon Higgott for having drawn these examples to my attention. Girouard, Elizabethan Architecture, 41. 52. Girouard, Robert Smythson, plates 22 and 25. 53. Harris, Orgel, and Strong, King’s Arcadia; Harris and Higgott, Inigo Jones, 25–29. 54. Worsley, Inigo Jones and the European Classicist Tradition, 17. See also Alsopp, Inigo Jones on Palladio; Cerutti Fusco, Inigo Jones; Anderson, Inigo Jones and the Classical Tradition. 55. Harris and Higgott, Inigo Jones, 28. 56. On Hawksmoor as a draftsman, see Geraghty, “Nicholas Hawksmoor’s Drawing Technique”; Higgott, “Revised Design for St Paul’s Cathedral.” 57. Higgott, “Wren and His Draughtsmen,” reproduced in Geraghty, Architectural Drawings of Sir Christopher Wren, cat. 46 and 106. 58. Harris, Palladians; Colvin, Lord Burlington and His Circle, 97–101. 59. Worsley, “Chambers and Architectural Draughtsmanship,” 186. 60. Colvin, “John Talman,” 946. 61. Colvin, 947. 62. See Griffo, “Souvenirs inglesi”; Connor Bulman, “Florentine Draughtsmen in Richard Topham’s Paper Museum,” 351. 63. For example, his project for Lowther Castle, Cumbira, ca. 1728. London, Royal Institute of British Architects, 84361. On Gibbs, see Friedman, James Gibbs. 64. M. Stewart, Architectural Landscape and Constitutional Plans of the Earl of Mar, xxvi–xxix. I would like to thank Margaret Stewart warmly for having generously shared her knowledge of the draftsmanship of the earl of Mar and having guided me through the graphic collections of the National Archives of Scotland. 65. M. Stewart, Architectural Landscape and Constitutional Plans of the Earl of Mar.

chapter one: imitative colors 1. See Lefèvre, Picturing Machines; Ravier, “Voir et convevoir.” For illuminated manuscripts depicting contemporary buildings, two wonderful examples are the famous Limbourg brothers’ Très riches heures du duc de Berry, in the Musée Condé in Chantilly; and the Registre d’armes ou armorial d’Auvergne, dédié par le hérault Guillaume Revel au roi Charles VII, kept in the collections of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département des manuscrits, Français 22297. 2. Rome, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, VA 33–38, 43, 47. Fuhring, “Du Cerceau dessinateur,” 64. 3. Boudon and Mignot, Jacques Androuet Du Cerceau, 20–21. 4. Boudon and Mignot, 140–49. 5. Note this advertisement published in 1772 by the architect and professor Pierre Panseron: “Sieur Panseron knows the secret to making a solution that, when used with clean water, gives a very fine slate blue.” (Le sieur Panseron possède le secret de faire une liqueur qui, étant employée avec de l’eau propre, donne un très beau bleu d’ardoise.) Pierre Panseron, Prospectus announcing the publication of his Nouveaux Elémens d’architecture (Paris, 1776). 6. Guillaume and Roussel, “L’architecture cartographiée,” 46.

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7. Deswarte-Rosa and Régnier-Roux, Le Recueil de Lyon. 8. Communication from Peter Fuhring. 9. Elevation of the ground floor of the Tuileries palace wing, ca. 1550–75, London, British Museum, 1972. U.878; Fonkenell, Le Palais des Tuileries, 20 and 34. 10. “De sorte que tous les jours se voyent plusieurs donneurs de protraits [sic] & faiseurs de desseings, dont la pluspart n’en sçauroit bien trasser ou descrire aucun, si ce n’est par l’ayde & moyen des peinctres, qui les sçavent plustost bien farder, laver, umbrager & colorer, que bien faire & ordonner avecque toutes leurs mesures.” Philibert de l’Orme, Premier Tome de l’architecture (Paris: Frédéric Morel, 1567), chap. 10, fol. 21v. For a summary of the literature on de l’Orme, see Naehrig, Weise, gelehrt und erfahren. 11. Cojannot and Gady, Dessiner pour bâtir, cat. 143. 12. Fortini Brown, Venetian Narrative Painting in the Age of Carpaccio, esp. 223–27. 13. Timm, Der Palästina-Pilgerbericht, 123–44; Ross, Picturing Experience. 14. Almagià, “On the Cartographic Work of Francesco Rosselli”; Nuti, “Cultures, manières de voir,” 65. Carlton, Worldly Consumers, 51–74. More generally on image of the city in Italian painting, see Nuti, Ritratti di città; Ratté, Picturing the City in Medieval Italian Painting; De Vecchi and Vergani, La rappresentazione della città. 15. Schulz, “Jacopo de’ Barbari’s View of Venice”; Romanelli and Biadene, A volo d’uccello; Böckem, Jacopo de’ Barbari. 16. Karrow, Mapmakers of the Sixteenth Century. 17. Lurin, “Paysages, documents ou vedute?” 18. For a summary of the literature, see Igel and Lau, Die Stadt im Raum. 19. Fouquet, “Urbanität.” This tradition endured in Germany, as exemplified by the famous illustrative atlas Topographia by Matthaeus Merian the Elder, which appeared between 1642 and 1688 in Frankfurt-am-Main. The engraver sought to document the architecture of every significant town in Germany. Wüthrich, Das druckgraphische Werk, vol. 4; Iaccarino, L’immagine della città. 20. De Rock, Image of the City, 253–67. 21. Kagan. “Philip II and the Art of the Cityscape”; Galera i Monegal, Antoon van den Wijngaerde; Gregg. “Further Insights into Anton Van Den Wyngaerde’s Working Methods.” 22. Nuti, “Perspective Plan”; Nuti, Ritratti di città, 69–99; De Rock, Image of the City, 283–97. 23. The first cartographic image of the Leo belgicus was designed by Michael Aitzinger and published by Hogenberg in 1583. See Heijden, Leo Belgicus. 24. Esser, “Schwierige Vergangenheit.” 25. Hartzer Nguyen, “Made Landscape.” 26. Olfert Dapper, Historische beschryving der stadt Amsterdam (Amsterdam: Jacob van Meurs, 1663). Dapper is most remembered for his Naukeurige Beschrijvinge der Afrikaensche Gewesten (Accurate descriptions of the African regions), published in Amsterdam in 1668. On his method, see Jones, “Decompiling Dapper.” 27. The only surviving copy of the complete combination is in the municipality of Delft, reproduced in Opkomst en bloei van het Noordnederlandse stadsgezicht in de 17de eeuw, cat. 33. 28. On the history of Dutch architectural draftsmanship, see Meischke, “Het Architectonische ontwerp”; Hurx, Architecture as Profession, 281–87; and Gerritsen, Zeventiende-eeuwse architectuurtekeningen. 29. Ottenheym, Schoonheid op maat; Ottenheym, “Proportional Design Systems in Seventeenth-Century Holland”; Gerritsen, Zeventiende-eeuwse architectuurtekeningen, 57.

30. Kik, “From Lodge to Studio,” 73; Essen and Hurx, “Design and Construction”; Hurx, Architecture as Profession, 207–39. 31. Kik, “From Lodge to Studio.” 32. Hurx, Architecture as Profession, 237. 33. Miedema, “Over de waardering,” 79–80; Hurx, Architecture as Profession, 368; Ottenheym, “Rise of a New Profession,” 201; Ottenheym, “Sculptor’s Architecture.” 34. Kavaler, “Renaissance Gothic in the Netherlands,” 231–40. 35. Ottenheym, Rosenberg, and Smit, Hendrick de Keyser; F. Schmidt, “Building Artists History”; Ottenheym, “Architectura moderna à Amsterdam.” 36. Ottenheym, “Painters Cum Architects of Dutch Classicism”; Lammertse, “Salomon de Bray.” 37. Schmidt, “Building Artists History,” 337. 38. Ottenheym, “Rise of a New Profession,” 203. 39. Plomp, “Pieter Saenredam as a Draughtsman,” 54–55; Brandt, “Goltzius and the Antique”; Gérard-Powell, Le Livre des peintres de Karel van Mander, vii–xvi. 40. Huisken, Ottenheym, and Schwartz, Jacob van Campen. 41. Blom, Brui, and Ottenheym, Domus. 42. Bok, “Familie, vrienden en opdrachtgevers.” 43. “van Campen, qui prétend qu’on suive exactement ses ordonnances, les marque si obscurément, que ceux qui les doibvent exécuter, sont obligez d’en faire de nouveaux modèles.” Letter from Huygens to Amelia of Solms-Braunfels, princess consort of Orange, September 3, 1649, in J. A. Worp, De briefwisseling van Constantijn Huygens, 1608–1697, vol. 5, 1649–1663 (The Hague: M. Nijhoff, 1916), no. 4974, p. 17. Quoted in Ottenheym, “Rise of a New Profession,” 205. 44. Terwen and Ottenheym, Pieter Post, 176–82. 45. Ottenheym, Philips Vingboons. 46. Ottenheym, “Rise of a New Profession,” 214. 47. Amsterdam, Gemeentarchief, NA 3224, fol. 76; Ottenheym, “Rise of a New Profession,” 218. 48. Fitzner, Architekturzeichnungen der deutschen Renaissance, 128–29. 49. Hansmann and Kiessling, Lüftlmalerei. 50. Nieder, Wilhelm Dilich; Baumgärtner, Stercken, and Halle, Wilhelm Dilich, esp. 28–35. 51. Krollmann and Richter, Wilhelm Dilichs Federzeichnungen, 9. 52. Borggrefe, Lüpkes, and Ottomeyer, Moritz der Gelehrte, 141–62; Nieder, Wilhelm Dilich, 15–23. 53. Bertin, Semiology of Graphics, 285; Foucault, Les Mots et les choses, 32–72. 54. Connolly, Maps of Matthew Paris. 55. Von den Brincken, “Die Ausbildung konventioneller Zeichen und Farbgebungen,” 328. 56. Guillaume and Roussel, “L’architecture cartographiée,” 43. 57. “La chorographie sert à représenter au vif les lieux particuliers, sans s’amuser à mesures, proportions, longitudes, latitudes, ny autres distances cosmographiques: se contentant de monstrer seulement à l’œil, le plus près du vif qu’elle peut, la forme, l’assiette et les dépendances du lieu qu’elle dépeint. . . . Mais certes nul ne peut estre bon chorographe, qui ne soit peintre.” Antoine du Pinet, Plantz, pourtraits et descriptions de plusieurs villes et forteresses tant de l’Europe, Asie, Afrique que des Indes, et terres neuves (Lyon: Ian d’Ogerolles, 1564), xiv. Pelletier, “Representations of Territory,” 1532. 58. Alpers, Art of Describing, 259n17. 59. Alpers, 136. 60. Skelton, “Colour in Mapmaking”; Ehrensvärd, “Color in Cartography,” 123. 61. Von den Brincken, “Die Ausbildung konventioneller Zeichen und Farbgebungen,” 328.

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62. Miyamoto, “Significant Red.” 63. Dainville, “Cartes et contestations au XVe siècle”; Pelletier, “Des paysages judiciaires au XVIe siècle”; Dumasy-Rabineau, Gastaldi, and Serchuk, Quand les artistes dessinaient les cartes, 21. These documents are generally called tibériades after their first use in 1355 by the Perugian judge Bartolo de Sassoferrato in his “De fluminibus sei Tiberiadis.” Étienne Tabourot, Le quatriesme des bigarrures (Paris, 1614), fol. 7v; Legendre, “La France et Bartole.” 64. Hoogvliet, “Producing and Reproducing Local Maps,” 88; Serchuk, “À la limite,” 180–82; Dumasy-Rabineau, Gastaldi, and Serchuk, Quand les artistes dessinaient les cartes, cat 31–32. 65. Paris, Archives nationales, N III Seine-et-Oise 479 (1). See Espace français, 20–21. 66. Pinet, Plantz, pourtraits et descriptions, xiv. 67. Pelletier, “Des paysages judiciaires au XVIe siècle,” 19, reproduced in Dumasy-Rabineau, Gastaldi, and Serchuk, Quand les artistes dessinaient les cartes, cat. 87. 68. Buisseret, “La représentation des paysages,” 18. 69. Harvey, “Spread of Mapping to Scale in Europe.” 70. Delano-Smith and Kain, English Maps, 112–24. 71. McRae, “To Know One’s Own.” 72. Beauroy, “Sur la culture seigneuriale en Angleterre,” 357; Di Palma, Wasteland, 43–83. 73. Beauroy, “La représentation de la propriété privée de la terre,” 80. 74. Henry Billingsley, ed., The Elements of Geometrie of the Most Auncient Philosopher Euclide of Megara (London: John Daye, 1570); Smet, “John Dee.” 75. Nuti, “Le langage de la peinture,” 61; Beauroy, “La représentation de la propriété privée de la terre,” 82–83. 76. William Folkingham, Feudigraphia: The Synopsis or epitome of surueying methodized (London: Richard Moore, 1610), 58–59. 77. Buisseret, “Estate Map in the Old World,” 6. 78. Élie Vinet, L’Arpanterie d’Elie Vinet, livre de géométrie, enseignant à mezurer les champs, & pluzieurs autres chozes (Bordeaux: S. Millanges, 1577). 79. Scholten, Militaire topografische kaarten, 168–95. 80. Docci and Maestri, Il rilevamento architettonico, 87–97; Luigi, Making of Measure, esp. 161–208. 81. Boriaud, Carpo, and Furlan, Leon Battista Alberti’s Delineation of the City of Rome. 82. For a summary of the literature on the letter, see Shearman, Raphael in Early Modern Sources, 1:527–43. 83. Huppert, Becoming an Architect in Renaissance Italy, 110–11. 84. Paris, Archives Nationales, N II Oise, 10; Pelletier, “Representations of Territory,” 1528, fig. 50.5. 85. Gady, Jacques Lemercier, 31 and 224–25; Gerbino, “Jacques Lemercier’s Scenografia of Montjeu.” 86. Rostaing, “La bêche ou le compas?” 87. Bouchenot-Déchin and Farhat, André Le Nôtre in Perspective, 163, plate 5; Mukerji, “Great Forestry Survey.” 88. On color in early maps, the readers can refer to Eckert, Die Kartenwissenschaft, 2:732–41; Landwehr, Studies in Dutch Books with Coloured Plates; Ehrensvärd, “Color in Cartography”; Lane, “Color of Old Maps”; Pelletier, Couleurs de la terre; Hofmann, “L’enluminure des cartes”; Karrow, “Color in Cartography”; Woodward, “Techniques of Map Engraving, Printing, and Coloring.” It is essential that technical and conservation issues be kept in mind when it comes to map coloring; see notably Nagy, “Colorimetric Development of European Cartography.”

89. Ehrensvärd, “Color in Cartography,” 133. On the relationship between maps and consumerism, see the classic Mukerji, From Graven Images, esp. 79–130. 90. Woodward, “Techniques of Map Engraving, Printing, and Coloring,” 603. 91. Antoine-Joseph Pernety, Dictionnaire portatif de peinture, sculpture et gravure (Paris: Bauche, 1757), 299. 92. “Quoi qu’il semble qu’il n’y ait pas de grande différence entre laver et enluminer un dessein, on verra pourtant que lorsqu’on lave, on joint les couleurs pour marquer l’ombre dans les endroits du dessein où il n’y en a point. Au contraire, lorsqu’on enlumine un dessein, il faut que les ombres y soient déjà marquées. C’est pour cela qu’on dit enluminer une estampe qui est un dessein parfait, où toutes les ombres sont accomplies.” Gautier de Nîmes, L’Art de laver, 28. 93. Capel, “Geógrafos españoles en los Países Bajos”; Lombaerde, “Military Engineers in the Spanish Empire.” 94. On the relationship between maps and early capitalism, we follow the convincing arguments of Zandvliet, Mapping for Money; Sutton, Capitalism and Cartography; and the classic Schama, Embarrassment of Riches, 54–56. 95. Koeman, Joan Blaeu and His Grand Atlas. 96. Hofmann, “Paincture et imaige de la Terre,” 69. 97. Groot, World of a Seventeenth-Century Collector, 302n49. 98. Groot, 278–306. 99. Goedings, Composite Atlas Coloured by Dirk Jansz. van Santen, 15–40. 100. Koeman, Schilder, Egmond, and Krogt, “Commercial Cartography,” 1341. 101. Krogt, Globi Neerlandici; Koeman, Schilder, Egmond, and Krogt, “Commercial Cartography,” 1356–74. 102. Birkholz, King’s Two Maps, xxv. 103. A good summary of the question can be found in Fiorani, Marvels of Maps. 104. Fupfer, “Lost Wheel Map of Ambrogio Lorenzetti.” 105. Escobar, “Map as Tapestry.” 106. See also the famous Sheldon map tapestries woven at the end of the sixteenth century at Barcheston (Warwickshire) and Bordesley (Worcestershire) and kept at the Bodleian Library, Oxford. See Hillary Turner’s, “Sheldon Tapestry Maps,” among others. 107. Helgerson, Forms of Nationhood, 108–15; D. Williams, “Elizabeth I,” 70–72. On Dutch influence on British culture in the seventeenth century and especially in mapmaking, see Jardine, Going Dutch, 232. 108. Alpers, Art of Describing, and esp. the section “The Mapping Impulse in Dutch Art,” 119–68. 109. Welu, “Vermeer”; and Welu, “Map in Vermeer’s Art of Painting.” 110. The author would like to thank Margaret Iacono for communicating her insights on this question. 111. Janson, “Details of Vermeer’s Painting Techniques.” 112. Shilder, Monumenta Cartographica Neerlandica, 6, 47–48. 113. Woodward, “Techniques of Map Engraving, Printing, and Coloring,” 605–6. 114. Willem Goeree, “Verlichtery-konst,” appendix to Inleydinge Tot de Al-ghemeene Teycken-Konst (Middleburgh, 1668), 4, cited in Stijnman and Savage, Printing Colour, ixn4. 115. Hofmann, “Paincture et imaige de la Terre,” 69. 116. Kwakkelstein, Willem Goeree, 13–16. On Willem Goeree’s architectural theory, see Van den Heuvel, “Willem Goeree.” 117. John Smith, The Art of Painting in Oyl to Which Is Now Added, the Whole Art and Mystery of Colouring Maps and Their Prints, with

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Water Colours (London: Samuel Crouch, 1705), 93–108, cited in Woodward, “Techniques of Map Engraving, Printing, and Coloring,” 602–3. 118. The original map was engraved in 1607 as part of William Camden’s Latin edition of his Britannia. This copy, to which a plate number was added before 1622, is part of the English edition of the atlas Britain, or A Chorographicall Description of the Most Flourishing Kingdoms, published in London by A. Crooke in 1637. 119. Barber and Harper, Magnificent Maps, 150. 120. Goeree, Inleydinge, 39–44. 121. William Salmon, Polygraphice; or, The Art of Drawing, Engraving, Etching, Limning, Painting, Washing, Varnishing, Colouring, and Dying (London: E. T. and R. H. for Richard Jones, 1672), 211, cited in Woodward, “Techniques of Map Engraving, Printing, and Coloring,” 603. 122. Dainville, Le Langage des géographes, 330. 123. Davis-Allen, “National Palette,” 28. 124. On the “Nederlandse Opstand,” as it is known in the Netherlandish literature, see Nierop, Nobility of Holland, 177–98. 125. Davis-Allen, “National Palette,” 34. 126. Pastoureau, Red, 56–93. 127. Turrel, “La couleur de la ville,” 129. 128. Pastoureau, Red, 23–24; Dainville, Le Langage des géographes, 334; Miyamoto, “Significant Red.” 129. For a complete and insightful summary of the question, see Arbellot, Autour des routes de poste; and Blond, L’Atlas de Trudaine. 130. Turrel, “La couleur de la ville,” 135. 131. Burgemeister and Grundmann, Die Kunstdenkmäler der Stadt Breslau, 3:216–17; Pilch, Leksykon zabytków architektury Dolnego l ska, 432–33. I am grateful to Aleksander Musiał for helping me to find these references.

chapter two: conventional colors 1. Kieven, “Römische Architeckturzeichnungen des Barock,” 16. 2. “dessinateur, architecte, mineur, machiniste et bombardier.” Allain Manesson Mallet, Les Travaux de Mars, ou L’Art de la guerre (Paris: Paris, Jean Henault et Claude Barbin, 1671), 1:48. On the author, see Orgeix, “Allain Manesson Mallet”; N. Verdier, La Carte avant les cartographes, 271–74; Vérin, La Gloire des ingénieurs, 43–111. 3. See the excellent synthesis by Cojannot and Gady, Dessiner pour bâtir. On the foundation of the Académie d’architecture, see Millon, “French Academy of Architecture”; Schöller, Die “Académie royale d’architecture,” 76–82; Baudez, Architecture et tradition académique, 60–63. 4. Filippo Baldinucci, Notizie dei professori del disegno, ed. F. Ranalli (Florence, 1846), 3:75, quoted in Frangenberg, “Chorographies of Florence,” 63n80. 5. Gould, “Leonardo da Vinci’s Notes on the Colour of Rivers and Mountains,” 240. 6. Turin, Archivio di Stato, Architettura militare, vol. 4, fol. 13, 14, 18. See Bragard, “Patrimoine fortifié et cartographie,” 49. 7. Cámara Muñoz, Un reino en la mirada, 113. 8. Project for the defense of Thionville, ca. 1560, in Turin, Archivio di Stato, Architettura militare, vol. 4, fol. 23–24; Van den Heuvel, “Papiere Bolwercken,” 82–88. 9. Lemoine-Isabeau, La Cartographie belge, 75; Bragard, “Patrimoine fortifié et cartographie topographique,” 49. 10. Warmoes, “La rationalisation et la codification des pratiques cartographiques,” 300.

11. Buisseret, Ingénieurs et fortifications avant Vauban, 13–46. 12. Buisseret, 48. 13. For example, Benedit de Vassallieu, called Nicolay, who replaced Louis de Foix in 1609 in Guyenne and designed the famous plan of Paris of 1609. He was previously in the service of the United Provinces at war against Spain. Buisseret, 84. 14. On this album, see Orgeix, “La boussole du pouvoir,” 89; and Orgeix, “Le temps de l’invention,” 40 and 33. We await Claude Mignot’s monograph on Le Muet, but one can already read his “ ‘Bâtir pour toutes sortes de personnes.’ ” 15. “pour en lever de nouveaux plans plus exacts que ceux qui ont été faits jusques à présent et marquer des couleurs différentes les ouvrages faits d’avec ceux qui restent à faire.” Jean-Baptiste Colbert to the intendant of Picardie on the mission of Charles de Pêne, Despeches royales, 1676, Paris, Bibliothèque de l’Assemblée Nationale, cote 250, fol. 546; Orgeix, “La boussole du pouvoir,” 90. 16. “marquer de couleur rouge les ouvrages revêtus pour les distinguer de ceux qui ne le sont pas.” Warmoes, “L’âge d’or des atlas militaires manuscrits,” 71. 17. Blanchard, Les Ingénieurs du “Roy,” 63–66. 18. Vincennes, Service Historique de la Défense, Bibl. Génie MSS in-fol. 12 et 29. 19. Virol, Vauban, 52. 20. Orgeix, “La boussole du pouvoir”; Warmoes, “La rationalisation de la production cartographique,” 56. 21. Sébastien Le Preste, maréchal de Vauban, Le Directeur général des fortifications (The Hague: Henri van Bulderen, 1685), 69–72. 22. See, for example, the drawings in the Traité des sièges et de l’attaque des places par le maréchal de Vauban, 1704, fol. 7 or 14, Vincennes, Service Historique de la Défense, Bib. Génie, fol. 1. Reproduced in Barros, Salat, and Sarmant, Vauban, figs. 21 and 22. 23. Vincennes, Service Historique de la Défense, BG, MS 340. The ascription of this text to Vauban is still debated. Orgeix, “La boussole du pouvoir,” 86, and Warmoes, “La rationalisation de la production cartographique,” 57, attribute it to him, while Monsaingeon, “Le silence cartographique de Vauban,” thinks, based on the printed pamphlet in the collections of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France (Vp-3568), that the document was written after his death. 24. Bousquet-Bressolier, “Études et formation des ingénieurs sous Vauban.” 25. Paulus Le Mercier Auditor in Mathematica Collegii Claromontani Soc. Iesu 1636 & 1637 Lutetia Parisiorum, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS, Latin 17862. See Le Dividich, “Afficher, distribuer,” cited in Bousquet-Bressolier, “Etudes et formation des ingénieurs sous Vauban,” 19. In 1645, Pierre Bourdin published his Cours de mathématique. On Jesuits and the use of images in seventeenth-century France, see the excellent Dekonink, Ad imaginem. 26. Described in Sébastien Le Clerc, cat. 109. 27. Bousquet-Bressolier, “Études et formation des ingénieurs sous Vauban,” 16. 28. Sturdy, Science and Social Status, 249–54; and Shank, Before Voltaire, 196. 29. Eamon, Science and the Secrets of Nature; Clarke, Art of All Colours; Smith, Body of the Artisan, esp. 129–51. 30. Löhr and Weppelmann, Fantasie und Handwerk. 31. Virol, “La gloire d’un ingénieur.” 32. T. Verdier, Augustin-Charles d’Aviler, 221–28; Köhler, “Architektur ist die Kunst, gut zu bauen.”

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33. Gautier de Nîmes, L’Art de dessiner, preface. 34. On Buchotte, see Blanchard, Dictionnaire des ingénieurs militaires, 113–14. 35. “M. de Laury, ingénieur et premier dessinateur du Bureau du roi pour les dessins.” Preface to the 1722 edition. Laury worked as a draftsman for the director-general of fortifications, the marquis d’Asfeld. Blanchard, Les Ingénieurs du “Roy,” 160. He is listed as “Ingénieur & Dessinateur des Fortifications” in Pierre Lemau de la Jaisse, Abrégé de la Carte générale du militaire de la France (Paris, 1734), 368. 36. “On appelle teinte une couleur aussi liquide que l’eau, et dont le corps est transparent, et non opaque, de manière qu’étant étendue sur quelques traits, elle n’empêche pas de les voir. On dit laver un plan ou un Profil . . . parce que les couleurs étant aussi liquides que de l’eau, lorsqu’on les emploie, il semble effectivement qu’on lave le papier, et de là vient le mot lavis, pour signifier l’emploi des couleurs dans l’architecture militaire & civile. Les plans, les profils, les élévations & les façades sont nommées en général dessins.” Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein, pt. 2, sec. 1. 37. Pinoteau, “La création des armes de France au XIIe siècle.” 38. Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein, 99–100. 39. “Car après que le dessein se trouve tracé sur du papier par des lignes noires tirées à la règle les espaces doivent être colorés d’une manière la plus approchante de celle de l’ouvrage vu au naturel.” Gautier de Nîmes, L’Art de laver, 4. 40. Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein, 25–26. 41. Virol, “La gloire d’un ingénieur,” 260–61; and more generally, Virol, “La traduction des ouvrages des ingénieurs.” 42. Louis-Charles Dupain de Montesson, La Science des ombres par rapport au dessin (Paris: Charles-Antoine Jombert, 1750), 95 and 96. 43. The inventory made in 1793 of the Madrid Academia’s library shows a copy of the edition of 1722, and another of 1743. Bédat, “La biblioteca de la Real Academia de San Fernando,” 29. For the Saint Petersburg Academy (Императорская Академия художеств), Российский Государственный Исторический Архив, 789, 1, 1, file 873, fol. 2; Baudez, “Du Moujik à l’artiste,” 303–9. 44. Hiermanseder, “Der Hofmathematiker Johann Jakob von Marinoni.” 45. Catalogue of Books in the Military Academy (Newburgh, NY: Ward M. Gazlay, 1822), 14. 46. Nicolás García-Tapia has devoted most of his research to the study of Spanish military engineers of the sixteenth century; see his Ingeniería y arquitectura en el Renacimiento español. 47. Capel, García, et al., Los ingenieros militares en España: Siglo XVIII, 473–79; Capel, Sánchez, and Moncada, De Palas a Minerva; Galland-Seguela, Les Ingénieurs militaires espagnols de 1710 à 1803. 48. Muñoz Corbalán, “Urgencias cartográficas militares,” 92; see also Muñoz Corbalán, Los ingenieros militares de Flandes a España; and Muñoz Corbalán, “La biblioteca del Ingeniero General Jorge Próspero Verboom.” 49. “se enseñará el modo de delinear con limpieza, y de aplicar los colores, según práctica, para la demostración de sus partes, su distribución y decoración, con los adornos pertenecientes a todos los edificios militares, haciendo a este fin sus respectivos planos, perfiles y elevaciones.” Real ordenanza e instrucción de 22 de julio de 1739, article 14; Muñoz Cosme, “Instrumentos, métodos de elaboración del proyecto de fortificación,” 36. 50. Manuel Guerrero de Torres Centurión, Ciencia de militares (Cádiz: Manuel Espinosa de los Monteros, 1757), 286–87.

51. Turin, Archivio di Corte, “Regi editti,” vol. 4, 1733, fol. 62; Palmucci, “La formazione del cartografo,” 52. 52. Gian Tomaso Monte, Nuovo metodo indispensabile per le misure generali, 1740, Turin, Archivio di Stato di Torino, Finanze, I archiviazione, Misure Territoriali, Allibramenti, m. 3, n. 2. Palmucci, “La formazione del cartografo,” 55; Spallone, “Il disegno del contesto urbano e paesaggistico,” 683–84. 53. “non solo alla loro leggibilità, ma anche al buon discernimento tra le parti di cui sono composte.” “Della fortificazione regolare esposto dal Professore Carlo Andrea Rana,” in Dell’architettura militare per le Regie Scuole d’Artigliera, e Fortificazione, libro primo, anno 1756, vol. 1 MS, plate 15, capo 7, chap. 5, “Delineare e colorire il disegno in piccolo,” fol. 158, Turin, Biblioteca Reale di Torino, Militari 288. I am very grateful to Edoardo Piccoli and Roberto Caterino for having made this text available to me. 54. Blanco, Amministrazione, formazione e professione; Foscari, Dall’arte alla professione. 55. On Panseron, see Gallet, Les Architectes parisiens du XVIIIe siècle, 386; Hays, “Lesson Plans”; Nègre, “Entre art et technique”; Garric, “À l’ombre de Pierre Fontaine,” 40–41. 56. Paris, Archives nationales, MM 680, 23r–23v; Hays, “Lesson Plans,” 276. 57. Hays, “Lesson Plans,” 279. 58. See Boudon, “Garden History and Cartography.” 59. Very few architectural drawings of the early modern period show isometric perspective. There are some examples produced in Bavaria at the beginning of the seventeenth century: for example, Hans Bien, Isometric Representation of the Overall Layout of the German House in Nuremberg, 1625, Nuremberg, Germanisches Museum, inv. HB3095. 60. Usually, the species of the trees are never indicated on garden plans. An exception can be found on an anonymous French plan of the eighteenth century featuring a house and a garden on which are listed in caption form all the species of trees planted. Dessins d’architecture et de décoration, 5 (Rennes: Librairie Raphäel Thomas, 2018), no. 43. 61. Scheffler, Paulus, and Cramer, Herzogliche Orangerie Gotha, 19–25, reproduced 24. 62. Louis-Charles Dupain de Montesson, La Science de l’Arpenteur dans toute son étendue augmentée du Spectacle de la campagne exprimé par des couleurs sur les plans et sur les cartes, 4th ed. (Paris: Gœury, 1813), 172–74. 63. The question of color conventions in geological history remains to be thoroughly studied. See nevertheless Butcher, History and Development of Geological Cartography. 64. Bruxelles, Archives Générales du Royaume, cartes et plans manuscrits, 451, cited in Bragard, “Patrimoine fortifié et cartographie topographique,” 49. 65. Cojannot and Gady, Dessiner pour bâtir, cat. 168. 66. A. Braham, “Les dessins de François Mansart,” 259; C. Mignot, François Mansart, 180–82. 67. Florence, Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe degli Uffizi, inv. A 593r. 68. Attrib. to Christoph Müller, Plan and Elevation of the Chancellery of Kassel, 1580, Marburg, Hessisches Staatsarchiv Marburg, Karten und Pläne, Karte P II 4300. 69. I am grateful to Alexandre Cojannot for having brought this group to my attention. 70. Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, inv. Chig. P.VII.13, fol. 40v– 41r; H.-W. Schmidt, Schütze, and Stoschek, Bernini, cat. 123. 71. Vallery-Radot, Le Recueil de plans d’édifices de la Compagnie de Jésus.

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72. Recueil . . . contenant tous les Plans originaux des Maisons, Eglises qui appartenoient à la Société des Jésuites avant leur abolition. [Assistance de France], vol. 8, 9, Paris, BnF FOL-HD-4 (8). I am grateful to Étienne Faisant for having brought this drawing to my attention and to Adriana Senard for sharing with me her insights into Martellange’s use of color. On Martellange, see Whiteley, “Architectural Views by Étienne Martellange and François Stella”; Senard, “Les dessins d’Étienne Martellange.” 73. “éviter la confusion que le coloris des plans, diversifiés indifféremment de toutes sortes de couleurs, pourroit causer en prenant la signification de l’un pour celle de l’autre.” Sébastien Le Preste, maréchal de Vauban, Le Directeur général des fortifications (The Hague: Henri van Bulderen, 1685), 69–72. 74. Cojannot, “Pierre Breau ou les enjeux du dessin d’architecture.” 75. Drawing on parchment in the Munsterbauverein in Fribourg, reproduced in Böker, Architektur der Gotik, cat. 31. 76. For example, Juan Gómez de Mora, Principal Retable of the Church of the Monastery of Guadalupe in Cáceres, 1614, Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional, inv. B 365, reproduced in Santiago Páez, Dibujos de arquitectura y ornementación, cat. 75. 77. Roell, “Tekenen ter verlichting,” 98. 78. Of course, there are some exceptions, notably amongst early English architectural drawings; e.g., Robert Smythson, Drawing for a Window, possibly for Longleat House, ca. 1568, London RIBA Smythson Drawings, 1/16; or even François Mansart’s studio’s presentation drawing for the Château de Maisons, kept in Stockholm: Nationalmuseum, NMH THC 2404. 79. A good example is the drawing made in 1657 of the Stallburg gallery in the Viennese Hofburg by the Fleming Nikolaas van Hoy for the archduke Leopold Wilhelm. Vienna, Albertina GSA 9.302. 80. Fuhring, Juste-Aurèle Meissonnier, cat. no. D5. 81. See the classic Kimball, “Development of the ‘Cheminée à La Royale’ ”; Bazin-Henry, “Des miroirs peints italiens aux trumeaux de glace à la française.” 82. Brugerolles, Hôtels particuliers à Paris. 83. Cojannot, Louis Le Vau, 274. 84. This is the same as on the façade of the Trippenhuis built by Justus Vingboons in the years 1660–62 in Amsterdam. I would like to thank Pieter Vlaadingerbroek for drawing this fact to my attention. 85. Cojannot, “Pierre Breau ou les enjeux du dessin d’architecture.” 86. Paris, Archives Nationales O1 1783, dossier 1, pièce 11; Fonkenell, “Hardouin-Mansart constructeur,” 103. 87. The Académie advised Landon to “indicate by light colored tints the different constructions in drawings that show the present state” (indiquer par de légères teintes coloriées, les différentes constructions dans les dessins qui présentent l’état actuel). “Rapport de l’Académie royale des Beaux-Arts sur les ouvrages envoyés par MM. les pensionnaires du roi à l’Académie de France à Rome par M. Huyot lu à la séance publique du 5 octobre 1822,” in Jean-Michel Leniaud, ed., Procès-verbaux de l’Académie des BeauxArts (Paris: École Nationale des Chartes, 2003), 3:413. 88. On the birth of the section, see the illuminating Emmons, “Window to the Soul”; and Guillerme and Vérin, “Archeology of Section.” A close look at the chronology invalidates the idea of an anatomical origin for section drawing in general (architectural sections precede the first public dissections and the publication of Vesalius’s De humani corporis fabrica of 1543) and of such an origin for the use of red for sectioned parts in particular. Also, neither Claude Perrault nor Christopher Wren, anatomist-architects, ever washed their sections—sometimes called “dissection” in Wren’s case—in red. Geraghty, Architectural Drawings of Sir Christopher Wren, 117.

89. Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Codex Barberini, fol. 28r. 90. See, for example, Francesco da Volterra, Proposal for Decoration of the Rustici Chapel in S. Maria sopra Minerva, Rome: Section with Notes, signed and dated 1586, Stockholm, Nationalmuseum NMH CC 199; or Ferdinando Fuga, Section of the Bambin Gesù church, Rome, ca. 1732–33, Rome, Istituto Nazionale per la Grafica, Gabinetto Disegni e Stampa, FN 13867; or Niccolò Salvi, Section of the San Nicola Chapel in S. Lorenzo in Damaso, 1743, Rome, Biblioteca di Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, inv. 109023. 91. Cipriani, Marconi, and Valeriani, I disegni di architettura; Baudez, Architecture et tradition académique, 251–53. 92. See, for example, the anonymous set of drawings in the Worcester College Library album studied by Yerkes in “Worcester College Ms B 2.3 and Its Sources.” 93. “Il paraît que la manière de laver les ouvrages dans l’architecture militaire est plus avantageuse que celle dont on se sert dans l’architecture civile, parce que dans celle-ci on ne distingue pas dans les profils, par des couleurs, ce qui est coupé ou rompu d’avec ce qui ne l’est pas.” Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein, 47. 94. Virol, Vauban, 403. 95. Duffy, Siege Warfare, 2:63–71; Bragard, “Menno van Coehoorn (1641–1704).” 96. Krause, “Zu Zeichnungen französischer Architekten um 1700,” 65–73. 97. For example, Maison de M. Guillot, Beaux-Arts de Paris, inv. EBA 1890, reproduced in Brugerolles, Hôtels particuliers à Paris, cat. 23. 98. Beaux-Arts de Paris, PRA 3–6. 99. Ronot, Jean-Baptiste Bouchardon. 100. Hartmann, “Neues zur Planungs,” figs. 21 and 26. 101. Oechslin, “Contributo alla conoscenza di Antonio Deriset.” 102. Noldus, Trade in Good Taste, 35, 38–40, 42–46; Paulus, “ ‘. . . wan Hollands niedlichkeit uns in die Augen leucht,’ ” 261–62. 103. See Neville, Nicodemus Tessin the Elder, 13–16; the summary of the literature on de la Vallée is found in Rollenhagen Tilly, “De maître maçon à architecte.” 104. Olin, “Introduction.” 105. See, for example, his Project for Proscenium with the Monogram of Gustav III above the Stage Opening, second half of the eighteenth century, Stockholm, Nationalmuseum, NMH CC 2291. 106. See Nicola Michetti’s Project of a Lighthouse for Cronstadt, ca. 1722–24, Saint Petersburg, Hermitage Museum, OP-4742; Cracraft, Petrine Revolution, 155; Lo Gatto, Gli artisti italiani in Russia, 41–42, plate 28. 107. James Thornhill, Speaker’s Chair at Westminster Palace, ca. 1720, Greater London Record Office drawings, F. C. 29-Westminster 5928, reproduced in Bristow, Architectural Colour in British Interiors, 45. 108. See his drawings for Spencer House kept at the Victoria and Albert Museum, like a section ca. 1758, inv. 3321 (Q.I.a), reproduced in Weber Soros, James “Athenian” Stuart, 204. 109. Watkin, Athenian Stuart; Weber Soros, James “Athenian” Stuart. 110. Worsley, “Chambers and Architectural Draughtsmanship,” 186. 111. Laveissière, Laurent Pécheux, 29. 112. Chambers to the marquis de Voyer d’Argenson, October 20, 1774: “Le roy, De Waillie, Doyen Peyre Pajou et tous les autres habiles gents de votre capitale sont toujours dans ma mémoire.” London, British Library, Add. MS 41134, 7v, published in Barrier, William Chambers, 259. 113. Worsley, “Chambers and Architectural Draughtsmanship,” 191.

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114. Rosario Nobile, Rizzo, and Sutera, Ecclesia triumphans. As on the section of the church of Santa Teresa alla Kalsa by Giacomo Amato, dated 1698, Galleria Regionale della Sicilia di Palazzo Abatellis, Palermo. Amato was a former student of Carlo Fontana. 115. Filippo Juvarra, Section of a Mausoleum for the King of France, ca. 1711–15, Berlin, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Kunstbibliothek, Hdz. 1120. 116. Filippo Juvarra, Project for the Church of the Carmine in Turin, ca. 1732, Turin, ASCT, SIMEOM D/1398, reproduced in Bonet Correa, Blasco Esquivas, and Cantone, eds., Filippo Juvarra e l’architettura europea, cat. 82, 240. 117. Viale Ferrero, Filippo Juvarra, cat. 69, 187; see also Martinetti, Filipo Juvarra, 53–57. 118. For a recent re-evaluation of this series, see Barry, “El cuerpo despiezado.” 119. Reproduced in Santiago Páez, Dibujos de arquitectura y ornementación, cat. 4. For the eighteenth century, see, for example, Project of a House for the Convent of the Santísima Trinidad by Francisco de Lara Callejero, dated 1719, Madrid, Archivio Municipal, Secretaría, leg. 1-66-119. I would like to thank Adrián Almoguera for having brought this drawing to my attention. 120. See, for example, Project for a Chapel Dedicated to Santa Teresa in the Church of the Convent of Clérigos del Espíritu Santo in Madrid, ca. 1694–96, Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional, 15–85, no. 83. 121. Bédat, L’Académie des Beaux-Arts de Madrid, 3–40; Baudez, Architecture et tradition académique, 63–66. 122. As a good example, see the manuscript treatise written in French and illustrated by Pedro d’Avila in 1752, Architecture militaire, ou l’Art de fortifier, Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional, Dib/14/41–Dib/14/42. 123. Vigo Trasancos, A Coruña y el Siglo de las Luces, 248, fig. 193. 124. Pamplona, Archivo Municipal, MPD-49, reproduced in Rodríguez Ruiz, Ventura Rodríguez, cat. 150. 125. See his elevation and section for a custom house, theme of the first-class competition of 1769 at the Academia de San Fernando, Madrid, RBASF A-1181. García-Toraño Martínez, Dibujos de arquitectura y ornementación de la Biblioteca Nacional, cat. 73–75. On Manuel Machuca y Vargas, see Sambricio, La arquitectura española de la Ilustración, 360–63. 126. Sambricio, Silvestre Pérez, 38–40. 127. Almoguera, “De l’Académie des Beaux-Arts aux chantiers de l’Empire,” 129–30; García Sánchez, “El viaje al sur de Italia del arquitecto Isidro González Velázquez.” The same phenomenon can be observed in the architectural drawings of students of the Real Academia de Bellas Arte de San Carlos in Mexico City. Fuentes Rojas, La Academia de San Carlos y los constructores del neoclásico. 128. A notion summarized in Crespo Delgado, Un viaje para la Ilustración, 305–60.

chapter three: affective colors 1. “Quoiqu’il y ait peu de mérite à laver un plan avec une sorte de propreté, les architectes et les ingénieurs ne doivent cependant pas négliger ce foible talent qui captive les yeux du plus grand nombre.” 2. Picon, “Architecture, Science, and Technology”; Baudez, “Les mathématiques à l’Académie royale d’architecture”; Shank, Before Voltaire. 3. Eck, “Architecture and the Spectator,” 157. 4. Eck, Bussels, Delbeke, and Pieters, Translations of the Sublime; and esp. Eck, “Figuring the Sublime in English Church Architecture.”

5. Démoris, “Peinture et science au siècle des Lumières.” 6. “représenter les somptueuses architectures des plus superbes bâtimens [sic] en perspective.” Grégoire Huret, Optique de portraiture et peinture, en deux parties: La première est la perspective pratique acomplie, pour représenter les somptueuses architectures des plus superbes bâtimens en perspective par deux manières (Paris: André Cramoisy, 1670), quoted in Démoris, “Peinture et science au siècle des Lumières,” 47. 7. Gautier de Nîmes, L’Art de dessiner, 130–31. 8. Gautier de Nîmes, L’Art de laver, 100–103. 9. “Les lignes colorées forment un tout dont l’harmonie n’est pas moins agréable à la veüe qu’un morceau de peinture.” Gautier de Nîmes, L’Art de dessiner, preface. 10. Lichtenstein, Eloquence of Color, 138–68. 11. Teyssèdre, Roger de Piles; Puttfarken, Roger de Piles’ Theory of Art. 12. Grasselli, Colorful Impressions, 7; Michel Pastoureau speaks about a “colored oasis,” in Black, 159. There is nevertheless a time lapse between cities and the countryside, where it seems that the penetration of color was slower. Laurence Fontaine has shown, for example, in her Histoire du colportage en Europe, that the archives concerning peddlers very seldom indicate the color of the goods they are selling. Gaillard and Lanoë, “Couleur(s) sur les Lumières,” 20n22. 13. Quoted in Bristow, Architectural Colour in British Interiors, 49. 14. Jacques-François Blondel, De la distribution des maisons de plaisance (Paris: Charles-Antoine Jombert, 1737), chap. 2, p. 26. Bristow, Architectural Colour in British Interiors, 68. 15. Jacques-François Blondel and Jean-François Bastide, La Petite Maison (Paris: Cellot, 1763); Cleary, “Romancing the Tome,” 142–44; Moulin, Embellir, bâtir, demeurer, 351–55; Ripoll, Penser la couleur en littérature. 16. Alm, Carl Hårleman, 77. 17. Pardhailhé-Galabrun, Birth of Intimacy, 147. 18. Standen, “Croome Court”; Reineke, “Framing, Illusion and Papillotage.” 19. Ellis Miller, Selling Silks, 32–41. 20. On the similar motifs of wall coverings and wallpapers in the second half of the eighteenth century, see Bredif, “Étude des similitudes de motifs.” On colors in wallpapers, see Lynn, “Colors and Other Materials of Historic Wallpaper.” 21. Borman, Kensington Palace, 118–27. 22. Jacques Savary des Bruslons in his Dictionnaire universel de commerce (Amsterdam: Jansons, 1732), 1:1710, testifies of this change. 23. Le Camus de Mézières, Le Génie de l’architecture, 113. 24. Le Camus de Mézières, 220. 25. Le Camus de Mézières, 139–40. 26. José Mac Packe [James Peacock], Oikidia or Nutshells, Being Ichnographic Distributions for Small Villas (London: Dilly, 1785), 79. 27. Stijnman, “Jan van de Velde IV and the Invention of Aquatint.” 28. Stijnman and Turner, Johannes Teyler; Farbige Graphik, figs. 11–62; also S. Turner, “Opus Typo-chromaticum”; and, in the same volume, Kolfin and Rikken, “Colourful Topography.” 29. Tooneel der voornaamste Nederlandse huizen en Lusthoven, naar ‘t leven afgebeeld in 55. kopere plaaten en in’t licht uit-gegeven door Carel Allard / Représentation des principales maisons & des jardins de plaisance des Pais Bas dessinées au naturel dans 55 planches de cuivre et mises en lumières par Charles Allard (Amsterdam: Carel Allard, 1697); Rikken, “Vroege kleurendruk in Amsterdam.” 30. Grasselli, “Color Printmaking before 1730,” in Colorful Impressions, 7. 31. Smentek, “ ‘Exact Imitation Acquired at Little Expense,’ ” 9. 32. Fairchilds, “Production and Marketing of Populuxe Goods in Eighteenth-Century Paris,” 228–31.

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33. In reality, mezzotint was invented a century earlier by Ludwig von Siegen. Wax, Mezzotint, 15–24 and 87–88. On Le Blon, see the most recent literature in Scott, Becoming Property, 245–79. 34. Mercure de France, December 1741, 2926–27. On Gautier Dagoty, see Le Bitouzé, “Une entreprise familiale”; Lavezzi, “Peinture et savoirs scientifiques”; Lowengard, Creation of Color in Eighteenth Century Europe, 460–75; Scott, Becoming Property, 254–55 and 265–68. 35. The painting measures 21 × 17.1 cm and is dated ca. 1738, Kimbell Art Museum, inv. AP 1982.07. 36. Hérold, Gravure en manière de crayon. 37. Enfert, L’Enseignement du dessin en France, 61–62; Lahalle, Les Écoles de dessin au XVIIIe siècle, 227–31; Leben, L’École royale gratuite de dessin, 81. 38. Hérold, Louis-Marin Bonnet, 6. 39. Raux, “La main invisible,” 63. 40. For a synthesis, see Bonehill and Daniels, Paul Sandby, 69–71; and Macarthur, “ ‘In the Service of Clouds,’ ” 172. A good example of a transitional use of aquatint for architectural publications can be found in James Malton’s An Essay on British Architectural Cottage . . . Supported by Fourteen Designs . . . Designed and Executed in Aqua-Tinta (London: Hookman and Carpenter, 1798). Here the aquatint is washed by hand with watercolor. James was the younger brother of Thomas Malton, who published between 1792 and 1800 the earliest substantial edition of urban topography in aquatint, A Picturesque Tour through the Cities of London and Westminster. 41. Carbonnières, Les Gravures historiques de Janinet, 11. 42. Vues des plus beaux édifices publics et particuliers de la ville de Paris, dessinées par Durand, architecte, & gravées en couleurs par Janinet: Accompagnées de notices intéressantes sur l’architecture et ses révolution en France; Avec des anecdotes curieuses de chaqve monument en particulier (Paris: Esnauts et Rapilly, ca. 1787); and Vues pittoresques des principaux édifices de Paris (Paris: Lamy, 1792). On this work, see Szambien, Jean-Nicolas-Louis Durand, 16. 43. Raccolta di IX progetti architettonici inventati e disegnati da alcuni membri dell’Accademia della Pace (Rome, 1795). Pasquali, “Contributo alla conoscenza della cultura architettonica”; and Pasquali, “Antiche e nuove tecniche di incisione,” 503. This is similar to the way in which John Soane had published in 1793, by Taylor, his Sketches in Architecture, Containing Plans and Elevations of Cottages, Villas, and Other Useful Buildings with Characteristic Scenery. It should be noted, however, that the first use of aquatint in architectural book illustration occurred in John Plaw’s Rural Architecture (London: Taylor, 1785). 44. The Roman architect Giuseppe Camporese also published his projects in colored aquatint. Zanetov, “Un album di progetti architettonici di Giuseppe Camporesi.” And in 1806 Antolini entrusted Ferdinando Bonsignore with the publication in aquatint of his projects for the Foro Bonaparte in Milan. Scotti, Il Foro Bonaparte. 45. See Garric, “Présentation scientifique.” 46. For a summary of the literature, see Blake, “Topographical Prints through the Zograscope.” 47. On Volpato and especially the Farnese Gallery series, see Gilet, Giovanni Volpato. 48. On Francesco Panini, see Hernandez, “Rendering Multimedia Architecture”; Cola, “L’inventario di Francesco Panini.” 49. A preparatory drawing for the print in black chalk, black ink, and gray washes, partially pricked for transfer and dated ca. 1775, is in the collections of the J. Paul Getty Museum, inv. 92.GG.16. 50. Hernandez, “Rendering Multimedia Architecture,” 4. 51. Inv. 68/5/1. Hernandez, 31–32.

52. Chessex, Images of the Grand Tour, 20–21; Marini, Giovanni Volpato, cat. 228–67 and 351–64. 53. Hyde Minor and Pinto, “ ‘Marcher sur les traces de son père,’ ” 267. 54. Abraham-Louis-Rodolphe Ducros, 13. See also the excellent summary of the question in Allen, “Capture of the Westmorland and the Purchase of Art in 18th Century Rome.” 55. “vu avec admiration dans l’atelier d’un peintre genevois, Ducros, qui jouissait d’une réputation méritée, des vues à l’aquarelle représentant les monuments antiques de Rome avec une fidélité et une force de couleur extraordinaire.” Pierre-FrançoisLéonard Fontaine, Mia vita, ed. Jean-Philippe Garric (Paris: Éditions des Cendres, 2016), 32. 56. P.-F.-L. Fontaine, 83; Garric, “À l’ombre de Pierre Fontaine.” 57. Garric, Recueil d’Italie, 111. 58. Kristeller, “Modern System of the Arts,” 496–97. 59. On critical readings of Kristeller’s hypothesis, see Porter, “Is Art Modern?”; and Young, “Ancient and Modern System of the Arts.” 60. Letter dated August 10, 1756, quoted in Kiene, Pannini, 93n4. 61. Basan, Catalogue raisonné des différents objets de curiosités, 87–90. In the marquis de Marigny’s posthumous inventory of 1781, conducted by François Basan in the Hôtel de Menars, two drawings in color by Panini are estimated at two hundred livres, making them the most expensive drawings in the collection of the former director of the Bâtiments du Roi. Gordon, Houses and Collections of the Marquis de Marigny, 291. 62. “Les élèves de Pannini en France,” in Kiene, Pannini, 87–96; Loire, “Panini e i pittori francesi a Roma,” 63–67. 63. For a quick summary of this vast subject, see Percy, “Drawings and Artistic Production in Eighteenth-Century Rome.” 64. “travaille actuelement [sic] à un dessin coloré.” Anatole de Montaignon and Jules Guiffrey, Correspondance des directeurs de l’Académie de France à Rome avec les surintendants des Bâtiments, vol. 10: 1742–1753 (Paris: Charavay frères, 1900), 399; McCormick, Charles-Louis Clérisseau, 227n20. On Natoire at the Académie de France of Rome, see Caviglia-Brunel, Charles-Joseph Natoire, 116–65. 65. Natoire to Vandières, August 23, 1753, in Montaignon and Guiffrey, Correspondance des directeurs de l’Académie de France à Rome avec les surintendants des Bâtiments, 10:462. 66. Quoted in McCormick, Charles-Louis Clérisseau, 24. Nathaniel, whose name means “gift of God” in Hebrew, is the disciple in whom Jesus declared there to be “no guile” (John 1:47, KJV). I am grateful to Laurence Marie-Sacks for suggesting this explanation. 67. McCormick, 35. 68. See the recent and illuminating S. Stewart, Ruins Lesson, esp. chap. 6. 69. “projet pour un feu d’artifice, dessin à la plume et colorié”; “un tableau d’architecture représentant l’intérieur d’une salle à manger.” Notice . . . du cabinet de M. Contant, architecte du Roi (Paris, 1777), 5. 70. “mon gigot & mon pâté que la Grotte de Pausilippe [sic], ou la maison de campagne du Prince Mattei, quelque belle qu’elle soit.” Lettre sur les peintures, gravures et sculptures qui ont été exposées cette année au Louvre, par M. Raphael, peintre, de l’Académie de S. Luc, entrepreneur général des Enseignes de la ville, fauxbourgs et banlieue de Paris, à M. Jérosme, son ami, rapeur de tabac et riboteur (Paris: Delalain, 1769), 33–34 (attributed to Daudet de Jossac). 71. “ne veuille[nt] plaire qu’aux peintres de ruines.” JacquesFrançois Blondel, Cours d’architecture (Paris: La Veuve Desaint, 1771–77), 3: xxxiii–xxxiv.

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72. Baudez, Architecture et tradition académique, 53–63. 73. Guillaume Baillet de Saint-Julien, Lettres sur la peinture, la sculpture et l’architecture (Amsterdam, 1749), 79–80. 74. Giovanni Bottari, Dialoghi sopra le tre arte del disegno (Lucca: F. M. Benedini, 1754), 127; Garms, “Le peripezie di un’armoniosa contesa,” 2. 75. In the second edition of Saggio d’architettura civile, of 1781 published in Opere complete di Francesco Milizia (Rome: Cardinali e Frulli, 1827), 328. 76. “graphium vuol dire stilo da disegnare, e non pennello da dipingere.” Vincenzo Scamozzi, L’idea della architettura universale (Venice: Giorgio Valentino, 1615), 24. Here Scamozzi is glossing the term “graphidis scientia,” which is found in the fourth paragraph of the first book of the De architectura of Vitruvius. 77. Antonio Bails, Elementos de matemáticas (Madrid: Ibarra, 1787), 9:4–7, quoted in Léon Tello and Sanz Sanz, Estética y teoría de la arquitectura, 607. 78. London, British Library, MSS, Add. 41135, fol. 9. 79. Le Camus de Mézières, Le Génie de l’architecture, 62–63. 80. “Ed io anche son Pittore.” Étienne-Louis Boullée, Architecture: Essai sur l’art, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS francais, 9153, fol. 1. The sentence attributed to Corregio is, however, “Anch’io sono pittore.” 81. “Vous qui voulez devenir architecte, commencez par être peintre.” Claude-Nicolas Ledoux, L’Architecture considérée sous les rapports de l’art, des mœurs et de la législation (Paris, 1804), 113. 82. Charles-Axel Guillaumot, Considérations sur les connaissances et la qualité nécessaires à un architecte (Paris: H. L. Perronneau, an VII [1799]), 6. 83. “l’arrangement des objets qui doivent entrer dans un tableau, par rapport à l’effet général de ce tableau.” Quoted in “Composition,” in Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond D’Alembert, eds., Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des arts, des sciences et des métiers (Paris: Le Breton et al., 1751–72), 12:664. On Robert and gardens, see Catala and Wick, Hubert Robert. 84. It is found in Robert Morris, An Essay upon Harmony as It Relates Chiefly to Situation and Building (London: T. Cooper, 1739), 31, and not in Lectures on Architecture, as it is referenced in Rowe, “Character and Composition,” 63. For the history of the concept in painting, see Puttfarken, Discovery of Pictorial Composition. 85. William Gilpin, Observations on the River Wye and Several Parts of South Wales, etc. Relative Chiefly to Picturesque Beauty: Made in the Summer of the Year 1770 (London, 1782). Andrews, Search for the Picturesque, 56–58. 86. Robert and James Adam, The Works in Architecture of Robert and James Adam (London: Peter Elmsly, 1778–86), vol. 1, pt. 1 (3) n. A, cited in Savage, “Exhibiting Architecture,” 206. 87. Antoine Chrysostome Quatremère de Quincy, Encyclopédie méthodique: Architecture (Paris: Panckoucke, 1788), 1:84. 88. The literature on the topic, especially for the British case, is too vast to be summarized here. I refer the reader to Wilton and Lyles, Great Age of British Watercolours. 89. On Charles Dupuis, see Garric, “À l’ombre de Pierre Fontaine,” 37–40. 90. “Le paysage, genre de dessin très agréable, convient à l’architecte qui sait la perspective; il lui procure les moyens de rendre avec art la vue perspective non seulement des édifices qu’il faut élever, mais encore celle des objets dont ses édifices sont environnés: vue très satisfaisante pour les propriétaires qui, d’un seul coup d’œil, aperçoivent l’étendue des vues dont ils peuvent

jouir dans leurs habitations: c’est ce qui m’a engagé à donner une idée générale sur la manière de dessiner le paysage dans plusieurs genres; on acquerra aussi par ce traité l’habitude de mêlanger les couleurs, & de les employer dans les différens cas.” Charles Dupuis, Traité d’architecture comprenant les cinq ordres des Anciens, établis dans une juste proportion entr’eux (Paris: Vve Hérissant, 1782), 23. 91. Picon, L’Invention de l’ingénieur moderne, 31–38. 92. Picon, 154–55; Picon, “Cartographie et aménagement du territoire”; Blond, “La rhétorique cartographique du paysage.” 93. “commencer par dessiner le paysage avant de dessiner la carte.” Champs-sur-Marne, Bibliothèque de l’École nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, MS 94, fol. 64, quoted in Blond, “La rhétorique cartographique du paysage,” 49. On the role of pictorial drawing among French eighteenth-century civil engineers, see Picon and Yvon, L’Ingénieur artiste; Belhoste, “Le dessin de la carte”; Edney, “Reconsidering Enlightenment Geography.” On Lesage, see Picon, L’Invention de l’ingénieur moderne, 112–13. 94. “Je ne pourrai jamais me persuader que des gens raisonnables qui ont des yeux, du talent et un peu de goût aient pu faire, et qu’on doive adopter d’après eux une convention qui prescrit de représenter et de colorer la nature comme elle n’est pas.” Champs-sur-Marne, Bibliothèque de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, MS 94, fol. 58. 95. Champs-sur-Marne, Bibliothèque de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, MS 94, fol. 35. 96. Michel, “Le goût pour le dessin en France aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles,” 30–31. 97. Abbé Louis Gougenot, Lettre sur la peinture, la sculpture et l’architecture (Amsterdam [Paris], 1748), 77–78. 98. C. Bailey, “ ‘Toute seule elle peut remplir et satisfaire l’attention,’ ”; and C. Baker, Elam, and Warwick, Collecting Prints and Drawings in Europe. 99. See Jacques-François Blondel and Jean-François Bastide, La Petite Maison (Paris: Cellot, 1763), 65; and Le Camus de Mézières, Le Génie de l’architecture, 126. 100. Smentek, Mariette and the Science of the Connoisseur, 144–54. 101. The collection of King George III is an exception in this regard. See Watkin, Architect King, 65–75 on architectural drawings in the prince’s education, and 87–88. Architectural drawings were collected by architects themselves or by institutional patrons, such as the director of the Bâtiments du Roi in France, for example. 102. Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Prima parte di architettura, e prospettive (Rome: Nicola e Marco Pagliarini, 1743), 1. 103. Hyde Minor, Piranesi’s Lost Words, 41–81; and Yerkes, “Sold.” 104. Letter dated September 26, 1754, in McCormick, CharlesLouis Clérisseau, 18–19. 105. For a summary, see Baudez, Architecture et tradition académique, 220–34. 106. “l’architecture et le dessin ne sont qu’une même chose.” Henri Testelin, “Discours prononcé en l’assemblée publique de l’Académie royale de peinture et de sculpture, le 9e jour de janvier 1672,” in A. Fontaine, Conférences inédites de l’Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture, 39–43. 107. Lavin, Quatremère de Quincy, 133. 108. “On voit que la plupart des anciens dessins d’architecture n’étoient que de simples traits à la plume, hachés ou lavés légèrement au bistre. Les modernes architectes semblent avoir fait un art particulier de dessiner l’architecture. Je crois que cet art s’est accru ou perfectionné en raison inverse du nombre des travaux et des édifices qui s’exécutent. Jadis aussi le dessin de l’architecte n’était que l’esquisse de son monument. Cela devait être ainsi lorsque

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l’architecte était l’exécuteur de son esquisse. Depuis que l’art s’est divisé par le fait et dans la pratique, en invention et exécution; depuis qu’il s’est trouvé des hommes qui inventent ou composent sans savoir construire, et d’autres qui construisent pour ceux qui ne savent qu’inventer, il a bien fallu des dessins plus rendus, plus précieux et plus finis. Je ne prétends pas au reste attaquer ce mérite de fini dans les dessins, quoiqu’à vrai dire, le fini des dessins d’architecture consiste dans la pureté du trait, la fidélité des mesures et la précision des proportions. Je me contente de remarquer que ce mérite ne constate pas celui de l’architecture, et qu’on peut faire sans une si grande propreté de lavis, ou sans le pittoresque, et l’effet des clairs ou des ombres nuancés, comme dans un tableau, d’aussi bons dessins d’architecture et aussi propres à l’objet principal auquel on les destine, qui est l’exécution.” Antoine Chrysostome Quatremère de Quincy, “Dessiner,” in Encyclopédie méthodique: Architecture (Paris: Panckoucke, 1788), 2:209. 109. Antoine Renou, Dialogues sur la peinture (Paris: Tartouillis, 1773), 138; and Pierre-François-Léonard Fontaine, Journal 1799–1853, ed. Marguerite David-Roy (Paris: ENSBA, 1987), 1:201. 110. One project for Bellevue sold for thirty-nine livres, one Temple of Apollo for thirty-seven livres. Catalogue des livres, tableaux, desseins et estampes de feu M. le comte de Vence (Paris: Pierre Rémy, 1761), manuscript mention added at the end, Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art, Paris, VP 1761/2. 111. Catalogue [du] Cabinet de feu M. Soufflot, Paris, November 20, 1780, 18, nos. 50 and 51. 112. Catalogue [du] Cabinet de M. B. de B***, Paris, 1785, 98, lot 212. 113. “les dessins de M. De Wailly sont très rares; on y reconnoit le peintre et l’architecte.” Catalogue [du] Cabinet de feu M. Soufflot, Paris, November 20, 1780, 18. 114. Notice . . . du cabinet de M. Contant, architecte du Roi, Paris, 1777, 6–7. 115. Bédard, Decorative Games, introduction. 116. No. 73, Explication des ouvrages de peinture et de sculpture de messieurs de l’Académie de S. Luc, dont l’exposition a été ordonnée par M. le marquis de Voyer (Paris: Prault père, 1774), 15. 117. “des projets pleins de grandeur et de genie.” L’Avant Coureur, June 22, 1761, 390. 118. Jules Guiffrey, ed., Livret de l’exposition du Colisée (1776) (Paris: J. Baur, 1876), 44. 119. By a certain Genain, Catalogue des ouvrages de peinture, sculpture, gravure, architecture, etc. Exposés le 30 juin, jour de la petite Fête-Dieu jusqu’au 15 juillet par MM. les artistes libres pour la troisième année, rue de Cléry, no. 95, dans les salles de M. Le Brun, capitaine du bataillon de Saint Magloire (Paris: Prault, 1791), 27–28. 120. On April 7, 1760, for example, the painter Gerard Rysbrack announced in L’Avant Coureur, p. 187, the sale by lottery of forty of his paintings, “peints d’après nature, dans le genre de Desportes et d’Oudry, et qui feront autant de lots.” The appraisal was carried out by Jacques-André Portail, who had been until his death in 1759 guardian of the king’s paintings. There were seventeen hundred tickets at three livres each. 121. Nègre, L’Art et la matière, 39–42. 122. “connu ou amené par un savant, un artiste, ou un amateur connu.” Nouvelles de la République des lettres et des arts 5 (February 23, 1779): 30, quoted in Nègre, L’Art et la matière, 40. 123. Clérisseau was admitted with two gouaches entitled Bains and Ruines d’architecture. McCormick, Charles-Louis Clérisseau, 145. Charles De Wailly was admitted in 1771 with a large watercolor, Vue perspective de l’escalier projeté pour la nouvelle salle de la Comédie

française, Paris, Musée du Louvre, inv. 33347. Mosser and Rabreau, Charles De Wailly, 25. 124. L’Avant Coureur, September 21, 1761, 604–5. 125. Cited without reference by Michel Gallet, “Préface,” in Mosser and Rabreau, Charles De Wailly, 6. 126. De Wailly to Chambers, October 13, 1763, published in Barrier, William Chambers, 200. 127. D’Angiviller to Pierre, August 19, 1779, in Marc FurcyRaynaud, ed., “Correspondance administrative de M. d’Angiviller avec M. Pierre,” Nouvelles archives de l’art français: Revue de l’art français ancien et moderne, 22e année (1905), 262–63. 128. Advertisement in L’Avant Coureur, April 21, 1760, 135–36. 129. Bernardau, Histoire de Bordeaux, 385. 130. “ses vues aux artistes, aux connoisseurs, au public et jusqu’à la saine critique qui corrige.” Abbé Lebrun, Almanach historique et raisonné des architectes, peintres, sculpteurs, graveurs et cizeleurs (Paris: Delalain, 1776–77), 237–38. 131. Maës, Les Salons de Lille, 285. The drawing has been first published on the cover of Leith, Space and Revolution. 132. Christopher D. Armstrong, “Lille révolutionnaire,” in Nantes révolutionnaire: Rupture et continuité 1770–1830, ed. Yann Lignereux and Hélène Rousteau-Chambon (Rennes: PUR), forthcoming. 133. Mesuret, Les Expositions de l’Académie Royale de Toulouse; Taillefer, “La société des beaux-arts,” 45. 134. Pelpel, La Formation architecturale au XVIIIe siècle, 183. 135. P.-F.-L. Fontaine, Mia vita, 22. 136. P.-F.-L. Fontaine, 29. 137. Guégan, “Expositions publiques à l’Académie de France à Rome,” 84. 138. Delle lodi delle belle arti orazione e componimenti poetici detti in Campidoglio in occasione della festa del concorso celebrata dall’insegne accademia del disegno di S. Luca, essendo principe di essa il Signor Francesco Mancini l’anno del Giubileo 1750: Alla Santità di nostro signore Benedetto XIV (Rome: Giovanni Maria Salvioni, 1750), 16. 139. Michele Mellio, Annali di Roma 6 (1792): 78; Adina Meyer, “Una gara lodevole,” 91. 140. Pietrangeli, “Origine e vicende dell’Accademia,” 22; Adina Meyer, “Il trasferimento dell’Accademia del Nudo alle Convertite,” 17. 141. Bédat, L’Académie des Beaux-Arts de Madrid, 92. 142. On illustrated academic lectures, see the recent synthesis by Ruffinière du Prey, “London, Parma, Dresden,” 523–26. 143. Quoted from “Lecture V,” in Watkin, Sir John Soane, 564, plate 96. 144. Quoted in Savage, “Exhibiting Architecture,” 201–2. 145. Harris, John Yenn; Savage, John Yenn R.A. 146. John Martin Robinson has demonstrated that this accusation that one finds in Farington’s Journal (August 4, 1796) was unfounded, as Dixon exhibited ten drawings signed “J. Dixon architect” at the Royal Academy. Robinson, James Wyatt, 61–63, and 316n6. 147. “Sunday November 1st, 1795,” in The Diary of Joseph Farington, ed. Kenneth Garlick and Angus Macintyre (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1978–84), 2:395. Malton’s failure secured John Soane’s election. Cited in Savage, “Exhibiting Architecture,” 207. 148. Lukacher, Joseph Gandy; and Palin, “J. M. Gandy’s Composite Views for John Soane.” 149. Watkin, Sir John Soane, “Lecture V,” 561. 150. Journal de Paris, September 27, 1781, 1088. 151. Wittman, Architecture, Print Culture and the Public Sphere, 124–25. 152. Wittman, 123.

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153. Paper tariff of 1741 reproduced in Louis-Jacques Goussier, “Papeterie,” in Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, ed. Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond D’Alembert, vol. 11 (Paris: Le Breton, 1765), 844. 154. The topic has been covered extensively in the art-historical literature, and less so in architecture; see the important SaintGirons, Fiat lux; Ashfield and Bolla, Sublime; Doran, Theory of the Sublime from Longinus to Kant; Jong, “Paradoxical Encounters”; and Ibata, Challenge of the Sublime, 203–32. 155. Pérouse de Montclos, “Les Prix de Rome,” 189–91; Baudez, Architecture et tradition académique, 259–62. In 1800 Moreau published Fragmens et ornemens d’architecture; and he is known for the restoration of the theater of the Comédie Française in Paris. 156. See, for example, Preparations for Fireworks and Decoration for the Festival Given in Honor of the Birth of Louis, the Dauphin of France, Piazza Navona, 1729, Paris, Musée du Louvre, inv. 415. Piranesi uses it on the interior walls of his “Carcere oscura,” plate 2 of Prima parte of 1743. 157. Pierre-Louis Van Cléemputte continued publication during the Revolution, Guillaume Edouard Allais, Athanase Détournelle and Antoine Laurent Thomas Vaudoyer after 1806, and finally Louis-Pierre Baltard and Vaudoyer after 1818. Rosenau, “Engravings of the Grands Prix.” 158. Garric, “Nouveaux programmes pour un empire futur,” 127. 159. “d’un coup d’œil on put voir les progrès de l’École d’architecture.” Pérouse de Montclos, “Prix de Rome,” 12. 160. Moreau’s general plan measures 22 × 143 cm, his section 61 × 372 cm, and his elevation 64.4 × 280.5 cm. 161. What started as an economic measure became fashionable at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Frey, “La figuration graphique de l’architecture néo-classique.” 162. Savage, “Shadow, Shading and Outline in Architectural Engraving.” 163. On this complex and fascinating question, see Wölfflin, “Über das Rechts und Links im Bilde”; Keller, “Die Polarität von Links und Rechts im Reproduktionsstich”; De Bosio, “Formes de la dissemination”; and more generally on the question, Pinotti, Il rovescio dell’immagine. 164. Pérouse de Montclos, Étienne-Louis Boullée; Bressani, “Étienne-Louis Boullée.” 165. Boullée, Architecture: Essai sur l’art, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS français 9153, fol. 70–71; Germann, Einführung in die Geschichte der Architekturtheorie, 195–255. 166. “de la multitude de ses dessins, produits d’une imagination vagabonde et déréglée.” Charles-François Viel, Décadence de l’architecture à la fin du dix-huitième siècle (Paris: l’auteur, 1800), 8. 167. “Faites comme le citoyen Boulé à qui le génie commande de faire de superbes choses; mais, comme il ne veut pas être arrêté dans son essor, il travaille comme s’il n’avait que 20 ans, et le plus bel ornement de sa maison est fait de ses tableaux. Je vous en avais bien entendu parler quelquefois, mais je ne pouvais pas me figurer qu’on pouvait produire des effets moraux en architecture comme en peinture. C’est ce que j’ai éprouvé hier chez votre maître. . . . Il a fait une assemblée nationale qui n’est point chargée de colonnes. Son plus bel ornement, c’est les droits de l’homme inscrits sur la façade et les 85 départements qui y tiennent. Mais c’est si pur et cela a un certain je ne sais quoi de si grand que je me suis senti la chair de poule en le regardant. On sent que c’est le peintre du bonheur et du malheur des humains par les lois qui en émanent. . . . Voilà, mon ami, ce que ce grand homme m’a fait éprouver.” Dated

from Paris, 19 Prairial year II (June 7, 1794). Sylvestre de Sacy, Alexandre Théodore Brongniart, 107. 168. Boullée, Architecture: Essai sur l’art, Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS français 9153, fols. 126 and 138. On this question, see Oechslin, “ ‘Je fais la lumière’ ”; DaCosta Kaufmann, “Perspective of Shadows.” 169. Kite, Shadow-Makers, 81–124. 170. Pastoureau, Black, 166. 171. Sakarovitch, Épures d’architecture, 219–47. 172. “réduit à un simple trait destiné à indiquer la forme et la disposition des objets; et si nous avons eu recours au lavis, ce n’a été que pour distinguer les pleins d’avec les vides, dans les plans et dans les coupes.” Jean-Nicolas-Louis Durand, Précis des leçons d’architecture données à l’École Polytechnique (Paris: l’auteur, 1809), 1:vi. 173. “Le lavis des dessins géométraux, loin d’ajouter quoi que ce soit à l’effet ou à l’intelligence de ces dessins, ne peut qu’y jeter du louche, de l’équivoque.” Jean-Nicolas-Louis Durand, Nouveau Précis des leçons d’architecture données à l’École Impériale Polytechnique (Paris: Fantin, 1813), 34. 174. “C’est une opinion reçue de tous les services publics que le lavis est indispensable pour donner à la representation d’un objet un caractère plus frappant, et si l’on ose dire, plus populaire. . . . La commission pense que l’enseignement du lavis ne saurait être trop recommandé.” Guillerme, Boudon, and Tabouret, Figuration graphique en architecture: 2. Le théâtre de la figuration, 170–71.

conclusion: the anxiety of the architect 1. The confusion between architectural drawings as products of painters and as products of architects in the Italian Renaissance can be seen in the debates around the author of the Codex Escurialensis, attributed successively to the circle of Domenico Ghirlandaio, to the architects Baccio Pontelli or Giuliano da Sangallo, or to the painter Andrea Mantegna. See the summary of the discussion in Benzi, “L’autore del Codex Escurialensis.” 2. G. Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism in the French Atlantic Empire, 172 and 377. 3. “Les dessins d’architecture sont souvent dispersés pêle-mêle avec les aquarelles et même avec les tableaux à l’huile. Les architectes, pour ne pas être entièrement écrasés par ces vigoureux voisins, versent de la couleur à grands flots sur leur papier; si cela se pouvait, ils y mêleraient même les métaux les plus éclatants pour éviter l’effet terne et froid qui fait détourner les yeux du public.” César Daly, “Salon de 1841, deuxième partie,” Revue générale de l’architecture et des travaux publics, 1841, col. 188. 4. Baudez, “Jean-Baptiste Berthier.” 5. “chargée de simplifier et uniformiser les signes et conventions en usage dans les cartes et plans topographiques.” Émile Sautrez, ed., Topographie, teintes et signes conventionnels (classés par ordre alphabétique) adoptés par les deux commissions de topographie pour le dessin et la gravure des cartes et des plans exécutés par les divers services publics (Paris, 1865), 7–8. Bousquet-Bressolier and Corvisier de Villèle. “À la naissance de la cartographie moderne.” 6. “les dégradations naturelles ou accidentelles que les couleurs peuvent éprouver.” Sautrez, ed., Topographie, teintes et signes conventionnels, 9. 7. “La plupart de ces prix [académiques] étoient dessinés avec une liberté qui est moins du ressort de l’architecture que propre à la peinture . . . parce que cette manière de dessiner vague et indéterminée masque, pour ainsy dire, leur négligence ou leur incapacité

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sur l’art des développements, sans lequel néantmoins, on ne peut atteindre à l’excellence de l’architecture.” Jacques-François Blondel to the marquis de Marigny, 1763, Paris, Archives Nationales, O1 1930, 9. 8. Reproduced in Scott, Rococo Interior, 73, fig. 81. 9. Chromophobia was still prevalent at the end of the period covered by this study. Immanuel Kant stated that “in painting, sculpture, and in all the formative arts—architecture, and horticulture, so far as they are beautiful arts—the delineation is the essential thing. . . . The colors which light up the sketch belong to the charm; they may indeed enliven the object for sensation, but they cannot make it worthy of contemplation and beautiful.” Immanuel Kant, “Critique of the Aesthetical Judgment,” in The Critique of Judgment, trans. J. H. Bernard (New York: Hafner, 2011), 75, quoted in Petherbridge, Primacy of Drawing, 25. 10. On Monge and descriptive geometry, see Sakarovitch, Épures d’architecture.

appendix: the draftsman’s tools 1. “les règles de la science des ombres naturelles et du lavis dans le genre fini.” Boeri, Jean-Jacques Lequeu; Baridon, Garric, and Guédron, Jean-Jacques Lequeu; Baudez, “Questioning the Drawing.” 2. Kaufmann, Three Revolutionary Architects. 3. Jacques Guillerme, “Lequeu et l’invention du mauvais goût”; Marty-l’Herme, “Le cas de Jean-Jacques Lequeu”; Gagnebin, “Une pathologie de l’écart.” 4. Duboÿ, Lequeu; Lajer-Burcharth, “Lascivious Corpus.” 5. One had to await 1990 and the results of research carried out by Werner Szambien to learn Lequeu’s actual dates of birth, September 14, 1757, in Rouen, and death, March 28, 1826, in Paris. Szambien, “L’inventaire après décès de Jean-Jacques Lequeu.” 6. See Armstrong, Julien-David Leroy. 7. “des instrumens à l’usage de celui qui dessine au trait, qui ombre; enfin qui fini et termine une représentation géométrale ou perspective sur du papier, avec le soin et la propreté du bon dessinateur.” 8. “en fayence”; “le profil ponctué”; “auget à fonds oblique bien uni pour tourner peu d’encre à la fois avec l’eau pure”; “arestes ou on décharge la pointe pour la refaire fort aigûe.” 9. “avec des figures, par quelles teintes et comment on doit laver les plans, élévations et profils des corps opaques”; “abajour dont on peut éclairer pareillement un grand reservoir”; “L’imprécation gravée. Périsse maudit de Dieu avec sa race celui qui agira, parlera ou pensera contre la République.” 10. Frascari, “Reflection on Paper,” 23. 11. See the summary of the question in Fowler, Art of Paper. 12. See the classic Churchill, Watermarks in Paper in Holland, England and France. 13. A history of colored papers has still to be written, but one can refer to Brückle, “Blue-Colored Paper in Drawings.” 14. Rosenband, Papermaking in Eighteenth-Century France. 15. Krill, English Artists’ Paper, 56. 16. Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 137. 17. The products of Louis-Nicolas Robert’s paper machine, perfected in England in the following years, did not appear on the French market until 1822—which explains their absence from Delagardette’s manual—and not until the 1840s would machine-made papers attain the quality of mold-made examples, in particular Canson’s. André, Machines à papier.

18. Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 131–33. 19. Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein, 13. 20. “Si en lavant dessus, il boit l’encre avant qu’on ait le temps de l’étendre, il n’est pas lavé: on remédie à cela en y mettant une teinte d’eau d’alun.” Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 137. 21. “On en passe sur toute la feuille une eau légère avec un très gros pinceau pour l’empêcher de boire et pour y fixer le trait.” 22. “faite de rognures de peaux de mouton, d’agnaux etc. et appellée colle de Flandre et à laquelle on ajoute de l’eau pure, du sucre blanc d’Orléans et de la peau d’orange.” 23. Connors, “Francesco Borromini.” 24. Cojannot, “Architectes et ‘dessignateurs,’ ” 151. 25. Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 141. 26. Communication from Patrick Rocca. In 1761, Kaspar Faber, a cabinetmaker, founded the pencil firm of Faber-Castell, which started selling graphite rods encased in wood. Hambly, Drawing Instruments, 66. 27. Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 141. 28. “Gomme élastique de l’Amérique . . . un suc blanc plus ou moins fluide noirci à la fumée et qui découle des incisions faite à un arbres [sic].” Rubber or “gum-elastic” had been introduced into Europe from America ca. 1535, but the first person to suggest its use for erasing purposes was Joseph Priestley in 1770. Charles Goodyear’s discovery of vulcanization in 1859 rendered latex impervious to rot, resistant to cold and heat, and nonadhesive. Hambly, Drawing Instruments, 66. 29. Anonymus Mantovanus A, Cholmondeley Codex, between 1533 and 1543 (private collection), fol. 1r. This paragraph has benefited greatly from the expertise of Patrick Rocca, to whom I am deeply grateful for his precious help. 30. August Rode, Des Marcus Vitruvus Pollio Baukunst aus der Römischen Urschrift übersetz (Leipzig: Georg Joachim Göschen, 1796), 2 vols., cited in Oechslin, “Geometry and Line,” 21. 31. Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein, 15. 32. Hambly, Drawing Instruments, 23. 33. Rocca, “French Silver Drawing Instruments.” 34. Augarde, “La fabrication des instruments scientifiques du XVIIIe siècle.” 35. Hambly, Drawing Instruments, 23. 36. Francis Morgan was hired on July 25, 1772, and fired on May 10, 1785. Session of the Academic Council, May 10, 1785. Piotr Petrov, Сборник материалов для истории Императорской Академии Художеств за 100 лет ее существования (Collection of materials for the history of the Imperial Academy of Fine Arts during its hundred years of existence) (Saint Petersburg: Imperial Academy of Fine Arts, 1864–66), 1:283. 37. Session of the Academic Council, February 25, 1777. Petrov, 1:219–20. In 1778, there were seven students, each required to make one of the following: a pantograph, a seal stamper, a compass, a shrinking mirror, an elliptical compass, and an electrical machine. Session of the Academic Council, March 5, 1778. Petrov, 1:226– 27. Students graduating in 1779: Saint Petersburg, Российский Государственный Исторический Архив, 789, 1, 1, file 23. 38. Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein, 16. See the posthumous inventory of Jacques Canivet. Rocca and Launay, “La dynastie Langlois-Lordelle-Canivet-Lennel,” 185. 39. Made by Jacques Canivet, between May 1766 and October 1768, this architect’s chest was delivered to Charles Pierre Claret, comte de Fleurieu, future minister of the navy under Louis XVI. It measures more than twenty centimeters high, more than sixty

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centimeters wide, and almost forty centimeters deep, weighing nearly forty kilograms, and containing approximately 160 pieces on three levels. I am grateful to Patrick Rocca for having brought to my notice this exceptional object, kept in a private collection. See Rocca and Launay, “La dynastie Langlois-Lordelle-CanivetLennel,” 165–66. 40. Communication from Patrick Rocca. 41. Hambly, Drawing Instruments. 42. Communication from Patrick Rocca. 43. Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 103. 44. “objets extrêmement petits et précieux”: Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein, 12; Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 143. 45. “en bonne santé et point fort jeune afin qu’elle ne double pas.” 46. Communication from Patrick Rocca. 47. “C’est à regret que les véritables artistes voient des dessinateurs d’architecture civile les préférer aux plumes pour tirer des lignes droites. Il en résulte toujours un trait sec et dur qui gêne au moelleux et détruit le suave qu’exigent les angles et les extrémités des façades et des coupes, tandis qu’une plume bien taillée arrive toujours à ce double but. On ne doit s’en servir que dans un plan, où il est souvent indifférent que les traits soient secs ou moelleux.” Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 109. 48. Cojannot, “Architectes et ‘dessignateurs,’ ” 155–56. 49. Gautier de Nîmes, L’Art de laver, 48. 50. Lavallée, Les Techniques du dessin, 22. 51. Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 111. 52. James, Visual Identification and Analysis of Old Master Drawing Techniques, 13. 53. Émile Sautrez, ed., Topographie, teintes et signes conventionnels (classés par ordre alphabétique) adoptés par les deux commissions de topographie pour le dessin et la gravure des cartes et des plans exécutés par les divers services publics (Paris, 1865), 10.

54. Zerdoun Bat-Yehouda, Les Encres noires au Moyen Âge; and the website dedicated to the topic: irongallink.org. 55. Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 157. 56. Van Berge-Gerbaud, Duval, Guicharnaud, and James, “Bistre, encre métallogallique, sépia, encre au carbone?” 57. An excellent summary of the different red inks used in military and architectural drawings can be found in Miyamoto, “Significant Red.” 58. Gautier de Nîmes, L’Art de laver, 38–41. 59. Daniels, “Blackening of Vermilion by Light.” 60. See Phipps, “Cochineal Red.” 61. Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein, 3. Delagardette indicates that carmine is three to nine times more expensive than vermilion. Delagardette, Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin, 157–58. 62. Pastoureau, Red, 144–51. 63. Gautier de Nîmes, L’Art de laver, 26. He mentions the “violet,” which is a red. 64. “l’encre de la Chine, le carmin, l’outre-mer, la gomme-gutte, le verd de gris liquide, appelé communément couleur d’eau, le bistre, l’Inde fin, le verd de vessie et d’iris, et le vermillon.” Buchotte, Les Règles du dessein, 1. 65. “Lavis,” in Denis Diderot and Jean Le Rond D’Alembert, eds., Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des arts, des sciences et des métiers (Paris: Le Breton et al., 1751–72), 9:314. 66. Mulherron, “Prussian Blue, Boucher, and Newton”; Lotut, “Blue in Eighteenth-Century England.” 67. “on ne s’est pas servi de vert d’eau que j’ai enfin abandonné tout à fait, après avoir trouvé des plans et des cartes qui avaient totalement changé et noirci après un couple d’années.” Champssur Marne, Bibliothèque de l’École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, MS 94, fol. 32. 68. Jacques Canivet, Mathematical instrument set, Paris, 1761–63, Paris, Musée du Louvre, OA 10825.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

These are the key primary texts that appear in this book. The rest of the primary literature is found in endnotes. Buchotte, Nicolas. Les Règles du dessein et du lavis pour les plans particuliers des ouvrages & des bâtimens, & pour leurs coupes, profils, élévations & façades, tant de l’architecture militaire que civile. Paris: Claude Jombert, 1722. Delagardette, Claude-Mathieu. Nouvelles Règles pour la pratique du dessin et du lavis de l’architecture civile et militaire. Paris: Barrois, 1803. Gautier de Nîmes, Henri. L’Art de laver, ou La Nouvelle Manière de peindre sur le papier suivant le coloris des desseins qu’on envoie à la Cour. Lyon: Thomas Amaulry, 1687. ———. L’Art de dessiner proprement les plans, porfils, élévations géométrales, & perspectives, soit d’architecture militaire ou civile. Paris: Christophe Ballard, 1697. Le Camus de Mézières, Nicolas. Le Génie de l’architecture, ou L’Analogie de cet art avec nos sensations. Paris: Benoît Morin, 1780.

secondary literature Abraham-Louis-Rodolphe Ducros: A Swiss Painter in Italy. Dublin: National Gallery of Ireland, 2003. Ackerman, James S. Origins, Imitation, Conventions: Representation in the Visual Arts. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002. ———. Origins, Invention, Revision: Studying the History of Art and Architecture. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2016. Ackerman, James S., and Wolfgang Jung, eds. Conventions of Architectural Drawing: Representation and Misrepresentation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000. Adina Meyer, Susanne. “Il trasferimento dell’Accademia del Nudo alle Convertite.” In Le scuole mute e le scuole parlanti: Studi e documenti sull’Accademia di San Luca nell’Ottocento, edited by Paola Picardi and Pier Paolo Racioppi, 13–34. Rome: De Luca, 2002. ———. “Una gara lodevole: Il sistema espositivo a Roma al tempo di Pio VI.” Roma moderna e contemporanea 10, nos. 1–2 (2002): 91–112. Albu, Emily. The Medieval Peutinger Map: Imperial Roman Revival in a German Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Allen, Brian. “The Capture of the Westmorland and the Purchase of Art in 18th Century Rome.” In The Art Market in Rome in the Eighteenth Century: A Study in the Social History of Art, edited by Paolo Coen, 187–98. Boston: Brill, 2018. Alm, Göran, ed. Carl Hårleman: Människan och verket. Stockholm: Byggförlaget, 2000. Almagià, Roberto. “On the Cartographic Work of Francesco Rosselli,” Imago Mundi 8 (1951): 27–34. Almoguera, Adrián. “De l’Académie des Beaux-Arts aux chantiers de l’Empire: Madrid et la construction d’une nouvelle pensée architecturale en Espagne 1780–1814.” PhD diss., Université Paris-Sorbonne, 2020.

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INDEX

Note: Illustrations are indicated with italic page numbers.

A abstraction, 8, 21, 75, 100; cartography and, 31, 34, 52–53, 55, 57, 71; military engineers and, 211; in plans, 75, 100–103 Academia de San Fernando, Madrid, 138– 139, 170, 185 Académie de France, Rome, 165–166, 184–185 Académie de Saint-Luc, Paris, 180 Académie des Arts, Bordeaux, 182 Académie des Beaux-Arts, Paris, 118 Académie des Beaux-Arts, Toulouse, 183, 192 Académie Royale d’Architecture, Paris, 80, 121, 125, 165, 167, 170, 183–184, 190–191, 193–205 Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture, Paris, 149, 165, 167; Salon of, 167, 176, 180, 182 Accademia di San Luca, Rome, 121, 128, 135, 137, 139, 145, 176–177, 185 Ackerman, James, 4 Adam, James, 115, 116, 133, 133, 166 Adam, Robert, 115, 116, 133, 133, 151, 166, 169, 171 Adelcrantz, Carl Frederik, 128–129 Adelcrantz, Gören Josuae, 128–129 Adolf-Frederik, King of Sweden, 130 affective color: and audience, 145, 148–149, 167, 213; and cartography, 173–174; and civil engineering, 173, 173–174, 211; definition of, 2, 7, 10, 145, 147–149; in garden and landscape designs, 171–172; and interior design, 149–154, 151, 152– 153, 171; and market for prints, 167; and sensualism, 148–149, 151, 170–171 Agnano villa, 23 Alberti, Leon Battista, 3, 16, 19, 21, 59 Algarotti, Francesco, 165 Allard, Carel, 154 Alpers, Svetlana, 68 Altdorfer, Albrecht, 17, 17 amateurs, 28, 161–162, 176, 182, 220 Amato, Giacomo, 134

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Amiens, 13–15, 82, 83 Amsterdam, 42–43, 46–47, 128; as cartography center, 64–65, 71–72, 75, 104, 208; cityscapes of, 37–38; as printing and publishing center, 68, 154 anatomy and anatomical prints, 18, 19 Anfiteatro Castrense, Rome, 142, 143 antiquity, 1, 15, 19, 21, 43, 55, 72, 81, 145, 164, 184, 191, 208, 226, 231 Antoine, Jacques-Denis, 104–105, 105, 182 Apianus, Peter Beinewitz, known as Petrus, 54 aquatints, 154, 157–160, 204 architects: as draftsmen, 167, 170, 177, 186–188; education and, 209; and military engineers as influence, 97–98; professional identity, 3–8, 11, 16, 34, 40–41, 47–49, 147–148, 214–215, 217; and scientific activity, 147, 204; as visual artists, 11, 21, 147, 167–170 architecture, as discipline: between arts and sciences, 4, 6, 21, 179, 208, 215, 217; and construction, 3, 21, 22, 42–43, 46–47, 147, 179, 202, 210, 214, 215; as distinct, 3–6, 8, 11, 16; and geometry, 8, 21; and natural signs, 71; and shape of objects, 3 Arch of Constantine, Rome, 144, 145 Arch of Titus, Rome, 163 Ardemans, Teodoro, 137–138 Argus, Mercury, and Io (van Campen), 45 Aristotle, 6–7, 35 Arnauld, Antoine, 8 Arts and Sciences (Tessier), 2 atlases, 64–65, 65, 66, 82, 87, 244n19 auction sales, 165, 167, 180 audience: affective color and nonprofessional, 148–149, 154; clients or patrons as, 10, 32–33, 43, 68, 110, 116, 180; and exhibition culture, 179–182, 186, 188, 190; printing and commercial, 154–156, 160, 210; tourism and market for architectural prints, 161, 210; workers and execution drawings, 10, 43, 106, 106, 116–117

B Bachelier, Jean-Jacques, 156, 180 Baillet de Saint-Julien, Guillaume, 167

Bails, Benito, 170 Baldinucci, Filippo, 80 Barbari, Jacopo de’, 37 Barbaro, Daniele, 21 Barcelona, citadel, 96, 97 Baronci, Giovanni, 144, 145 Bastide, Jean-François de, 149 Bâtiments du Roi, France, 35, 36, 101, 115–116, 124, 125, 128–129 The Beautiful Virgin of Regensburg (Altdorfer), 17, 17–19 Belli, Pasquale, 135, 136 Bellini, Gentile, 36, 38 Bérain, Jean, 180 Berckenrode, Balthasar Florisz. van, 59 Berckheyde, Gerrit Adriaensz, 38, 41 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo, 108 Bernis, François-Joachim de Pierre de, 185 Berthier, Jean-Baptiste, 212 Berthier, Louis-Alexandre, 212, 212, 214–215 Bertola, Pio Giulio, 104 Bidasoa river, 111 Billaudel, Jean René, 191 Billingsley, Henry, 58 bird’s-eye views, 36–37, 57, 77 black: affective uses of, 204; in aquatints, 158; conventional uses of, 111, 209, 215; in intaglio, 154; as non color, 1, 3; pigments used for, 225–226, 232–234; writing inks, 81, 232–233, 234 Blaeu, Joan, 64 Blaeu, Willem Jansz., 64 Bleyswyck, Dirck Evertsz. van, 38 Bloemaert, Abraham, 131 Blois, château, 32, 33, 100, 100–101 Blondel, Jacques-François, 131, 149–151, 167, 180, 213 blue: cartographic uses of, 55, 57, 57, 71–72, 75, 93; conventional uses of, 32–33, 72, 82, 109, 115–116, 173, 236; imitative uses of, 32–33, 47, 57, 62, 75, 81, 87, 115, 173, 193; pigments used, 72, 113, 193, 201–202, 232, 234; for shading, 55, 236 boards, drawing, 220, 223 Boffrand, Germain, 166 Boileau, Étienne, 148 Bonnet, Louis-Marin, 156–157, 158

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Borromini, Francesco, 108, 108, 225 Bos, Jacob, 20 Boscoli, Andrea, 80 Bottari, Giovanni Gaetano, 167 Bouchardon, Jean-Baptiste, 128 Boulengier, Jean, 81 Boullée, Étienne-Louis, 170, 182, 188, 202–204, 204, 210, 215 boundaries, 2, 55–57, 64, 71, 104, 208 Bousquet-Bressolier, Catherine, 86–87 Bowood, 133 Bramante, Donato, 19, 19, 21–22, 116, 118 Braun, Georg, 64, 75, 76, 77 Bray, Salomon de, 41–42, 42, 208 Breau, Pierre, 111, 117, 118 Breslaw [Wrocław], 74, 75 Breydenbach, Bernhard von, 36–37 bricks, representation of, 32–33, 35, 43, 47, 74, 81, 110, 117, 120, 123–124, 137, 143, 208. See also red, for masonry in elevation; red, for masonry in section bridges, 34, 35, 91–92, 173, 185, 186 Britain. See United Kingdom British Isles, 53, 53 Brongniart, Anne-Louise, 202–203 Brown, Patricia Fortini, 36 Bruand, Libéral, 129, 129 brushes, 231–232 Buchotte, Nicolas, 92–95, 97–98, 121, 209, 213, 222–223, 226, 231, 234–235 Buisseret, David, 82 Bullet de Chamblain, Jean-Baptiste, 116, 117 Burke, Edmund, 148, 192 Burlington, Richard Boyle, Earl, 130–131, 207

C Call, Jan van, 154, 155 Camillo, Giulio, 20 Campana, Giovanni, 192, 193 Campbell, Colen, 207 Campen, Jacob van, 42–43, 45, 208 Campfranc fortress, 81, 81 Canaletto, Giovanni Antonio Canal, known as, 165 Capel, Horacio, 95 Cappella della Sacra Sindone, Turin, 104 capricci. See fantasies and capricci, architectural Carpaccio, Vittorio, 36 Carpi, Ugo da, 17 Carpo, Mario, 20 cartography: and abstraction, 31, 34, 52–53, 55, 57, 71; and affective colors, 173–174; audience for maps, 58, 64–66, 68, 207, 208; and color printing, 62–63, 156–157, 158; and conventional colors, 58, 71–72, 74–75, 79, 84–86; handcoloring of maps, 63–66, 68–71, 207, 208; judicial, 55–58, 207–208; manuals

of, 59, 71–72; maps, definition, 54; maps as paintings, 55, 66, 173, 173 (see also hand-coloring under this heading); maps depicted in paintings, 68, 70; military engineering and, 80, 212–213; and natural signs, 8, 52–54, 58, 62–64, 68, 71, 72, 74–75, 98; and politics, 66–68, 71–72, 93; and scale, 55, 62; and surveying (arpentage), 40, 53, 56–62, 92, 96, 98, 100, 104, 110, 208; and symbolic systems, 55, 71; tapestry maps, 67; and taxonomic colors, 10, 53–55, 75, 208–209 Cassas, Louis-François, 185 Cébazat, Pierre de, 15 Celers, Zacharie de, 55 Cennini, Cennino, 15 Cerceau, Jacques I Androuet du, 32–33, 33, 100, 100–101 Cesariano, Cesare, 20 chalks, 156, 222, 224–225 Chambers, William, 115, 131–133, 170, 182, 185, 186, 209 Chardin, Jean-Baptiste-Siméon, 156, 157, 223 Cherpitel, Mathurin, 165 chiaroscuro, 7, 16, 17, 148, 203–204, 210 Cholmondeley Codex, 226 chorography, 54 chromophobia, 6–7, 21, 34–35, 214, 254n9 city views, 36–38, 207–208; “assembly line” view of Florence, 37; German Stadtbilder, 37; maps included in, 37; military engineers and city maps, 60–61, 80–81 civil engineers, 90–92, 96, 98, 147, 172– 174, 173, 210–211, 234 Clagny, château, 101, 101, 118 Clement VI, pope, 15 Clérisseau, Charles-Louis, 131–132, 165–166, 168 codification of color: military engineers and, 79, 84–86, 91–92; role of manuals in, 58, 68–72, 75, 90–97, 209 Coecke, Peter, 42 Coehoorn, Menno Van, 123 Cojannot, Alexandre, 111, 225, 231 Colbert, Jean-Baptiste, 62, 82 collecting, 164, 165, 176, 180 Collège des Quatre Nations, Paris, 106 Colmoulins, château, 150, 152–153 colorists, 3, 64, 68, 71–72, 75, 166, 194–202 communication: color and disambiguation, 29, 91–92, 97, 199–200, 204–205, 209; and color as language, 8–10, 58, 77, 79, 84, 95–96, 98, 209, 213; and text on drawings or maps (see legends); to workers, 43 compasses and dividers, 32, 226, 229–230, 230; as attribute of architects, 3; bussola della calamita (magnetic), 62 competitions and prizes, 121, 125–126,

135–137, 145, 172, 173, 176–177, 190– 193, 205, 210, 227 composition, 170 Condillac, Étienne Bonnot de, 148 construction, architects and, 3, 21, 22, 42– 43, 46–47, 147, 179, 202, 210, 214, 215 Contant d’Ivry, Pierre, 167, 180 conventional color: codification and standardization of, 11, 58, 77, 79, 81–85, 87, 90, 97–98, 100, 109–110, 209, 211–213; and consensus, 75–77, 79, 81–82, 94, 108–109, 115, 121, 209, 211; defined, 1–2, 7–8, 75–76, 94, 97–99, 172–173; diffusion and adoption of, 58, 90, 95, 128, 147–148; and disambiguation, 97, 199–200; and elimination of legends, 95–96; as signs, 97–98 Cornide, José, 138, 139 Cotte, Robert de, 115, 124, 128, 231 Cronstedt, Carl Johan, 127–129 Croome Court, tapestry room, 150, 151 Crozat, Pierre, 156, 176 Cruyl, Lievin, 37 Cure, Cornelius, 22–24 curved lines, drawing aides vs. calculation of, 230

D Dainville, François de, 72 Daly, César, 211 Danckerts, Cornelis, 41–42, 112, 113, 117, 123, 123, 154, 155 Dapper, Olfert, 38, 40 Dausse, Joseph-Henri, 211 David, Jacques-Louis, 148 da Vinci, Leonardo, 22, 59; map of Imola by, 59, 60–61 Davis-Allen, Lisa, 71 Dee, John, 58 De humani corporis fabrica (Vesalius), 18 de l’Orme, Philibert, 34–35 Demarteau, Gilles, 156 Démoris, René, 148 Derizet, Antoine, 128 descriptive geometry, 204, 215–217 Desmaisons, Pierre, 159, 160 Desprez, Jean-Louis, 163–164, 182 Deswart-Rosa, Sylvie, 32 Deventer, Jacob van, 64 De Wailly, Charles, 132, 180, 181, 182, 188 Dietterlin, Wendel, 19 Dilich, Wilhelm, 49, 50–51, 52 discoloration, 68, 213, 234 The Ditchley Portrait (Queen Elizabeth I) (Gheeraerts the Younger), 67–68, 69 Dixon, John, 186 Dortsman, Adriaen, 128 Dou, Jan Pietersz., 59 drawings, architectural: and architects as draftsmen, 3–4, 34, 186–188,

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215; as autonomous works, 3–4, 47, 176–177, 179–180, 186, 210–211, 215; commercial market for, 176, 180, 182–184; and competition, 125, 177, 183, 190–193; as distinct from color renderings, 6–7; draftsman’s tools and, 228, 235; engraving process and reproduction of, 194–195; epistemological function of, 19; execution, 10, 43, 47, 106, 116–117; exhibition, 10, 132–133, 179, 185, 186, 190; presentation, 10, 15–16, 26, 34–35, 41, 43, 62, 63, 112, 135–137, 145, 148– 149, 179–180, 183, 192, 222, 242n33; size and scale of works, 190–192; working, 10, 106–107 Drolling, Martin, 224 Drottningholm, La Confidence pavilion, 130 Dubut, Louis-Ambroise, 205 Ducros, Abraham-Louis-Rodolphe, 163, 163, 164 Dumanet, Louis, 202, 203 Dumont, Gabriel-Pierre-Martin, 100–103, 102, 182 Dupain de Montesson, Louis-Charles, 8, 9, 94–95, 103–104 Dupérac, Étienne, 1, 37 Dupuis, Charles, 171–172 Dupuis, Sophie, 165 Durán, Jorge, 139, 140–141, 192 Durand, Jean-Nicolas-Louis, 159, 159, 204–205, 211, 230 Dürer, Albrecht, 59

E earth, representation of, 72, 81–82, 86, 97, 110 Eck, Caroline van, 21 École des Arts, Paris, 131–132, 180 École des Beaux-Arts, Paris, 11, 205, 211, 215 École Gratuite de Dessin, Paris, 156, 180 École Militaire, Paris, 98 École Polytechnique, Paris, 204–205, 211 empiricism, 148 engineering. See civil engineers; military engineers England. See United Kingdom erasers, 225–226 Escobar, Jésus, 67 esquisses. See sketches Établissement de la Correspondance Générale sur les Sciences et les Arts, 182 exactitude, 20–21, 179 execution drawings, 10, 43, 106, 116–117 exhibition culture: and academies, 184–190; and architectural drawings as autonomous works, 176–177; and exclusion of architects, 182–183, 185–186, 188; in France, 176–182, 188;

in Great Britain, 132–133, 185–188; in Italy, 184–185; the public and evaluation of architectural drawings, 186, 188–189; in Spain, 185

F Fairchilds, Cissie, 156 Falmouth, MA, 212 fantasies and capricci, architectural, 4, 167, 176, 177, 178 Farington, Joseph, 186–188 Fel’ten, Yuri, 130, 131 Ferguson, Eugene, 8 Folding, Pierre-Gustave, 157 Folkingham, William, 58 Fonkenell, Guillaume, 117–118 Fontaine, Pierre-François-Léonard, 159, 164, 164–165, 179, 184, 201, 203, 230 Fontana, Carlo, 28, 130 Fonthill Abbey, 186, 189 Foppa, Cristoforo Caradosso, 19 forests and trees, depiction of, 57–58, 62, 98, 101–103, 171–172, 199, 247n60 Formosa (present Taiwan), 66 fortifications, 1–2, 6, 15, 59, 81–82, 90–92, 97–98, 123–124, 235 Fort-Royal de la Martinique, courthouse and prisons, 110 Fossé, Charles-Louis, 156–157, 158 Foucault, Michel, 8 Fra Giocondo, Giovanni, 20 France: centralizing policies and standardization in, 79, 82, 96, 209, 211– 213; Dutch influences in, 82, 121–123; exhibition culture in, 176–182, 188 François, Jean-Charles, 156–157 Froideau, Thomas, 191, 191 Frommel, Christoph Luitpold, 16 Fuhring, Peter, 32

G Gabriel, Ange-Jacques, 111 Gabriel, Jacques V, 124 Gady, Alexandre, 62 Gage, John, 10 Galleria Farnese, Rome, 161, 162 Gallet, Michel, 182 Gandy, Joseph Michael, 188, 190 garden designs, 53, 62, 100–104, 102, 170–171 Garric, Jean-Philippe, 165, 194 Gauthey, Émiland-Marie, 92 Gautier Dagoty, Jacques-Fabien, 156, 157 Gautier de Nîmes, Henri, 64, 90–94, 101, 149, 209, 214, 233–234 geology, 104 geometry: architecture and, 8, 21–22, 35, 147, 179, 230; cartography and, 58, 80– 81; descriptive, 215–217; engineering and, 86, 96

Gerbino, Anthony, 62 German lands: and cartography, 57–59, 75; and color printing, 17; and conventional color, 94–95, 128; and imitative color, 49, 74; Lüftmalerei (painted façades) in, 49; and manuscript illumination, 35–36, 49, 207–208; and Stadtbilder (city views), 37, 75, 208 Gheeraerts, Marcus, the Younger, 67–71, 69 Ghiberti, Bonaccorso, 21–22 Giannini, Eustaquio, 136 Gibbs, James, 28 Gilpin, William, 170–171 Giotto, Giotto di Bondone, known as, 15, 17, 207 Girardin, René-Louis de, 171 glass, representation of, 112–115 globes, 2, 58, 65, 66 Glomy, Jean-Baptiste, 176 Gobelins convent, Paris, 55–56, 56 Goeree, Willem, 68–71 Goltzius, Hendrick, 43 Gombrich, Ernst, 7 Gómez de Mora, Juan, 112, 137, 137 Goodman, Nelson, 4, 7 Gotha, orangerie, 103, 103 Grand Tour, 131, 161, 166, 170, 210 Grasselli, Margaret Morgan, 156 gray. See black green: as affective color, 151, 193; cartographic uses of, 68, 82, 87–89, 208; as imitative color, 8, 22, 23, 53, 53, 57, 57–58, 68, 72, 81, 99, 101, 101–103, 102, 103, 137, 193; in interior decorating, 150–151; for Italy, 93; painterly use of, 68; pigments used, 58, 68, 234–235; for projected work, 81–82; water, as color of, 43, 53, 55, 72, 82, 87, 173, 199, 202, 208, 236; for windowpanes and mirrors, 24, 43, 112, 115, 115–116, 129; for window shutters and doors, 43, 47, 112 Grisoni, Giuseppe, 27 Groot, Erlend de, 64 Guillaumot, Charles-Axel, 170 Guillerme, Jacques, 205, 219

H Hagia Sophia, Istanbul, 120 Hardouin-Mansart, Jules, 34, 35, 36, 124 Hårleman, Carl, 128–129, 129, 130, 150 Hauberat, Guillaume d’, 128 Haulroye, Riquier, 15 Hawksmoor, Nicholas, 26–27, 27 Hem, Laurens van der, 64–65 Hermitage Palace, Saint Petersburg, 131 Hernandez, Sofia Amanda, 161 Heyden, Jan van der, 38 Hoefnagel, Jacob, 75, 77 Hogenberg, Frans, 64, 75, 76 Hole, William, 73

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Holland. See United Provinces Hôtel de Bourvalais, Paris, 116–117, 117 Hôtel-Dieu, Amiens, 13–15, 14 Hôtel Le Blanc, Paris, 115 Houel, Vincent, 110 Hove, Bartholomeus Johannes van, 46 Huber, Michael, 161–163 Hubert, Robert, 165, 166, 170, 180, 223 Huis Vredenburg, Beemster, 47 Huret, Grégoire, 148 Hurx, Merlijn, 40 Huygens, Constantijn, 38, 43

I Île de Ré, 87, 88–89 illumination, 35–36, 49, 62–64, 207–208 imitative color: and convention, 8, 75, 123, 172–173; and interior design, 154; and material represented, 29, 110, 207; mimesis and, 2, 6–8, 21, 28–29, 53, 68, 148, 173, 210; painting and, 47, 68, 93–94; Platonic bias against, 6–7. See also specific hues Imola, 60–61, 80–81 Imperial Academy of the Arts, Saint Petersburg, 94, 130, 176, 227 improvement, ideology of, 57–68 India ink, 111, 138, 233–234 ink: for typographical vs. copperplate printing, 16; writing, 16, 81, 232–234 intaglio, 154 interior design: and affective use of color, 149–154, 151, 152–153, 171; as architect’s responsibility, 149, 210; conventional color in interior elevations, 112–113, 115, 121, 209; and imitative color, 154; maps as decor, 68; “populuxe” commercial market for, 156; textile in, 150; wallpapers, 150–151 Invalides, Paris, 129 Italy: and audience for maps, 66; centralizing policies and standardization in, 96–97; and conventional color, 192; French influence and conventional color in, 137; monochromy in, 11, 20–22, 33, 128, 134–137, 209–210; and Palladian influence in United Kingdom, 26, 28, 130–133, 207; Spanish monochromy and influence of, 137–138, 143–145

J Jabach, Everhard, 176 Jagodina, 80 Janinet, Jean-François, 158–159, 159 Johanson, Johannes, 75, 76 Jones, Inigo, 24–26, 25, 130–131, 207 judicial maps, 55–56, 56, 207 Julienne, Jean de, 156 Jungmann, Jean-Paul, 4

jurisdiction or use, color and demarcation of, 104, 104–105, 105 Juvarra, Filippo, 134, 134–135, 135, 138

K Kent, William, 131, 150 Kenwood House, London, 116 Key, Lieven de, 41 Keyser, Hendrick de, 41–42 Kik, Oliver, 41 Kleinert, Markus Friedrich, 6, 6 Köbel, Jacob, 59 Kristeller, Paul Oskar, 165 Krohne, Gottfried Heinrich, 103

L Lafreri, Antonio, 20 Lagniet, Jacques, 213, 216 Lairesse, Gerard de, 131, 149 Lallemant, Georges, 55 Lancaster, England, 73 Lanckaert, Joost Jansz., 67 landscape drawing, 62, 98, 170–171, 190, 193, 195, 210. See also forests and trees land use plans, 57–58. See also surveying (arpentage) Lartésien, Jean, 15 Lartigue, Jean Baptiste, 182–183 lazaretto (Moreau), 194–195, 194–199, 196, 197, 198 lead, representation of, 22, 33 Le Blon, Jakob Christoffel, 156 Le Blond, Alexandre, 130 Lebrun, Jean-Baptiste, 182 Le Camus de Mézières, Nicolas, 148, 151–154, 170 Le Clerc, Sebastien, 87 Ledoux, Claude-Nicolas, 170, 188, 210, 219 Lefebvre, Hugues, 55 legends, 38, 55; conventional use of color and elimination of, 95–96; and disambiguation, 71, 105–106, 108–109 Le Lorrain, Louis-Joseph, 165 Le Mans, cathedral, 15 Le Marie, Jean, 167 Lemercier, Jacques, 62–63, 63 Lemercier, Paul, 86–87 Le Muet, Pierre, 82 Le Nôtre, André, 62 Leo Belgicus (Visscher), 39 Leo X, pope, 62 Lepautre, Jean, 180 Le Prince, Jean-Baptiste, 157 Lesage, Pierre-Charles, 172, 172 Le Sueur, Eustache, frontispiece, 1 Le Vasseur, Jean-Charles, 98, 99 Le Vatois, 174–175 Le Vau, Louis, 106, 106, 111, 116, 121 Lichtenstein, Jacqueline, 6–7 Lille, 83, 183–184, 184

Longinus, 148 Lorenzetti, Ambrogio, 36, 66 Losada, Antonio López, 192 Lotz, Wolfgang, 22 Louis, Victor, 182 Louis XIV, King of France, 79, 82, 90 Loyola, Fermín de, 95, 97 Lussault, Claude-Thomas, 182

M Machuca y Vargas, Manuel, 138–139 Machy, Pierre-Antoine de, 165 Maderno, Carlo, 108 Mallio, Michele, 185 Malton, Thomas, 186–188 Mander, Karel van, 43 Manesson Mallet, Allain, 80, 87, 87 Mansart, François, 107, 225 manuals, 58–59, 64, 68–72, 75–76, 90–97, 101, 156–157, 171–173, 209, 220–221 maps. See cartography Mar, John Erskine, earl of, 28 Maraine, 101 marble, 17, 22, 35, 36, 135, 149 Mariette, Gilles-Charles, 123 Mariette, Pierre-Jean, 115, 165 Marinoni, Giovanni Jacopo de, 94, 94–95 Martellange, Étienne, 109, 109 masonry. See bricks, representation of; red, for masonry in elevation; red, for masonry in section Masse, Claude, 87–90, 88–89, 126–127 mathematics, 8, 54, 90–91, 96, 147–148, 170 Mauritshuis, The Hague, 43, 45–46, 46, 47 McGrath, Thomas, 15 medals, 19, 19, 20, 176 Meissonnier, Juste-Aurèle, 113–115, 114 menageries, 178 Mercator, Gerardus, 58 mezzotints, 156, 157, 204 Michelangelo, 21, 22, 167 Mignot, Claude, 32 military engineers: and civil architects, 92, 100, 121; and conventional use of color, 7, 79, 81–86, 97–98; as draftsmen, 15, 80, 86–87; history of, 80–83, 90, 95–97, 211–212; manuals and textbooks for, 90–95; and natural signs, 81; and wooden models, 83 Milizia, Francesco, 167 mimesis. See imitative color Mique, Richard, 165 mirrors, 115–116 models, wooden, 16, 43, 46, 47, 83, 143, 177 Moles, Abraham, 8 Monath, Peter Conrad, 94 Monge, Gaspard, 215 Monnaie, Paris, 104–105 Monnerye, 62 monochrome/monochromy: and ancient ruins, 21; Boullée and, 202–204;

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definition of, 2–3; and Gothic novels, 204; Inigo Jones and, 24–25; and Italy, 11, 20–22, 134–137, 209–210; and line drawings, 13; and pictorial effects, 135–137, 202–203; prints, 16; and publication of architectural drawings, 11; and the sublime, 203–204; and universality, 20 Monte, Gian Tommaso, 96 Montjeu, château, 62, 63 Mora, Francisco de, 137 Moreau, Jean-Charles-Alexandre, 119, 119, 193–202, 194–195, 196, 197 Moreau, Louis Gabriel, the Elder, 180 Moreelse, Paulus, 42 Morris, Robert, 170 Mount Tranquility, Saint-Domingue, aqueduct, 206, 211, 211 Moya, Luis, 4 Müller, Christoph, 108 Munar, Juan Antonio, 139

N national palettes, 72 Natoire, Charles Joseph, 166, 233 natural signs: and architecture, 71, 208– 209; and cartography, 8, 52–54, 57, 58, 62–64, 68, 71, 72, 75, 81, 208–209; and conventional signs, 97–98; printing and standardization of, 64 Nègre, Valérie, 182 Netherlands. See United Provinces Neumann, Balthasar, 6, 6 Newman, John, 131 Nicole, Pierre, 8 Niederländer, Hans, 112 Nooms, Reiner (Zeeman), 38 Nuremberg, 33, 58

O oblique views, 16 Office of Works, United Kingdom, 26, 130–131 Officer and Laughing Girl (Vermeer), 70 Oldcotes manor, Nottinghamshire, 24 Olgiati, Gianmaria, 81 Oppenord, Gilles-Marie, 124, 125, 180 Orbay, François d’, 106, 121 Orgeix, Émilie d’, 84 Ortelius, Abraham, 37, 58, 68, 72 Ottenheym, Koen, 43 Ozanam, Jacques, 92

P painted façades (Luftmalerei), 49 painting: and cartography, 55, 66, 68, 173; collaboration between architects and painters, 15, 32–34, 150, 188; depiction of architectural drawings in, 1–2, 2,

frontispiece; and imitative use of color, 47, 68, 93–94; painter-architects, 16, 21–22, 41–49, 163, 165, 166–170, 180–182, 208 The Palace of Frederick V (Saenredam), 43, 44 Palais de Justice, Paris, 160 Palais Royal, Paris, 33–34, 34 Palladio, Andrea, 21, 25, 25, 40, 118, 165, 207; Britain and Palladian monochromy, 26, 28, 130–133, 207 Panini, Francesco, 161–163, 162 Panini, Giovanni Paolo, 161, 165–166, 166, 182 Panseron, Pierre, 98–99, 99, 165, 182, 194 paper, 3, 10, 221–223, 232; sheet size and scale of drawings, 191, 222 parchment, 14, 15–16, 16, 53, 56, 57, 221 Paris, Matthew, 53, 53, 208 Pâris, Pierre-Adrien, 150, 152–153, 225 Parmigianino, Girolamo Francesco Maria Mazzola, known as, 17 Pasti, Matteo de’, 19 Pastoureau, Michel, 4, 10, 204 Peacock, James, 154 Pécheux, Laurent, 132, 135 pedagogy: and conventional use of color, 90, 94–98, 138–139, 210 pencils, 225 pens, 231 The Pentecost (de Bray), 42 perches as measurement, 62 Percier, Charles, 159, 164, 164–165, 230 Perrault, Claude, 19 Perronet, Jean-Rodolphe, 172 perspective, 15–16, 21–22, 91, 148, 163 Peruzzi, Baldassare, 21–22, 62, 107–108, 207 Petcu, Elizabeth, 19 Peter the Great, Emperor of Russia, 227 Petit-Radel, Louis-François, 182, 183 Peyre, Antoine-François, 182 Peyre, Marie-Joseph, 132, 165, 182 Phalsbourg, 78, 86, 86 Philo-Architectus (pseud.), 185–186 Picon, Antoine, 8, 147, 172–173 picturesque, 170 pigments: bister, 27, 179, 192–193, 233, 234; black, 225–226, 232–234; blue, 72, 113, 193, 201–202, 232, 234; draftsman’s box pictured, 235; green, 58, 68, 234–235; instructions in Mappae clavicula, 90; red, 72, 225, 233–234; yellow, 58, 68, 163, 232, 235 Piles, Roger de, 7, 93–94, 149 Pinet, Antoine du, 54 pink. See red Piranesi, Francesco, 163–164 Piranesi, Giovanni Battista, 120, 120, 135, 137, 171, 176, 177, 179, 186, 204, 210, 233 Pitzhanger Manor, Ealing, 190 Plato, 6–7

poché, 215 Poisson, Louis, 67 Pontanus, Johannes Isaac, 37–38 Ponts et Chaussées, 90–92, 172–173, 234 Post, Pieter, 42–44, 46, 47, 208 press, architectural, 185, 188, 190, 211 Prévost, Jehan, 15 Prévôt, Guillaume, 14, 15 Prieur, Amant-Parfait, 165, 194–195, 197, 199, 199 prints: aquatints, 154, 157–160, 204; and chromatic signs in architectural drawings, 62–64; in color vs. hand coloring, 16, 63; and hand-tinting, 68– 71, 160–165, 194–201; inks, 16; intaglio, 154; market for, 16, 19, 154–156, 161, 164–165, 194, 210; mezzotints, 156, 157, 204; and scale, 195; technical, 20, 219 Probst, Georg Balthasar, 160, 161 Procession of the True Cross (Bellini), 36–37, 38 professionalization. See architects; civil engineers; military engineers Ptolemy, 54 public, 10, 62, 133, 179–180, 182–186, 188, 190, 210–211, 213–214, 217

Q Quatremère de Quincy, AntoineChrysostome, 179, 202 Queen Elizabeth I (The Ditchley Portrait) (Gheeraerts the Younger), 67–68, 69 quills, 231

R Rana, Carlo Andrea, 96–97, 98 Raphael, Rafaello Sanzo da Urbino, known as, 21–22, 59–61, 62 Rastrelli, Francesco Bartolomeo, 130, 143, 145 Ray, Diodato, 136 Recht, Roland, 4 red: affective use of, 144, 145, 151; antique and medieval uses of, 72–75; cartographic conventional uses of, 13, 32, 55, 71–75, 99, 100, 116, 208–209; chalks, 225; for color printing, 156; for corrections, 107, 109; different use for military and civil plans, 84, 110–112, 209; and function or jurisdiction, 104– 105; imitative uses of, 32, 57, 120–121; inks and pigments, 13, 72, 81, 225, 233– 234; for levels, 106, 106; for masonry in elevations, 117, 118, 118; for masonry in section, 28, 35, 81, 82, 95, 118–129, 122, 124, 125, 126–127, 138; for masonry joints, 117; for paintings in elevations, 115–116, 125, 129; for projected work, 81, 86, 95, 97, 97, 106–112, 108, 209, 213; and transition from natural to conventional signs, 74–75, 208–209

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Regie Scuole di Artigliera e Fortificazioni, Turin, 96–97 Régnier-Roux, Daniel, 32 Reichenberg, castle, 50–51 renderings (rendus), 177, 191, 223 Renou, Antoine, 179 Reuwich, Erhard, 36–37 Revell, John, 22 Rheinfels, castle, 49, 52 Rietvelt, Cornelis Gijsbertsz., 128 roads, 8, 71, 74, 74 Rode, Augustus, 226 Rodríguez, Ventura, 138–139 Roman, Jacob, 49 Romano, Giulio, 3 roofs, 32, 47, 49, 55, 75, 104, 125, 137, 242n17 Rosselli, Francesco, 37 Rowe, Colin, 170 Royal Academy of Arts, London, 176, 185, 188 ruins, 43, 62, 142, 166, 166, 168, 169, 207 Russia, 128, 130, 209, 227

S Sabatini, Francesco, 138 Sacchetti, Giovanni Battista, 138 Saenredam, Pieter Jansz., 43, 44 Saint-Aubin, Gabriel de, 180 Saint Paul’s Cathedral, London, 22, 26, 26, 27, 187 Saint Peter’s Basilica, Rome, 62, 103, 108, 108, 118, 180 Saint Petersburg, Russia, 161 Saint-Sulpice, church, Paris, 113, 180, 181 Sainz, Jorge, 4 Salciat, Pierre, 15 Salmon, William, 71–72 Salon de la Jeunesse, Paris, 182 Sandby, Paul, 158 Sandby, Thomas, 185, 187 Sangallo, Antonio da, 22 Sangallo, Giovanni Francesco da, 22, 23 San Giacomo degli Incurabili, church, Rome, 108 San Giovanni in Laterano, basilica, Rome, 120, 135 San Pietro in Montorio, church, Rome, 136, 137 Santen, Dirk Jansz. van, 64–65 Santos Martínez, Dámaso, 138 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 8–10 Sauveur, Joseph, 90, 91, 123–124, 124, 227, 229, 230 Savage, Nicholas, 185–186 Savoy, 81, 93, 96–97 Saxton, Christopher, 68, 71, 73 scale, 15, 55, 57, 95; and affect, 192–193; cartography and, 62; engravings and reduction of, 194–195 Scamozzi, Vincenzo, 21, 40, 167

Schlaum, Johann Conrad, 128 Schwenter, Daniel, 58 Scotland. See United Kingdom sculpture and sculptors, 22, 32, 34, 40–41, 47, 112, 145, 165, 167, 170, 230 Scuola del Nudo, Rome, 185 Seghizzo, Giacomo (Friar of Modena), 15 Seheult, François-Léonard, 194 Sems, Johan, 59, 59 sensualism, 148, 151–154, 170, 171, 210 sepulchral chapel, 119, 139, 140–141, 192, 193, 203 Serchuk, Camille, 55 Serlio, Sebastiano, 20–21, 118, 119 Servandoni, Giovanni Niccolò, 4–6, 5, 165 Sgrooten, Christian, 64 shading and shadows, 16, 47, 55, 93, 95, 101, 132, 199, 202; Boullée and theory of shadows, 203–204 Sienna, campanile, 16 signs: French theory of, 8, 92 Silvestre, Israël, 37 Skelton, Raleigh, 54–55 sketches (esquisses), 177, 178, 179, 191 skies, 1, 135, 154, 183, 186, 195, 201–202 Smentek, Kristel, 156 Smith, John, 71 Smolny convent, Saint Petersburg, 143, 143, 145 Smythson, Robert, 24, 24 Soane, John, 133, 163, 185, 188, 204 Soufflot, Jacques-Germain, 150, 165, 180 Spain: and conventional color, 95–96, 137–143, 192; French influence and polychromy in, 95, 138–139; Italian influence and monochromy in, 137–138, 143–145 Spannocchi, Tiburzio, 81, 81, 108 Stark von Röckenhof house, Nuremberg, 48 Stevens, Edward, 170, 171 Stewart, Margaret, 28 stone, representation of, 17, 33, 35, 58, 72, 81, 99, 110, 112, 117–118, 120–121, 124, 128, 143, 209. See also red, for masonry in elevation; red, for masonry in section Strasbourg, cathedral, 13, 15 Stuart, James, 131 “subjective turn,” 148, 210 the Sublime, 148, 192–193, 202, 203, 213 surveying (arpentage), 40, 53, 56–59, 92, 96, 98, 100, 104, 110, 208 Swart, Pieter de, 49 Sweden, 128–130, 209

T Taiwan (Formosa), 66 Talman, John, 27, 28 Talman, William, 27 tapestries, 67, 150, 151 taxonomic use of color, 10, 53–55, 75,

208–209, 214–215 Technische Militärakademie, Vienna, 94 temporal distinctions (projected vs. completed), 81–82, 84, 88, 92, 97, 100, 106–112, 209 Ter Brugghen, Gerard, 68 Tessier, Louis, 1, 2 Tessin, Nicodemus, the Elder, 128–129 Tessin, Nicodemus, the Younger, 129 Testelin, Henri, 177 Texeira, Pedro, 67 Teyler, Johan, 154, 155 theater sets, 134, 135 Thomon, Thomas de, 185 Thornhill, James, 131 Titian, Tiziano Vecellio, known as, 3 tools and instruments, 25, 32, 58–59, 62, 226–230 Torre de Hércules, La Coruña, 138, 139 tourism, 161, 164, 210 Traverse, Jean-Pierre, 84 trees. See forests and trees Tuileries Palace, Paris, 106, 121 Turin, 96–97, 104, 104, 134 Turner, John Mallord William, 186–187, 189

U United Kingdom, 22–28, 57–58, 71, 115, 130–133, 207 United Provinces: architecture as profession in, 40–42, 47–49; and cartography, 64–75; and cityscapes, 37–40, 208; and conventional color, 112, 121–122; and imitative color, 22–24, 26, 42–47, 68, 82, 121; as influence in France, 82, 121–123; influence in Sweden, 128–129; and manuscript illumination, 35–36; painting as influence in, 42–47, 68, 207–208 unity of the liberal arts, 165, 167 Uppsala, University library, 130

V Vallée, Simon de la, 128 value, color, 1, 16, 55, 87, 101, 103, 105– 106, 157, 171, 192–193, 201, 208 Vanbrugh, John, 27 Varaigne, Pierre-Bernard, 211 Vardy, John, 131 Vasari, Giorgio, 21, 167, 177 Vauban, Sébastien Le Prestre de, 86–90, 92, 95, 109–111, 209; Bezançon, 84; Dutch influences on, 121–124, 209; Plan of Phalsburg, 86 Vaudoyer, Antoine-Laurent-Thomas, 177, 178, 191 Velázquez, Isidro, 142, 143 Veneziano, Agostino, 19, 19 Verboom, Cornelius, 95

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Verboom, Jorge Próspero, 95, 96 Vérin, Hélène, 8 Verly, François, 183 Vermeer, Johannes, 38, 68, 70, 72 Vernet, Joseph, 201 Versailles, Palais of, 35, 36, 117 Vesalius, Andreas, 18 Viel, Charles-François, 202 Vienna, Austria, 75, 77, 94 Vienne, Jesuit college, 109 View of the Golden Bend (Berckheyde), 41 Villaréal, José de, 137 Vinet, Élie, 59 Vingboons, Justus, 47, 128, 208 Vingboons, Philips, 43, 46–47, 47, 128, 208 Virol, Michèle, 90 Visitandine convent church of SainteMarie, Paris, 107 Visscher, Claes Jansz., 37, 39, 64, 75, 77 Vitruvius, Marcus Vitruvius Pollio, known as, 3–4, 20, 120, 147, 215, 226

Volaire, Pierre-Jacques, 201 Volpato, Giovanni, 161–163, 162, 163 Volterra, Francesco da, 108, 108

Wren, Christopher, 26, 26, 227 Wrocław, 75, 76 Wyatt, James, 186, 189

W

Y

Waghemakere, Domien de, 41 Waldseemüller, Martin, 63 Warmoes, Isabelle, 84 washes vs. tints, 92 water, depiction of, 53, 57, 58, 72, 112–113, 173, 193, 199–200, 202 Webb, John, 25 Wijngaerdt, Antonie Jacobus van, 37 Williams, Raymond, 7 windowpanes, depiction of, 24, 55–56, 58, 112–116 Wittman, Richard, 188–190 woodcuts, 16–17, 17, 19, 20 working drawings, 106–107 Wotton, Henry, 25

yellow: affective use of, 149–151; cartographic uses of, 32, 55, 71–75, 104; conventional uses of, 75, 84, 92, 104, 109, 110–112, 118, 123, 137; imitative uses of, 32, 33–35, 55, 72, 75, 111–112; jurisdiction or function indicated by, 104–105; for masonry in elevation, 118; pigments, 58, 68, 163, 232, 235; for projected construction, 81–82, 84, 88, 92, 97, 108–112, 123, 123, 209; surveyors and uses of, 104 Yenn, John, 186, 188 York House, London, 132 The Young Draftsman (Chardin and Dagoty), 156, 157

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image credits Courtesy of Accademia Nazionale di San Luca, Rome (figs. 106, 107, 114, 146) Albertina, Vienna, www.albertina.at (figs. 33, 78) The Warden and Fellows of All Souls College, Oxford, http://codrington.asc.ox.ac.uk/wren (figs. 14, 15) Architekturmuseum, Technische Universität, Berlin (fig. 101) Archives Départementales des Yvelines, Montigny-le-Bretonneaux (fig. 69) Archives Nationales, Paris (figs. 20, 21, 37, 41, 74, 87, 93) Archives d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-Provence (figs. 80, 163) Archivio Capitolare di Torino (ACT), V/57 © 2020 Archivio Arcivescovile di Torino (fig. 72) © Archivio di Stato di Torino (Ministero per i Beni e le Attività Culturali e per il Turismo), Turin (fig. 104) Archivio Estatal de España, Simancas/Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte (figs. 54, 64, 65) Avery Architectural and Fine Arts Library, Columbia University, New York (figs. 90, 149, 150)

Drawing Matter Collection, Shatwell (figs. 70, 73, 81, 122) École Nationale des Ponts et Chaussées, Library, Champs-sur-Marne (figs. 131, 132, 133) École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris © Beaux-arts de Paris, Dist. RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY (figs. 135, 136, 147, 148, 159, 160, 168) © The Frick Collection, NY (fig. 46) Galerie Michel Descours, Paris (fig. 1) Gallerie degli Uffizi, Florence (fig. 11) Gemeente Amsterdam Stadsarchief (figs. 82, 92, 117, 118) Generallandesarchiv, Karlsruhe (fig. 53) Courtesy of Hathi Trust–Getty Research Institute (fig. 5) Historisches Museum der Stadt Wien, Vienna (fig. 52) Historisches Museum, Frankfurt-am-Rhein (fig. 50) Koninklijke Bibliotheek, The Hague (fig. 31) Landesarchiv Thüringen-Staatsarchiv Gotha (fig. 71) The L. Brown Collection, Dublin (fig. 49)

Biblioteca Nacional, Madrid (figs. 110, 112)

© MAD/Musée des Arts Décoratifs, Paris (fig. 138)

Biblioteca Reale, Turin (photo: Roberto Caterino fig. 66)

Mauritshuis, The Hague (fig. 29)

Bibliothèque de l’Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art, Collections Jacques Doucet, Paris (figs. 126, 153, 154, 157, 158) © Bibliothèque Municipale de Besançon (fig. 116)

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York (figs. 27, 115, 119, 125, 127, 151) The Morgan Library and Museum, New York (fig. 134)

Bibliothèque Municipale de Lyon (fig. 26)

© Musée Carnavalet-Histoire de Paris/ Roger-Viollet (figs. 137)

Bibliothèque Nationale de France (figs. 55, 60, 76, 79, 84, 123, 152, 156, 161, 167)

Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lille (fig. 139)

British Library, London, © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved/Bridgeman Images (figs. 36, 47, 124) British Museum, London, © The Trustees of the British Museum/Art Resource (figs. 10, 18)

Museo de Historia de Madrid (fig. 108) Courtesy of the Museo de la Real Academia de Bellas Artes de San Fernando, Madrid (figs. 109, 111) Museum De Lakenhal, Leiden (fig. 44)

Cameraphoto Arte, Venice / Art Resource, New York (fig. 22)

Loan of Bezirk Unterfranken, Museum für Franken, Würzburg (fig. 4)

Châteaux de Versailles et de Trianon © RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY (fig. 3)

Museum of the Russian Academy of Fine Arts, Saint Petersburg (fig. 113)

Colin Dunn (Scriptura Ltd), The Provost and Fellows of Worcester College, Oxford (fig. 13)

Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC (fig. 8)

Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum, New York/Art Resource (fig. 95)

© National Portrait Gallery, London/Art Resource, New York (fig. 45)

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National Records of Scotland, Edinburgh (fig. 17) © National Trust, Waddesdon Manor, Buckinghamshire (photo: Waddesdon Image Library, Mike Fear fig. 83) Österreichiste Nationalbibliothek, Vienna (figs. 43, 105) Nationalmuseum, Stockholm (photo: Cecilia Heisser figs. 19, 75, 77, 91, 97, 98, 99, 100; photo: Bodil Karlsson fig. 86) Princeton University Library (fig. 164; photo: John J. Blazejewski figs. 61, 94, 170, 171) Public Record Office, Richmond (fig. 38) Rijksdienst voor het Cultureel Erfgoed, Amersfoort (fig. 32) Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam (figs. 25, 28, 30) © RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY (frontispiece) © Royal Academy of Arts, London; photographer: Prudence Cuming Associates Limited (fig. 141) Royal Collection Trust © Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, 2020/Bridgeman Images (figs. 40, 140) Royal Institute of British Architects, London (figs. 12, 16, 102, 130) Scala/Art Resource, New York (fig. 7) Service Historique de la Défense, Vincennes (figs. 56, 57, 58, 94, 96) © Sir John Soane’s Museum, London (photo: Ardon Bar Hama figs. 85, 103; photo: Hugh Kelly figs. 128, 129, 143) Société des Antiquaires de Picardie, Amiens (photo: Stéphanie Rannou fig. 6) Staats- und Stadtbibliothek Augsburg (fig. 89) © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, NY (fig. 155) Universitätsbibliothek Basel (fig. 9) Universitätsbibliothek Kassel-Landesbibliothek und Murhardsche Bibliothek der Stadt Kassel (figs. 34, 35) Universiteitsbibliotheek Leiden (fig. 39) White Images/Scala/Art Resource, New York (fig. 2) William L. Clements Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, MI (fig. 67) Yale Center of British Art, Paul Mellon Collection, New Haven, CT (fig. 142)

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